"Corwin! Corwin, come up here!"

The dank air of the rowanwood hovel stank of rot and dark wizardry. Uncleaned bones--some human, some not--dangled from the ceiling beams and mingled with the stripped and flayed carcasses of several small forest creatures, a grim and lifeless menagerie of plucked owls, skinned rabbits and disemboweled raccoons. A broad and low cauldron--the hue of its copper charred and stained through many hears of use--simmered and hissed as a thick and evil-smelling brown fluid tossed and boiled in its depths. The woman who vigilantly attended the mixture with crooked stick and weathered grimoire at hand was almost three score years into her lifespan, yet her coarse, wrinkled skin and pendulous breasts worn by a hunched posture of nigh-shapeless mass were more fitting for a woman half that age again. But these flaws did not make Gwenlyn Ainsley look any more harmless, and she bore an air of cruelty and menace all the same.

Corwin knew his mother's cruelty and menace quite well. However well he steeled himself, something inside his breast couldn't help but flutter with dread everytime that guttural snarl in her voice tore through the floorboards and struck his ears. And even in the solitude of his dark, damp root cellar below, he could not escape her compassionless commands and scathing remarks as she called to him.

"Corwin! Come here at once, you useless whelp...."

Rising from the raised stone slab on which his crude bed of odorous straw and broadcloth lay, Corwin could hear the pattering of raindrops against the cellar door and the trickle of rainwater dribbling down either side of the stairs to his home. Shrinking past the candles sputtering in their tin sconce and peering out through the peep slit in his door, he noted how dark the surrounding forest was at this morning hour, how heavy the leaves and branches hung beneath the bleak, overcast sky. And now his insufferable hag of a mother was bidding him to venture outside into the rain and the mud and to come around to the front door.

The thought did cross his mind to ignore her and remain in the cold and questionable comfort of his root cellar, but then she would set her sorcerous business aside and come downstairs. And if she did that, then she would be very angry indeed by the time she got to him.

And, as the years had taught him, she possessed an unholy strength belying her years, and that oaken staff of hers could deal some surprisingly painful welts and bruises if she were sufficiently angered....





Corwin >

Corwin makes sure that the holy symbol is tucked away in his shirt and heads up the stairs resignedly, bringing his shovel with him.

The rain dribbled from the overhanging branches and fell heavily on Corwin as he hurried inside. No sooner had he closed the hovel's door behind him than an angrily hurled vial shattered into countless glass shards on the crude masonry wall beside him.

"You idiot!" his mother screeched from behind her table of potions, pointing furiously at Corwin's boots and the wet clumps of mud he had tracked inside. "I slave and I brew and I put food on our table day after day after day, and this is the thanks I get? Wipe your boots off outside, you twice-damned ingrate...."

With a quick step back outside, Corwin put the drenched straw mat on the doorstep to use. Mother seemed a bit more calm, he noted, as he stepped back inside.

"Now, then. Brandal the miller is going to grind a wagon's worth of flour for the Feast of Plenty at the month's end, and he's willing to pay us well for a potion of endless vigor to help him with the task. Go to the herbalist in Boughbog and bring back a pound of bay leaves and a pound of blue onion skin," she demanded as she scooped a pouch of copper coins from the tabletop and tossed them at Corwin's feet.

Yes, he had more to do in Boughbog than that, Corwin considered as he snatched the coin pouch and turned for the door.

"That should keep you from lazing about our house for a few hours," Gwenlyn blurted sourly. "And for eternity's sake, stop carrying that blasted shovel around! Your delusions of being an archpirate and digging up treasure mean nothing more than a mess of holes in the ground. Now stop gawking around and go fetch my ingredients without delay, Corwin, or you'll have no supper tonight! Go."





Corwin >

"It's not for digging up treasure you old Bat.... Corwin thought to himself.

"Of course Mother" Corwin said as he headed out the door to the village. with any luck he'd be able to get a better deal than his mother could for the ingredients, and nick a pint of ale or two.

The wary eyes of many a disturbed owl or raccoon fell across Corwin's back as he followed the familiar dirt path back to the town of Boughbog. The shovel felt heavy in his hands, aware as he was that it was his only means of defense against the many dangers of the woodlands. Serpents. Wolves. Bears. Dryads. Even the rare green dragon younglings who fed themselves among the trees and thickets from time to time. The Devourer, as Corwin knew and his mother had taught, would lend strength to his followers yet would do nothing to shield him from the predators of the wild, for were predation and the survival of the fittest not the ways of the Devourer?

Corwin crested a small hillock in the woods to find himself eye to eye with a solitary wolf, hunched over the half-eaten carcass of a freshly killed antelope. The shovel rose in Corwin's tightening grip, but the wolf was not interested in pursuing more prey. It simply bared its teeth and crept forward past the slain antelope, growling a loud warning that the two-legged intruder should not approach. But the wolf's fears came to nothing, for Corwin's business lay not with the antelope but elsewhere, and the beast was content to watch rhe human's back warily as Corwin continued on his way to Boughbog.

The forest soon fell away behind him, and he set foot southward on the highway from Bereghel's Green. Boughbog's only ward against invading dangers was a stout wooden fence fashioned from shaved logs and beams ringing the town, with one or two guards at each of the two great gateways leading into the town. Boughbog, Corwin noted, would fall quite easily to a mere platoon of orcs striking from the forest, were such ever to happen. Eager to get out of the rain and warm up with a tankard of ale, he made his way down the road to the main gate.



Gaston and Norbitt, the two guards lingering near their small guard's hut at the North Gate had been expecting a small merchant caravan from Bereghel's Green for hours. Boredom had turned to fatigue, and the scale mail hung even more heavily on their shoulders. When the lone half-obscured figure approached them through the rain, they grew alert and kept their spears at the ready. But the wariness fell to relief as they recognized the traveller as Corwin Ainsley, a familiar visitor to Boughbog. Even from that distance, Corwin could smell the enticing aroma of rosemary and baked chicken wafting from the Lucky Hart tavern not far beyond the gate. The shop he sought--Ruprecht's Herbs and Alchemies--squatted near the southern edge of the town and overlooked Crag Swamp, where Ruprecht the alchemist could often be spied picking around for marsh vapor, bloodwort, death angel toadstools and other alchemical ingredients.

"Oy, Corwin, welcome back!" Gaston the guard boomed as he came forward in greeting, his heavy black beard scarcely concealing a bemused grin. "Back from the forest, are you? I do believe Ruprecht's out in the swamp scraping up blackweed...some order from the blacksmiths, if I recall. Or is that what brings you back to Boughbog today?"

Corwin >

"Nossir Gaston, not Blackweed. I'm on an errand for mother..." Corwin said with a frown. As if to himself he muttered "I swear, I'm getting worried about some of the things she's asked me to look for lately"

Norbitt crept forward towards the two as Gaston inquired further. "Oh? What things, for instance? Come, come. Let's speak of this further inside. You had mentioned your mother on your last visit...." Gaston motioned to Corwin as he strolled back into the comfort of the guard hut.

Corwin >

corwin would like to use spellcraft to figure out the ingredients for the wizard spell "Animate Dead"

After settling himself down by the fire in the guardhouse he began.

"She had asked me to look in the trading bazaar to see if there was anyone with Onyx for sale, or to arrange transport if none was available. I'm not sure why she wants it, since she's never even hinted at liking jewelry or gems of any kind..." Looking longingly at the pitcher of warmed ale by the fire he stood slowly.

"I should go, it'll fare badly for me if I take too long on her errands, and it isn't dry enough for me to want to spend the night outside if she gets upset."

"Ah, I'll not stop you on your way then," Gaston conceded as he turned to the window, watching for someone who was not there. "But if you've half a mind to do so, stop in for a pint at the Lucky Hart. That's where I like to go after I quit my post, and you'll always find good, helpful sorts passing through...."

"Merchants, do you mean?" Norbitt asked Gaston from where he stood near the doorway, then turned his attention back to Corwin. "Or perhaps constables, or even a passing magistrate if your mother's deeds are truly not good? Boughbog receives few adventurers or knights errant, but those sorts are known for roving about the land, and they know things that you or I would not."

"Aye, like Norbitt said. Besides, with this weather, you could stand a good drought of rum to knock the chill off your bones, aye?"


Corwin >

Yes Sir, that would be most Welcome, perhaps i'll see you there later.

(Corwin will take his leave and head down to the herbalists shoppe

From the doorsteps of many a home or a shop, bells and wind chimes sang their soprano songs in the breeze and the rain as Corwin wove his way through the main street of Boughbog. Puddles pooled across the cobblestones and on the hard-packed earth to either side, dispersing beneath the footfalls of what few people ventured outside in the dismal air and reintegrating as the pedestrians passed.

Before long, the gray-cobbled spire of Ruprecht's Herbs and Alchemies rose to welcome Corwin's approach. Warn lantern lights danced and swung on their brass chains beyond the panes of rose glass, and he noticed a watery footprint half-hidden beneath the threshold of the stout ironwood door. Ruprecht had returned, and his shop was open for business.

The door was heavier than most but was better maintained than most, swinging inward at Corwin's gentlest prod with no creaking hinges or groans of resistance. As always before, the countless herbs and essences in Ruprecht's shop formed an invisible barrier of enticing aromas and repugnant odors, assailing even the most jaded olfactories with a wave of visceral confusion.

A lone chime was all that heralded Corwin's entry; If Ruprecht himself had noticed his customer's entry, he did nothing to acknowledge it. The brown wool cloak and cowl across the granite counter from Corwin could not conceal the shopkeep's wild black mane or hooked nose, and his tired hands trembled and protested as he inverted a large vial filled with a dense green vapor, pulling the cork briskly and plunging the yawning glass mouth into a waiting bowl of aqua ferrus.

But then he spoke without warmth or pleasantry, revealing that he was not too occupied to observe Corwin's damp shuffling into the shop after all. "Young Corwin of the Ainsley Wood. I've just returned from the marsh with a fresh selection of victuals for the arcane arts. I trust that your mother sent you to purchase some more of my wares. How has she fared since her accident, might I ask?"

Ruprecht was surely referring to Mother's bout with sulfur poisoning following an improperly mixed firestarter oil. Corwin had not been entirely pleased with her survival and recovery, of course.


Corwin >

"Mother is doing about the same as usual Ruprect" Corwin said, sounding concerned. "She did send me for some of your wares. A pound of Blue Onion skin, and a pound of Bay Leaves is part of what she's requested."

"Hrmmm, blue onion skin is uncommon in these parts," Ruprecht surmised. "Fortunately, I have some in stock for you. A moment."

His gnarled fingers seized the second-lowest drawer behind him at the lip and drew it open. Moments later, a white sack which carried the pungent reek of dried onions was lifted to the tabletop, and Ruprecht snatched one pound's worth of lead weights, gauging their measure before dumping them into one pan of the brass balance. The bar listed pronouncedly to one side of the fulcrum as he took the bag at the neck.

"I'm grateful that you came to me, truth be told," Ruprecht confessed as he poured the bitter blue shavings into the opposite pan. "I see so many travelling herbalists roll their ways into the bazaar and peddle their leaves and roots from the backs of their carts. And more of my customers have been flocking to those sorts simply to keep a few more coppers in their pouches. But what do I offer, I ask you? I offer dependability, I do. I'm here today, and I've been here for years, and unless the Witch Goddess takes me I'll be here next week, next month, next year perhaps. We can't say the same for the caravan herbalists, can we?"

Before long, two large pouches squatted on the counter at Corwin's hand, one steeped in the caustic odor of blue onion, the other infusing the air with the crisp scent of bay leaf. Ruprecht set the lead measuring weights back into their tin box, exercising care for their arrangements.

"That's fair, then," the herbalist nodded and leaned onto the counter expectantly. "If there's nothing else I can get for you, that will be twenty-four coppers. Or was there something else you needed?"

That would leave six coppers for a spot of food and drink at the tavern. Mother never was too generous with her allowances....


Corwin >

Of course Ruprect, your dependability is one of the things I appreciate about you. Can't say the same for these fly-by-night "merchants"... Offering short weight, and clipped coins for change. (corwin gives 24 copper to ruprecht)

"Hrrmph. You've had some encounters with them, I take it," the alchemist appraised through sour lips as he pouched Corwin's payment. "It's a pity that they're so bad for my business. But here's a thought: Perhaps you could earn a few gold and help me get rid of the cretins. I have...."

But then he sheepishly caught himself. "Oh, but I couldn't possibly involve such a good young lad as you in any skullduggery. My apologies, Corwin. Forget that I said anything. Here, have some ginger wax, free of cost," Ruprecht offered as he fished hurriedly behind the counter for something. "It's rather pleasant to chew."


Corwin >

and if something caused those merchants to leave... it would definately help your business out. Say if "something" happened to them that cause them to change their minds about doing business here?

"...or to change the citizenry's minds about shopping with such questionable dealers in herbs and essences, perhaps," Ruprecht mused conspiratorially.

"I certainly wouldn't want to plant any ideas in any young, impressionable heads, but I wonder if befouling the goods of a typical herbalist wagon would be possible with a thick, stinking cloud of airborne herbicide. But sadly this is not possible, for surely you and I would have no idea that a vial of this size could be used to concoct enough of such a solution to produce a cloud of that size," Ruprecht suggested, rolling a single stoppered glass vial, eight ounces in volume, into view. "And surely neither of us would have any idea that the stinking herbicide's formula would consist of two ounces aqua regia, one ounce distilled grain alcohol, one ounce of ragweed oil, six drams of saltpeter, one ounce of sulfur and one-and-a-half ounces of bitter grayberry pulp, poured slowly and evenly into a container without mixing or shaking the solution, correct? Of course, any alchemist worth his salt would know the formula to such a foul herbicide, and anyone in the town would rightly suspect that I might currently have all of these ingredients on hand in my humble shop, true. But of course, I do run out of reagents and herbs quite often and at times I am unable to procure more for my stock, so anyone poking around Boughbog with any questions about a particularly malicious practical joke that happened at the bazaar very recently might be surprised to hear that I have not had any bitter grayberry pulp--like this bitter grayberry pulp, for example--in stock for well over six months...correct?"

Corwin observed the sharply aromatic gray, pulpy mass rolling and sliding across the basin of the terra cotta bowl that the alchemist had uncovered for his perusal. It didn't take a wizard to see where this conversation was going....


Corwin >

"It would certainly be a shame if some wicked sort happened to concoct such a foul potion, and some other equally wicked sort happened to drop said potion in the herbery of some virtous merchant...

"I wonder what could tempt someone to do such a deed?"

(((OOC Corwin would like to do a spellcraft for "Cloudkill" ingredients... i... have... a.... plan....