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An immaculately dressed tiefling with a sickly complexion opens the door, removes his hat, and bows slightly before taking a seat.
"Ah, good afternoon, sir. Your guild comes highly recommended, and I trust you've found that I am as well. I believe you've seen my resume, but I brought an extra copy; just in case."
The diminutive man removes from his satchel a bundle more like a tome than a folio, its cover prominently emblazoned with a Glyph of the Open Road.
"This contains brief reviews of my exploits and transcripts of my published Pathfinder Chronicles. From pages 212 through 317, you'll find testimonials of several of my traveling companions. I assure you that those are... particularly enlightening."
"As you've no doubt gathered from my reputation, my primary strength lies in amplifying the natural abilities of my cohorts. By offering them certain... performance enhancing admixtures, my beneficiaries may vanish from sight and strike down our enemies with little fear of retribution; or confront an army without fear of their blows. Indeed, some may even find that, when mortally wounded, Pharasma herself turns them away and entrusts them once more to my care."
"But don't let the deeds of my companions overshadow my own. Those who oppose me quickly find themselves awash in a sea of fire and force. What few enemies my artillery fails to destroy are left debilitated and disoriented, as willing to wound their friends as their foes, but unlikely to succeed at either."
"I see you still have reservations. Perhaps you've heard whispers that I hail from beyond the grave? I assure, those rumors, while not unfounded, are almost entirely fallacious. It's true that these bones no longer sustain the warmth one would expect in a living being, nor is it blood that pumps through my veins. And yes, I do spend my nights awake, pursuing studies that many of my colleagues deem occult. But Sarenrae's warmth still removes my wounds, and I certainly have no hunger for the flesh of the living. I hesitate to confess that none without leaves and roots need fear these gnashers."
"But I fear you have other pressing obligations. After you've consulted my references, you may call on me at the Grand Lodge. I bid you adieu."
"Oh, and one more thing: if you cannot find companions worthy of my boons or wise enough to apply them well, pray save my time and their good health by leaving my talents for a more suitable mission."
With that, the tiefling stands and bows once more as an almost unseen tail ferries a colorless potion to his hand. A single drink, a barely audible popping, and he is gone.
(Azimuth Ingersoll, Alchemist 12)
