NPC Sibylle Mercier's page

“- Vials your personal chemist could have made you cheaper,” Sibylle adds without pause. “Do you anticipate lifting heavy things in the future?” She doesn’t seem annoyed or betrayed, but does want some reason why she wasn’t asked to make them.

Sibylle’s face twists in confusion from some of Marcus’ words. Her tone didn’t shift, still hardly more than a whisper. “Goodness of my-” The blanketed woman looked to the ratfolk alchemist. “Oh, he meant you. Hmm...Uniquely enjoyable… Is that noble-speak for narcotics? Ask the Dwarf doctor, her firm must have some opiates. Or Romane, her chemists make those things more often than I.” She smiles, before she is scolded by Verrill.

The following takes place before Halcyon’s Arrival
Marcus and Beatrice stop at the chatting alchemists. The blanketed woman looks to Marcus first, pausing for a second before speaking in a whisper-like voice that contradicted her blunt sentiment. “Do I know you?” She leans a bit closer, inspecting Marcus. “Some of my experiments’ fumes have rendered a bit of my life hazy, do tell me, have we met?” She extends a frail arm from her blanket, little more than skin and bone. She smiles softly.

With Halcyon's acknowledgement of Darius, his attention goes away from the four he watched. He curls his fingers one after the other, a wave of sorts to the oracle. He doesn’t talk to her, but he does gaze to her rather frequently, unaware that she might be able to see him.

The alchemists do take note of the oracle. Sibylle rises, pushing the small chair she sat on away with her leg. She closes the gap, stepping a bit too close to Halcyon for comfort. This close, Halcyon gets detailed view of Sibylle. Her skin is a ghostly pale, and her icy blue eyes looks over the oracle’s features. Her hair is straight but frayed, poorly maintained brunette locks that split evenly down her head, tucking beneath the vivid, quilted blanket she wears over her shoulders. Her legs are bare, her arms hidden within her cloth. She’d be rather cute if she tended more to her appearance.

Sibylle leans left and right, again inspecting Halcyon. From her covering, a pale, frail hand emerges. Her right arm stretches out slightly past the elbow and wraps around Halcyon. The difficult, forced maneuver appears to be an embrace or hug. Her voice is soft and toneless. “Yes, you’re her it seems.” Sibylle takes a step back, arm withdrawing back within her blanket. “I was afraid Vincent was wasting my time. Such frivolous requests I thought he was making. Now I see why he wants me to make him someone more than he is.” A frail, genuine smile crosses her face. “Sibylle Mercier. To you he probably called me his 'Chemist.' You may call me whichever feels more natural.”