Verrill sits at the steps of the stage. The ratfolk’s hair ties have come loose, and tufts of fur normally tight to his body fluff out in patches. “Verill does well, Docteur.” He offers a fading, toothy grin. “Unharmed. Verrill is lucky to be one the the helpers, not one of the helped.”
As the Guard enters, the alchemist is silent, recovering from the assault on the warehouse and the toll the surgery took on him. Then, he chuckles. “Know what would help if we had right now?” He waits a moment for her to guess. “A bit of that mead. Should’ve bid a bit higher, friend.”
Verrill pauses to ponder Guillaumine’s question. “Let’s see, let us see… Hmm…” He counts his potions already on him, and takes a look to his supplies. “What couldn’t Verrill make? Quantity is Verrill’s only concern, Verrill has reagents for perhaps two or three simple extracts, perhaps enough for one with a bit more of a kick?”
Verrill has two slots free for first level extracts, a single open second level slot. I’d say he has most all extracts on his formulae list.
Within the vial, the undissolved powders appear to be undergoing some sort of chemical reaction. Slowly, they seem to fizzle in the liquid, apparent creating some type of invisible gas through this process.
Perplexed, both you and Verrill lean in, inspecting the present chemicals. It seems you both arrive at the same conclusion at the same time. Verrill’s eyes widen, his mouth hanging slightly ajar after each stammer. “Verrill suspects this creates an, um, airborne contagion of sorts. T-tampering with, with it should wait, Verrill agrees.”
Rest of surgery post will come tomorrow! Day crept up on me!
It seems that the bishop of Sarenrae is the only one who doesn’t recognize the plant.
Verrill pipes up first, excited. “Ah, Verrill has never seen one alive! Branches trimmed of their leaves, curious, as this indicates it is a mature plant. Perhaps a mutation stunts its growth, or a horticulturist made it as such?”
Patient Condition:
Patient Status: Unconscious (Fighting Off Death, Stable). Taken 1 lethal during surgery.
Active Ailments: Malnourished (Unhealable Non-lethal damage, fatigue), Ability Score Damage.
Active Medication: Troll Oil (Automatically Stabilizes, 50% chance to end a bleed effect each round), Various pain reliefs.
Verrill crawls onto the stage, staring at the unconscious spymaster with wonder. He speaks rapidly, with more appreciation or awe than fear. "A bomb? Inside? Verrill has mused the principles of such things, delayed or triggered explosives, but to place them within another, and to use the spymaster as the test subject?" The alchemist shows his teeth as he smiles. "Verrill is most intigued, will Verrill get to see it?"
The ratfolk chuckles. “Verrill suggests you not waste your time with Skiver. Even should you meet him, his hobbies are quite the opposite of yours. On his good days, he keeps clinics like yours in business.” The ratfolk nods on the doctor’s exit, taking a seat at a nearby chair. It seems there aren’t many in attendance he would care to speak to.
Verrill looks around to those nearby, scanning the crowd to make sure it is safe to speak. His voice is quieter and less excited than moments prior. “Verrill as gained the approval of two Elders, the rest will follow. Some still have, err, apprehensions to allowing your staff down below.”
The ratfolk man smiles a toothy-grin, voice high in hope. “Verrill digresses, the clinic merely requires time. Already ratfolk chemists have given Verrill their word to support. If Verrill receives approval by Skiver Talltail or Elder Darkwhiskers, the clinic will rise in days rather than months.”
“Verrill told you! Worry not on health, Verrill will take care of that. Verill will need to call upon a friend in the Society, though they owe Verrill favors uncountable, unending, undoubtedly. But nevermind, nevermind. It is a chemist’s duty to test these hypotheses, such tests could save a great number of lives in the future. Verrill will set up the procedure, Verrill has a control experiment in mind, we need only adjust the alcohols and their rationing...”
He begins to think it over, face crossed with uncertainty now. “Verrill hopes you can keep your stomach, Doctor Sanz. Should Verrill’s method work, the test would appear more akin to a butcher’s shop than a medical lab.” He nods to himself, curled fingers on his chin. "Away from windows we should conduct this. It will be, ah, Verrill hates this term, "humane," but certainly grim, grisly, gross, even at a glance to those not aware of our altruistic nature,."
Verrill looks amazed as Guillaumine muses the medicinal uses to alcohol. He seems overly enthused when he reacts, speaking even quicker than he usually does. “Verrill retracts what he said, the potion has more uses than Verrill thought. Though distillation and purification, the spell is potent, even moreso for alchemists. A simple process would remove the contaminants, flavor and sugars, and yield a pure solution, and one that can purify other substances as well. If such a solution could stave disease and infection, a vial of such a spell could able to provide enjoyment in the best of times, and save lives in the worst.
“We must test this aspect, Verrill has an idea how to without endangering life as well. Verrill will need to come to your lab, er, clinic to test this with you.”
Augustine, lost in the conversation now, pats both of the small alchemists on the shoulder as he heads elsewhere. Verrill hardly notices as he jots formulae into a notebook, evidently ideas from this newest revelation.
“Verrill was jesting, imagine if Verrill gifted hundreds of wine oils.” The alchemist chuckles to himself. “A different type of medicine, some others may prefer in fact. In a world that does not need doctors or alchemists, Verrill imagines we’d make good brew-masters. Different reagent, different formulas, but the same chemistry.”
The ratfolk alchemist grins at the doctor. “Verrill is most impressed you had the time to make such potions. None of them were the ones Verrill gave, yes?”
“Caroline is seldom ill now. Verrill is not exactly a star on the guest lists anymore, and pray it stays that way. For a doctor to be popular, all others must be feeling dreadful.”
“Fine, pleasant, well, sir. Verill Blightguard, the pleasure is Verrill’s. This is Sibylle Mercier, but it seems you know this already.” Verrill stretches for his own handshake. While the fur on his arms give him more perceived weight, his grip is almost as weak as the last chemist’s. He looks to Beatrice and smiles. “Beatrice, and without your brother, Verrill sees? So glad to see you’re free at last!”
Verrill watches the interaction with amusement. His hair is clipped with hundreds of pins, giving him a lean, tame appearance. His voice is shrill when he speaks. “Verrill’s never seen her so friendly. An alchemist in Roland that Verrill does not know?”His eyes looks to the Augustine, leaving the group he was with, walking up on the stage. The ratfolk shakes his head, speaking under his breath to himself. “Finally. He realizes he was wasting his time.”
Verrill gave you the wrong time for the event, rather, his handwriting made 1:00 appear like 11:00. When you arrived earlier than any other guest, you were greeted to a series of apologies that have not quite ended. The event was still getting set up then, the caterer just arriving at the station that was built for him the night prior. Estelle Bellerose, a lovely woman with a brass windchime like necklace arrived soon after you, with a lawyer who Verrill was certain was esteemed, but couldn’t place his name on.
The rest of the guests began to pile in after an hour or two. Many men and women, almost all well dressed, almost all that you’ve never seen before. Two individuals who arrived together, a Galatian man and a Durendale woman, almost got into a fight with the hired guard outside. Augustine Langlais, the auctioneer and evident head-host, let them in, saying he must of forgotten to add them to the guestlist. He was lying, almost clearly so, but seemed intrigued by the pair. Later, Seth entered the party, and though he seems to want to speak to a now-armored Evelynn Durant, she appears occupied talking to a small, blanket-clad woman.
Inside the warehouse is a rather nice, if not simple set up. A stage has been crafted out of wood, and a podium, where you are, stands atop it beside several large items draped in cloth covers. Rows of chairs stand in front of the stage, where you are, awaiting the beginning of the auction. In the center of the room a small bar has been set up, with simmering foods behind the tables manned by hired caterers.
Between you and Verrill, neither is quite tall enough to be trying to sort the envelopes detailing the auctioned items. The podium is almost at eye-level with the two of you, and Verrill swears that Augustine asking this of him was a practical joke. Still, the stage provides a nice vantage point, and after a while, he begins to point out the guests. “Vieuxponts,” he says, pointing at three individuals spread across the room. “Romane, Gerard, Gerome. Verrill does not work with them.” He points to a Sylph woman, drinking alone. “Mirabelle. Spreads rumors. Nothing to hide, nothing to fear.”
Verrill smiles, looking around for another he knows. The last envelope is sorted, the auction now just waits on the word of the host. “Well, Doctor, Verrill again thanks you. And again, apologies. Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
”As will Verrill, as will Verrill.” He seems to linger on your comment about home, but doesn't speak on the matter. The ratfolk tears a piece of paper off the one he handed you earlier, writing an address and a time on it. 11:00, it says, 214 Route du Port Pavée, east by the harbor. Probably around a thirty or forty minute walk from your home. “Verrill will alert the Elders below, have them welcome our doctors. Shouldn’t be too long, arrangements for building and ratfolk staff. Verrill will have it by, hmm, predict it will be ready in two, maybe three weeks.”
Verrill goes at lengths about the logistics of it all. Expected booms in activity, lulls he anticipates, names of those who he imagines will help, names of those that may oppose the clinic. His planning seems rather extensive, with goals that go far into the long term, possibly even passing his own life expectancy. He is quick to tell you that most of his musings are hypothetical, but you feel as though that most all of this information is grounded in some fact or research he has conducted. He speaks too assured to be speaking from the top of his head, the numbers and percentages for estimated service and cost too exact to not be calculated in some way.
Towards the end of the meeting, he insists on giving you something for your time and as a mark of partnership to come. He hands you a large wad of clay, molded to be shaped like a pyramid. He explains the use of it, stating that putting a chemist’s mutagen in the clay brings it to life, and is perfect to serve as an impromptu assist in the lab. He insists that you take it, stating that he has several of his own, and that you’d get better use out of it than him. He says that he will see you again on Wealday, and that is excited for your shared futures.
“Whatever you can spare, surely it helps.” Verrill adopts a surprises expression when you begin to talk about an underground clinic. He hops from his chair excitedly. “You are more good than everyone had Verrill believe,” his voice is shrill, enthusiastic, ripe with joy. He buries his head in a bureau, pushing alchemical ingredients away, sorting through loose papers. “The surface is years away for Verrill’s kind, but with a clinic and the elf-druid’s, hmm, efforts...” He snatches a piece of paper, and brings it back to you.
It seems to be a map of the sewer system. While it mostly consists of tunnels of varying widths, there appear to be a few dozen larger structures of varying size on the map where multiple junctions meet. He reaches into his robes and pull out a pen, marking a spot under the city market. “This would be a good spot. Accessible, central. ” Verrill looks up, eyes gleaming at you. “Verrill has several friends who may be able to volunteer. Are any of your staff willing to work neath the city?” Verrill cocks his head, still grinning. “Are you? Fret not if not, not all are, and most aren’t, say, welcome.”
"Politics are dehumanizing for everyone involved. It's why I've stayed out of it, for the most part, though, in retrospect, I wonder if it was designed that way to keep people like us out in the first place.”
Verrill nods excitedly. ”Look at Council. All man and their offspring, none like us at all. The Colonel a woman of fire, yes, but a human-looking one. Things will change in time, Verrill is sure. Perhaps not in Verrill's lifetime, but certainly in yours.”
Upon accepting his offer, Verrill has to place his tea down in order to show his enthusiasm. He claps his hands together, and smiles widely. “Certainly, certainly. We can find somewhere just outside the city walls even, if you'd prefer” He gets up out of his seat and opens a bureau, flipping through pages of note paper.
“Verrill is friends with chemists all over the city. We have created a, um, let’s say “stockpile” of potions that we can give to your facilities. Verrill could move a bit over, hmm, four hundred potions by tomorrow.” He says the number like it isn't a lot, despite the costs of just producing such potions.The mouse-man continues to flip through pages until he stops, reads over an entry, and rips it out. He dashes back to the seats, and passes Gill the paper.
It seems to be assorted notes, a plan of some sort for an event, an auction. Two sets of handwriting, one cursive and immaculate, the other almost chicken scratch. A series of names are jotted in the corner, Langlais, Ravenhall, LeBlanc, and many others are crossed out underneath. A list of locations for the event is written in the center of the page, with one, “Docks Warehouse?” Underlined and circled. “Small event planned to help Verrill’s kind next week. Verrill doesn’t like working with partisans, but Mlle. Bellerose is an exception. Mercier is also attending, another do-good chemist such as ourselves. Verrill will be clearing out much of Verrill's old chemist gear, attend if only to strike a bargain for a good cause.”
Verrill smiles. His cheeks curve close to his eyes and his mouth opens to reveal two large teeth. “Ramblings are appreciated. Usually it is Verill who is asked to stop them. Get Verrill on proper methods of distillation or fermentation and you’ll never hear the end.” Verrill blows on his tea.
“We ratfolk? Quite the question.” He cratches at his chin, wondering where to begin. “Verrill doesn’t like to call it politics. Dehumanizes, er, make us an issue rather than a people. I’m told eight or so generations ago we sort of appeared in the city from somewhere Far Away. Our generations, not yours. One of us is an adult a bit after a decade, and near dead when your kind reaches maturity. Verill believes our life expectancy ties with our biolog- nevermind. Rambling.” He grins. “I’ll give you the abridged story. We came for opportunity and found it amidst the sprawling sewers. Presently our numbers grow larger, uncountable now. In a generation our numbers will quadruple. There is seldom space in our cage, and we have nowhere to go but up or out..”
He tries to sip his tea again, more cautiously than before. “Fungus in the sewers. Not uncommon. Uncommon that such measures had to been taken. Caught Verrill’s intrigue, almost as much as you did. Rare for a rarer affliction to be treated on Verrill’s kind. Seldom do we have the means to pay. This means you honor humanity, but what Verrill finds more important, you honor ratfolk life.”
He puts his mug down, scratching at his neck. “When Verrill works, he charges. Not for Verrill, but for the ratfolk. Potion or concoction, they gather gold for the cause. Verrill has amassed quite a bit. Enough for say...” he bounces his head, counting figures. He utters his next lines slower than usual, around the speed of a normal speaker. “An infirmary, bit smaller than yours in the southern part of the city. Verrill has a building in mind. Perhaps something for Verrill’s people, perhaps something of a project between the two of us?”
“Equally refreshing for Verrill to find another like himself.” The alchemist reaches to a desk, and empties a beaker from the remnants of the colorful liquid in before it. He pours a vial within, and green flames fill the container before they flicker away. When he pours water into the beaker, it begins to boil on contact, hissing as he talks. “Good doctors are few and far between. Churches too keen on zeal, alchemists on discoveries. Few like us look to help man.” He grabs two mugs, flipping them over to drop out an assortment of pens and utensils from both of them. He eyes both mugs, nods, then brings them back to the boiling water. “Or Dwarves. Or Ratfolk. Matters not, you understand.”
After locating some tea leaves, he pours the water, heat-proof gloves in his paws to hold the bubbling beaker. “Verrill has heard from too much of your good deed, doctor. Usually a ratfolk quarantine is to separate them from the other patients, or for a dissection. Kind to hear otherwise. ” He brings the two mugs over, curling hairless, crooked fingers over the handles. He places one by Gill, clears a chair for himself, and sits by her. “Patient confidentiality, so Verrill won’t ask on the affliction. Intriguing though, Verrill has heard the Green woman brought them to various chapels before you. Good to know we can do something faith cannot.” He takes a sip of the water, and he recoils. Too hot. “Then again, that might be a very, very bad thing if even Gods can't help.”
Verrill’s apartment complex is rather nice, an upscale building in the northern part of town. Five stories up, a plaque reads “Verrill Blightguard: Chemist, Healer, Ratfolk.” After knocking, he invites you in, unlocking several latches and knobs on his end.
Verrill’s features are tame and lean. His fur is light brown, chestnut, with small spots of white along the center of his. He wears thin glasses, made specifically to rest high over the brow of his nose. His ears have small piercing with brass, almost trinket like accessories cabled by thin, wapred wire. All over his body his hair is pulled back by clips and pins. He wears a heavy robes, jade and brown, with harem pants that hang low to the ground.
“Dearest greetings!” His voice is shrill, sing-songy and quick, and he wears a smile that shows slightly pearlescent teeth, with a shimmer like that of a soap bubble. “Come in, come in! Verrill seldoms has guests, excuse the careless, cluttered, chaotic debris of my toils. Come, come.” He opens the door, revealing the mess. It is rather clean, despite his warning and the sheer amount of gear he has. The penthouse is more or less one room, a combination living room, laboratory and kitchen. Without closets, hundreds of alchemical supplies pile onto dozens of cabinets. Some are against walls, though some just seem to be placed arbitrarily, separating the house into different spaces. In the evident "lab" space, several alembics and bulbous glass containers hold bubbling liquids, experiments and processes in action.
“Doctor, welcome. Tea? Coffee? Something in between? A combination of the two?”
