Chapter Text
Dawn was breaking in the quiet little town of Gnawbone, and in the quiet little yard of a certain quiet little house the quiet little alchemist Silan was rolling around like a hog in the dirt of his own garden.
This wasn’t a random tumble of course nor was it an unintended undulation but instead this was a deliberate, measured, and calculated floundering. The third of such moments in fact, for the third day in a row, the third day without bathing mind you, and the third day since he’d hatched his hairbrained scheme.
After a carefully deliberated amount of time (the same amount of time it takes Silan to mentally sing the old bard’s song Digging a Grave for Mary Laithe) the half elf kips up off of the ground with an agility one might not expect from such a scholarly sort, one of the few gifts he retained from that deadbeat father of his, and begins to dust off the largest clumps of dirt. The alchemist loathed this condition and preferred to remain clean, particularly when it was pertaining to work. Detritus could interfere with concoctions and lingering stains could quickly turn into rashes or burns if left unattended so it paid to be sanitary. His hands and arms bore the scars of more than a few such mishaps that served as harsh lessons from his earlier years, in fact one such accident was responsible for the particular shade of Silan’s stark white hair, though not responsible for its current tousled, unkempt, and as mentioned riddled with dirt state.
But this grime was all planned and accounted for and the bulk of the potion work he needed to do was already done. He just needed to gather up his gear, complete a quick unplanned shopping trip, then trot outside of town for a late afternoon nap to ensure he can remain well rested throughout the night, before descending into the woods for his hunt.
The shopping trip he dreaded the most, not because he disliked socialization, nor because he disliked the craftsman he had to see. Quite the opposite in fact, he rather liked Jarm the leatherworker and worked with him often, but he was simply loathe to show up to greet him in his disheveled state. But something small and vexing chewed through the leather of his traveling belt a mere day ago and after angrily seeding his house with twice the normal amount of rat poison Silan placed a short notice order for a new one. Despite his intense preparations he WAS still risking his life tonight so he wasn’t about to work with subpar or damaged equipment. Tonight was not the night to be cheap.
Not that Silan had to be particularly cheap as the alchemist life has treated him well. As he gathered his specifically chosen items for the day he shuffled through his modest yet still impressive home. One which, to be honest, was a little big for just little old him. He gathered his outdoor work bag, already packed of course, a trio of potions that had been steeping for precisely this night, his thick alchemically treated outdoor work apron just sturdy enough to serve as poor armor, his short sword, and his long knife. He knew well how to use both, the strange Five-Finger sword that shifty dwarf taught him how to use in lieu of payment, and the slender elven dirk that Silan’s father gifted to his mother (may Mortis guard her soul), though he’d certainly prefer to use neither. Neither was dangerous enough for his quarry tonight though, at least not with Silan’s modest level of skill, and served more as a way to carry a certain concoction in case his plan goes fully awry. His final items, and most expensive, were an alchemically treated cloak and boots, all items soft, sturdy, and impermeable. He locked up his house before grabbing his blades by their chewed-up belt. Looking back at it, yeah, the alchemist life has treated him well, and if all goes well tonight he’ll soon have more money than he knows what to do with.
Certainly a better life than adventuring ever provided.
With that last thought Silan’s mood soured, he remembered his only kill from those days, the burnt skin, the screams, how he had to use his mother’s knife to put it out of its pain. It attacked him, he was in the right, even congratulated by the town, but it was a wretched memory nonetheless. Bile threatens to rise in his throat as he tries to push the thoughts away. He still packs fire stones in his travel pack, it’s what any reasonable alchemist would carry to defend themselves, and Silan always strived to be a reasonable alchemist. Even now in his state of self-afflicted filth he suddenly looked forward to meeting Jarm, a friendly face to lift his mood anew. After all even if everything went bad it’s highly unlikely anyone will die today, or at least anyone besides the quiet little alchemist himself.
Jarm was the half elf’s third stop on his trip through town. A trio of adventurers ordered a case of six basic healing potions that had to be delivered, and he wanted to check in on Mrs. Deepburrow to see if her Duck Tongue was clearing up (it was, as he expected it would, Silan doesn’t brew bad product). By the time he began towards the artisans row the sun was nearing its peak for the day.
As the alchemist approached the leatherworker’s shop the strong earthy smell of oak bark and tannins filled his nose and he was quickly spied by the perceptive Jarm as he was polishing a saddle in his yard.
“Ahoy stranger, how goes the day?”
“Goes well thus far, my work for the day doesn’t start until tonight”
“Oh? What does our local apothecary get up to after dark eh?” Jarm asked with sarcastic coy.
“Actually I’ve got some work in the woods.”
Jarm’s mood dropped at that and worry crossed his face.
“Tonight’s not a good night for that Silan, the woods are dangerous these next few nights, can it wait?”
“W-well no actually, I’m actually heading out for the very same reason it’s dangerous, I’m gathering, um, maybe it will take too long to explain.”
The leatherworker paused on his saddle to face the alchemist directly, though not exceptionally tall the man still towered over the fairly short alchemist.
“Well maybe give me a few minutes to finish up Mr. Cadwith’s saddle and we’ll talk about it over a meal.”
Though the topic of conversation was unexpected (though Silan realized that he really should have anticipated this) the prospect of lunch was not only predicted but desired, as he often enjoyed talking to Jarm and even planned his arrival time around noon. The human of the two finished up his work on the saddle and ushered Silan into his shop. With an undue amount of privacy the leatherworker shuttered the windows and closed up the store. He produced a greasy iron frying pan and some potatoes with greens while Silan interrupted him with some bread and a handful of sausages.
As the two munched on flattened potatoes hashed with greens and fried sausages they renewed their discussion.
“I’m not sure what you’re trying to get but it’s not worth it.”
“I appreciate the concern but I assure you I’ve taken all of the necessary precautions.”
“Pre-what? Look Liam this is serious we’re talking about Werewolves!”
“I’m aware, I require werewolf hair.”
“Why on Solaris’s great green ass would you need werewolf hair, and don’t just say “A potion””
This interrupted Silan who was in the process of saying “a potion”
“A p-ahem, a rejuvenation potion”
“You make them already, with easier ingredients I imagine.”
“This one’s different” he put forth awkwardly.
“How.”
“It can make someone live longer.”
“Again, how? Also are you sure this is something you should dabble in?”
“Look” Silan pinched his nose, Jarm was being profoundly annoying but he knew it came from a place of care, and honestly he quite liked the guy and quite liked -being- liked by him in turn, so he summoned his patience.
“Look the processes are complicated to explain in lay terms but basically do you know how werewolves don’t really age?”
The blank look in Jarm’s steel-blue eyes informed him that no, he did not know that werewolves don’t age.
“Okay let me start again, werewolves don’t age, their natural regenerative abilities outpaces the damage our bodies do to themselves over time, and their particular healing doesn’t diminish with age, meaning as long as a werewolf doesn’t succumb to other means of death they have been shown to live for centuries”
“So you want to become a werewolf?”
“That would be stupid and dangerous. I want to gather some werewolf hair or, ideally but unrealistically, some saliva.”
“That sounds stupid and dangerous.”
“No see, with it being their…um.”
“Rutting season, I know, constable told all the folks about it so no one goes into the woods.”
“Right, sorry I missed that meeting because I was, uh, planning for this.”
“You’re an idiot, continue.”
“Well with it being their rutting season they’re going to be territorial towards each other yes but also unfocused on the hunt, and sometimes they’ll rub on trees and I was hoping I could get some scrapings of hair. I don’t need much, each strand is good enough to make one potion”
“A potion of rejuvenation.”
“Yes”
“Which you can already make”
“Well no not like this, again it…if I dilute it right it will grant some features of a werewolf without the lycan curse, primarily heightened senses but also that healing, and not just the kind of healing you can get from a priest or regular potion, the kind of indiscriminate healing the lycans have. The kind that winds the clock back.”
“Don’t half elves already live like…a few hundred years?”
“Two hundred and twenty, give or take about fifty, is about what I can expect, nowhere near a real elf. Besides, I might not look it but I’m already in my forties.”
“Isn’t that, you know, enough time?”
“There’s never enough time Jarm, but in reality I want to explore the furthest possibilities of my craft, I’m well ahead of the curve for my age but I’m nowhere near the prowess of someone who’s been practicing for hundreds of years.”
The leatherworker settles back in his chair and picks out a potato pancake to chew on for a moment while he thinks. To Silan it looks like he’s considering the implications of such a discovery, obviously, Silan is a genius like that.
“Why not hire an adventurer”
“Adventurers are just as likely to kill the werewolf and take some hair and I’d…rather not someone die for this.”
“You could die.”
“I’m aware, hence precautions.”
“What precautions?”
Silan produces the three potions from his bag he prepared for the night.
“First, an ironskin potion. Though not literal it will make my skin as unpierceable as plate armor, lasts about 9 hours, I didn’t cheap out on this one. Second, a soporific, for…”
“A what?”
“A sleeping potion, or rather a sleeping bomb. Mixed strong enough to knock out even a werewolf.”
“Do they have to drink it?”
“No I can just throw it, if any of it gets on them at all the chemical should stick to their fur and they will fall asleep in anywhere from seconds to a minute.”
“A full minute??”
“Well maybe up to two but that’s if I’m a bad aim, which I’m not, and besides not only am I dodgier than I seem again remember, indestructible skin.”
“Skin as strong as iron.”
“Same thing.”
“No it’s not.”
Gods he’s being pressing about this, Silan didn’t realize Jarm cared this much.
“Anyway you said there were three potions.”
“Right, wolfsbane poison, heavily diluted.”
“You’re going to poison them?
“No…well yes but not with this…my knife-…I’ll get to that one at a time. No this is for if I fully miscalculate and I do get bitten -somehow-, or more accurately if any of the lycan’s saliva gets into my system.”
“How would that happen?”
“I’m not sure, this is a precaution I don’t think I’ll need, but say mid conflict my mouth is hanging open from breathing heavy and some of its saliva gets into my mouth.”
“It would take that little? To…uh”
“I’m not sure, but I’m not about to take the risk. Elves can’t become werewolves as far as I’m aware but it’s been theorized that half elves can, and I’m not about to become the first example. If anything I’ll hope that my father’s heritage will give me a few extra hours so long as I don’t get an excessively large bite.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well quantity matters, in the few cases that have been studied victims turned faster from larger bites than from smaller ones, it can be assumed that too much contact with the lycan saliva can overwhelm the victims systems faster.”
“So you’re going to poison yourself to stop it?”
“Not to death, but yes, I also can’t do it before though to pre-plan as this will likely make me horrifically sick and I wouldn’t be able to do much else.”
“If the bottle breaks?”
--tap tap—“It’s metal, and I’m keeping it tied in a leather pouch around my neck so I can’t drop it, plus I have an extra one back at my house in case things go really wrong.”
The leatherworker leans forward, deadly serious look in those steel blues.
“Is there anything else?”
“Um.. yes, the poison”
Silan pulls out the five-finger sword.
“I’ve coated this sword in two reagents. The first is a temporary silvering, it will flake off in a few hits or, failing that, a few days, but it’s as good as silver until then. Mixed in with that is a powerful knockout poison I’ve devised. A good stab with this and any werewolf will be sleeping in seconds.”
“Wouldn’t a lethal poison be better.”
“I don’t want to kill them!” Silan’s voice raised more than he intended.
“…”
“…sorry.” He continues more meekly. “I’ve also spent the last three days killing my scent with dirt which is why” Silan gestures vaguely to himself “I’m in this state” he says apologetically.
“Gods Silan you’re worried about that? Half the time we meet I’m sweaty as a pig I don’t care that you’re dirty I care that you’re about to get yourself killed, I don’t want to los- I don’t want to lose a friend”
Silan was taken far away by those words, did Jarm really like him that much? I mean he certainly liked him back but he always just figured they shared a professional, if kind, relationship.
“I’m…I’m glad you feel that way but I promise you I’ve taken every necessary precaution, I will be fine, I don’t WANT to die, and I’ll know when to cut my losses.”
“And those…those are all the things you’re bringing?
“Yes, too much more and I’d risk weighing myself down.”
“What about your other knife?”
“This one’s not poisoned, it’s my mother’s you see and though its seen blood I’d rather it not taste poison. This one is coming along for my own piece of mind…well and also I might need a knife to take the scraping or perhaps cut a vine and I’d rather not use the one coated in limited use reagents. It is still a knife after all, sentimental or not.”
“So…if you see one of them...”
“I’ll throw the soporific to knock it out, take a sample of hair, and get out of there, if the soporific doesn’t work I’ll use the poisoned short sword.”
“If those don’t work?”
--Silan’s thoughts return to the fire stones in his pack--
“They will work, trust me.”
“---sigh--- God damn Silan don’t do this to me. Don’t get yourself killed you dumbass and WHEN you come back alive tomorrow you owe me lunch for putting me through this shit.”
“I’ll be alive tomorrow, and in a few months I’ll likely be rich so I’ll be able to afford all the lunches you want”
“You’re already rich.”
“I’m comfortably well off good sir, there’s a difference, and you eat a lot.”
Jarm locked eyes with him, those steel blues staring into his soul for long, too long, the alchemist suddenly felt a little vulnerable and he wasn’t quite sure why.
“Don’t die.”
“I-sure. I won’t.”
The leatherworker handed the alchemist his repaired belt. Fine work as it always is. Silan handed over Jarm’s fee, a portion of the silver from the adventurer’s payment clinked in the leatherworker’s glove. He attached his scabbards to the new belt as well as a fast-draw pouch for the soporific. Jarm watched him prepare himself for his hunt, a little awkward elf tradesman suddenly looking every part the adventurer.
Silan caught his look and correctly guessed his thoughts.
“I was an adventurer you know, for a short while.”
“You’ll have to tell me about it later.”
“I will sometime.”
And he parted at that.
Silan was taken surprise by Jarm’s intensity back there.
How close of friends were they? Did Silan maybe not value their time together enough? Would…he like to be better friends with the leatherworker?
He was very nice and, importantly, reliable. And handsome. Wait where did that come from?
The alchemist pondered; the leatherworker was indeed handsome, and the alchemist has found himself to prefer the company of men over women in his…tragically few attempts at relationships. Tall but not towering, fit but not bulky, short chestnut hair, steel blue eyes, and with an unkempt look that he carried well. Oh dear, he was quite handsome, wasn’t he? The half elf needed time to think about this further, and today was not the day to be distracted, he banished the thought for the moment…but resolved to maybe meet up with his friend a bit more often from here on out. If he survived the night of course, he now grimly considered…maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all.
NO! This is not time for doubt or hesitation, hesitation WILL get you killed, thoughtless little half human, steel yourself or back out now.
He hated that his father was sometimes right, thus he quieted his mind and set out of town.
Though the Gnawbone woods began only a little ways outside of town Silan had quite the trek ahead of him and circled around to a further west section of it. The wind was coming out of the east today and he wanted to be upwind of the deeper woods. It’s not like he had to worry about anyone following him after all. He arrived in late afternoon and set up a small camp to wait for nightfall. Sadly, the flavorful meal from earlier would have caused too much of an enticing smell so he didn’t bring any of its remnants and instead dined on low flavor but stomach filling hard tac. He then settled down for a quick and carefully timed rest so that he can more easily retain his energy throughout the night.
As the sun fell and the autumn moon, a bright and most importantly full harvest moon bathed the world in a gentle light, and a distant wolf howl announced the start of Silan’s window of opportunity.
His nerves were fraying as if he could already feel eyes watching him, but he steeled himself, put himself back on a hunt with his father. Quieted his breath, quieted his feet, quieted his mind, he quaffed his first potion of the night, toughening his skin, and set forth into the woods.
Soft but sturdy boots disturbed little that they trod over, for the hunter knew what to avoid. Keen eyes accustomed to lower light, even if not so much as his ancestors, darted about rapidly but not frantically, unobstructed by the tightly worn hood binding his white hair and keeping in its scent and its reflective coloration.
Barely within the woods he spotted his first oddity, clothing. A pile of clothing, folded neatly in plain view, beneath a birch tree. Spotting it was particularly easy as the white bark of the birch tree stood out among the darker trees around it, as if meant for someone to find…or rather find back. Upon examination the clothing seemed undamaged, no one ripped into…or ripped their way out of these clothes. The clothes bore no other obvious signs of who their owner could be and Silan did not recognize them. He felt that disturbing them would provide more risk than benefit, so he left them be and simply made a mental note of it.
He spotted his first werewolf not long after, perhaps the owner of the clothes. He was able to hide before it spotted him; if the wolf had caught his scent it showed no signs of doing so, this was excellent. It was a great beast, male, grey of hair, towering over 8 feet tall, bulky with muscle and sinew, nude and…well… a look at his groin showed that he was -prepared- for the night of festivities he would no doubt be engaging in.
Steeled thoughts kept back natural urges in the elven born alchemist, but the human born alchemist could feel some of his blood rush at the sight. Remember the literature you thoughtless little half human.
~~ “Werewolves have only been observed to copulate with other werewolves. It can be safely assumed that this is a natural predilection unlikely to change without pressures external to the pack.” ~~
He allowed the large grey to move some distance away before following. Even full elven noses are no more sensitive than a human’s, but being downwind of the great beast and given the…season he was able to smell the creature quite keenly. If he kept some distance the beast might scrape a tree or shed some fur and he could grab what he wanted and leave.
Another of the wolves was drawn to the large grey, a female by the looks of it, and its path was aiming to cross through Silan’s position. The limber alchemist scurried his way into a bramble to hide, his alchemically treated cloak and boots holding off the thorns, while the few that caught his face and legs failed to pierce his skin, Silan doesn’t brew bad product. He would, however, need to repair his pants.
As the two wolves got down to task the half elf decided his opportunity had passed and it would be best to find another, as he didn’t want to risk tangling with two werewolves at once even if they were…distracted and probably soon to be a bit tied up. He withdrew quietly from the scene in search of other signs. As he drew away from the pair his nerves frayed once again and he felt keenly and acutely in danger. Dropping into a crouch like a frog, so low it was nearly prone he surveyed his surroundings until he saw it.
Some distance from him; a different wolf, this one brown, this one looking right at him. He had been seen and he was being followed by it.
The lycan must have recognized that it had been spotted as it left its stalking gait and closed the distance inhumanly fast. Silan however was prepared and drew the soporific for when it charged him, hoping to shatter it against the creature when it couldn’t dodge.
However the lycan stopped short, standing tall about twenty feet away from Silan, too far for the alchemist to feel comfortable risking a throw of his one shot. He mentally spat at his own misjudgment; the soporific wasn’t as expensive as the other potions why didn’t he make two? Why didn’t he make five? The two hunters stared at each other from the distance, measuring each other. This one wasn’t as large as the other, brown, and leaner. Still far stronger than the alchemist before it they both knew. But it didn’t attack, Silan realized he wasn’t running away so the creature must be being cautious, like approaching a cornered snake, he would need to bait the wolf into lunging closer so he could have a good chance at hitting it.
However, before he could feint a flight the wolf bolted forwards several feet.
“gotchya” Silan couldn’t help but exclaim under his breath as he loosed the soporific at the wolf, aimed squarely and connecting with its chest.
Or at least, it would have connected. Except the wolf didn’t continue its momentum after the initial few feet and just as the bottle sailed the wolf was already set to take a backstep. It fell backwards another foot as the bottle reached him and he cusped it into his hands, stealing its momentum and catching it in its massive padded mitts fully intact and unbroken, the sleep inducing concoction held safely inside.
Fuck.
Fuck Fuck Fuck the wolf feinted HIM.
Silan proceeded to take flight this time in earnest when after a few steps away he felt an impact against his cloak. Rapidly he spun on the spot, drawing his five-finger knife and swinging it more swiftly and keenly than he’d ever in his life.
The blade sailed through empty air as the wolf was already 30 feet away…wait…it couldn’t have moved back that fast that’s impossible, it must have never moved in the first place. But then.
Silan looked in horror at the wet spot on the back part of his alchemic cloak as his head swam as the soporific began to take its effect.
No no no nononononono.
He quickly pulled at the cords holding his cloak on, fully prepared to discard his expensive and trusted tool but it was too late, the cord wasn’t fully loosed when his fingers lost their strength, the wolf was upon him in moments, he felt a furred mitt holding his wrist back as he dropped the five-finger knife to the forest floor. His last feelings as his mind slipped into oblivion was the wolf pulling the final cord on his cloak, removing its protection so it could devour him more easily.
I am going to die here after all, I’ll never get to have that lunch. What a stupid, witless, slow, pathetic little half human I was in the end.