The room is clad in shelves upon shelves, and every crook and cranny is filled with bottles and flasks. Not one of them quite like any other, in all shapes and hues imaginable.
[[Cupboard in the back]]
[[Door]]
In the far back, drowning in cobweb and dust, sits a stately old cupboard. Inside it, tomes upon tomes of secret knowledge is locked up, but it is strictly forbidden to go near it.
The items you had been sent to fetch were prepared for you and placed on a small desk by the [[stove]].
[[Door]]
You got what you came for, nothing good can come from hanging around in this place for too long. The [[Potions Master]] has said that some of the liquids stored here will do terrible things to a man if as much as a drop were to touch his lips. The rest would mostly just kill you.
[[Hallway]]
The Potions Master won't even bear thinking about. His long white beak covers a face you have never laid eyes upon, and it makes him look like a terror bird out of nightmares. Only capable of limping brokenly about supported by his staff, it falls to you to carry out most of his physical interaction with the world. Although that sorry task is your lot, and you slave for the ancient monster all day, you can scarce remember him uttering a full sentence.
[[Hallway]]
"Ah, Thomas, there you are!"
A flustered Professor Derril huddles down the corridor towards you. He is a colleague of the Potions Master, but in terms of spirit of a lighter hue. Upon his pointed nose, above giant nostrils, hangs a pair of gold-trimmed spectacles.
"See to it that the Master receives his message, and don't forget- Ah, no, I see that you've already fetched both [[letter and flask]]. Be on your way then, lad. It's hasty business!"
Derril seemed to have forgotten his commonly pleasant mood enduring some particularly [[stressful task]].
You look down at the things in your hands.
Most eye-catching is the tiny bulbuous flask, filled with a honey-coloured liquid. The warm orange and gold almost seems to radiate.
Like the cap on the flask, the letter in your other hand is sealed with red wax. The head of a majestic lion is carved in the wax, to indicate that the letter is of royal business, and not to be tampered with.
[["I'll be on my way, then, Sir"]]
[["Sir, do you know what this is all about?"]]
A wrinkled carpet on his brow betrays Professor Derril's state of mind. His wrinkles speak an entire language of its own, unbeknown to the owner himself. Twisted up in a strained knot above his bushy eyebrows, they seem to speak of Derril's struggle with some ardous task. You know better, however, than to ask him about it right now.
[[Focus instead on the things in you are carrying->letter and flask]]
"Good, good! A-and careful with the flask, Thomas. The Master would be most ...[[displeased]]... should you bring it to him in more than one piece."
[["Not to worry, Sir! I understand it must be precious to him...?"]]
"Thomas! Where does your insolence sprout from? You know full well that I'm not at liberty to talk of these matters - And even if I were, I very much doubt anyone would approve of me telling a mere [[apprentice]] about these matters!"
It was a dumb question. Derril's furrows had grown deeper and darker, and you can tell that his mood had thorougly soured now. His anger, however, was but a gentle breeze compared to the [[volatile moods->displeased]] that sometimes harrowed the Master.
Apart from his large, white beak, the Potions Master was famous - or rather //infamous// - for one thing. His emotions, and particulalry his anger, could cause him to go into a rage of such fury that it could heat all the cold stones of the entire castle.
[["Not to worry, Sir! I understand it must be precious to him...?"]]
[["I'm on my way, Sir!"]]
"In God's name! What has gotten into you, boy?" Professor Derril shouts in outright fury.
"Shall I have to dig the [[old cane]] back out from my closet? Or will you close your yapping mouth and [[be on your way->"I'm on my way, Sir!"]]?"
There was a tone finality riding those last words.
The iron stove was small, but so was the room. It would probably suffice to provide comfortable warmth, even during the blistering winter months, had the Potions Master ever put coal in it. "Spoils my mixtures" he'd say, and you'd know the dscussion was over, for the Master values nothing so much as his [[beloved liquids]].
[[Door]]
Yes, the Master love his creations. He fawns over bottles and caress their curves, whilst whispering words of comfort to their contents. Sometimes, I wonder if he doesn't spend more time talking with elixirs, than he does with human beings.
[[Door]]
Professor Derril insists on calling you 'apprentice', although the Master himself would never commit to such a word. During the six months you have spent in his service, all the knowledge he has deemed you fit to learn can be counted on two fingers.
You should soak any open wound in aqua vitae, even if it burns.
If you do not have aqua vitae, or just strong drink, use your own piss.
[["I'm on my way, Sir!"]]
You still vividly remember the cane. Every merciless knot, every length of clean pain. Every [[morning]] for seven years, you had been treated to its sting. It was part of the upbringing of children at the castle, and sometimes older staff, too, needed to //re-learn// a lesson. However, the merest mention of the cane's existence often sufficed. Once you got older, it was the embarrassment, rather than the pain itself, which had you discouraged from disobedience.
Professor Derril scoffs in reply, quickly turning his back on you to disappear down towards the dungeon. He really is uncommonly aggravated this [[morning]].
This was a good morning, however, and you will not let Professor Derril's mood taint your own. The sun has just climbed the horizon in a brilliant burning red, bathing the palistrades in fire. You were up before first light, mucking about in the pig-pen and shuffling dirt away from the gates as usual, but summer was approaching, and even the dark held some heat - And perhaps a promise of something. Professor Derril was soon far behind you as you climbed towards the western tower.
Perhaps something would finally happen.