Karma comes in strange ways, for a false healer it was that now, sometimes it worked -- Knitnan
A Traveling Apothecary was an amazing scam. Roll into town with a showy wagon and an amusing sideshow. Sell a few interesting bottles of simple solutions and coloured water. Then get out before the rubes notice that it's all smoke and mirrors. And, of course, steer clear of any place that has a disease running through it. Claim that you're out of the essential ingredients, if all else failed.
And always, always travel faster than the word about your gig.
In that, Nostrom had done everything right. They even had awnings to cover their advertising when they weren't selling things to the rubes. There was little at all to tell anyone that they were a roaming potioneer. Therefore, it was shocking as all hells to have a goodwife run to their cart, crying, "Bless the gods, an apothecarian! You can help us!"
Crap. These people expected results, not flim-flam. "I'm... in need of special ingredients," Nostrom hedged.
"Our woods are wide. What you lack, there's some who can find it. We'll take whatever good you can do us. Please! We're dying."
It was the wail of a small child inside her hovel that decided Nostrom. If they weren't going to hang them as a fraud, they'd hang him for negligence. "I'm just a merchant," they said, "but I'll see what I can do."
The entire village was falling sick. The small and young, the old and fragile, those who lasted longer fell sick more slowly than the others. Those with a bit of D'varuv in their bloodlines were hardier than anyone else.
That was what lead Nostrom to believe that it wasn't a sickness - it was poison. The D'varuv could safely consume some stones that would poison a Human. So they had those who were healthy mix charcoal with water and whatever made it taste nicer, and feed it to those who were ailing.
"It's a stopgap, you understand," they said. "I must find the cause." Which lead to Nostrom asking about the local water. Water, after all, was the one thing everyone in the village had in common.
A few of the hardier villagers went with them. Whether to help or be sure Nostrom didn't try to escape was up to debate. Regardless, there was a culprit in the changed course of the local creek. Where a deposit of red-hued stones lay under the flow of the water.
Red stones could mean... cinnabar. Deadly in large enough doses.
Nostrom improvised a pair of tongs and started picking the stones out of the water and into the improvised basket of their hat.
"What do you need that for?" rumbled the toughest of their escorts.
"This could be cinnabar. They make quicksilver out of it. Dangerous stuff. Same if you find green or blue stones in your stream. Some of them put poison in the water."
"Our water comes from t' well," said another one. "It don't come from the stream."
Explaining the concept of groundwater to these isolated souls might take far too much time. Fortunately, a lifetime of flim-flam helped them invent a lie they could believe. "These are cursed stones," said Nostrom. "They put a curse in the water that spreads to any water it gets too close to. In order to save the village, we have to dry them out. And don't touch them, or your water will get cursed too."
Given that they'd all seen Nostrom handle the stones with tongs, they could believe it. All three of their escorts made tools to pluck them out of the water. One even crafted a basket to hold them all.
"And then we burn the baskets, aye?" said the one who didn't understand water. "When these rocks is made safe?"
Save a village, and lose a hat. Nostrom liked that hat. It was great for their image. On the other hand... lives were worth more than hats. "Aye," they said. If this worked, it would all be worth it.
They decided not to add Pokeyvale to their resume of miracles in their later advertising.
[Photo by Sigmund on Unsplash]
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