The Legendary Fool

The crowd outside the emporium subtly began to part as they noticed his approach. Thankfully, it seemed that no one rivalling Zenakris’ status was concealed within the crowd, for no one directly initiated conversation with him. Tom had naturally made sure that there were no Academy students in the vicinity— at least none clothed in the distinctive Syrelore Academy uniform, but even among that subset, Zenakris’ status was particularly high if his paradigm was to be trusted.

A strong odour assailed his senses as he stepped through the revolving glass door; a blend of medicinal herbs with something more potent… like spice, perhaps.

“Lord Zenakris,” A woman seemingly in her late twenties, sporting short, blonde hair and brilliant ocean-blue eyes welcomed him. Dressed in a well-fitting green tunic, white palazzo pants and animal hide moccasins, she made for a welcoming first impression. It seemed that his approach had not gone unnoticed. “How may our humble establishment assist you?”

Tom did not immediately respond, his expression, whilst not outright stony, remained impassive as he locked eyes with the likely receptionist.

Her beautiful eyes widened a little in surprise, or perhaps it was the veneer of poise she was projecting that momentarily wavered. Either way, whether she was startled or incredulous, both served his purpose well.

If there was one lesson, one nifty little trick he’d managed to appropriate from Zenakris’ memories, it was that stoicism was a powerful tool in the arsenal of the rich and the powerful. Zenakris’ father, Arrenis Renain, utilised this tool dangerously effectively— the less he spoke, with his resonant, authoritative cadence, the more Zenakris felt pressured. What information was his father withholding? What secrets did he conceal as the King’s advisor? By saying less, with his position and stature, he achieved power over the other person— it might be a controlling, perhaps callous measure, but it was the one he needed right now.

He offered the receptionist a curt nod, before nonchalantly walking past her. Having been a store clerk back on Earth, he only asked customers once if they needed any assistance, if at all— hopefully the rules were similar here.

Ah. She’s following me.

It seemed that his nod had a counterintuitive effect, but Tom forced himself to maintain his mask.

The first floor of Cygnar’s Herblore Emporium made for a truly impressive sprawl. Over half of the shop floor was dominated by display cabinets, overhang sign boards hanging from the ceiling classifying the type of elixirs, potions and other concoctions that could be found in each section. He keenly took notice of the two guards equipped with plate armour and a card gauntlet guarding the staircase to the second floor— quite possibly the workshop where the potions were made.

Did the concept of trade secrets exist in this world too? Heh.

Potions generally seemed the most versatile of the bunch, serving a broad range of capabilities from curing the intimidatingly wide lists of poisoning one could suffer from in the Zelez Dungeon to ones that specialised in temporarily increasing movement speed. Tom had no idea how the latter was supposed to work— perhaps it temporarily increased the rate of oxygenated blood to the heart, but even that wouldn’t increase movement speed on its own. In the end, he could only chalk it down to magical herbs, the only difference being that whilst he understood the basics of an antidote and a wound regeneration potion, the movement speed increase one would likely remain an enigma.

Concoctions were generally inferior versions of the same potions. His [Analyse] thankfully worked on every potion and concoction he’d encountered so far, allowing him to discern the key difference— concoctions seemed to use less valuable herbs and other ingredients mashed together to create solubles, while each potion required an Alchemist to refine it.

Elixirs on the other hand, now those, were truly interesting. Despite having gone through all the available offerings in what he’d mentally termed the ‘general’ section, he had yet to encounter a single Elixir.

Of course, that didn’t mean he hadn’t been utterly shameless. Over twenty potions that ranged from healing, to a potion that temporarily gave him tougher skin, improved reaction time, faster movement speed, cure minor illness, another variation of the healing potion that focused on wound reknitting specifically, a cure all minor poison potion and three or four others that he’d tacked on for… well, variety.

He was, essentially, in a magical supermarket with the company footing his expenses.

In the old world he always had enough money to get by, but never enough to splurge. He was starting to understand the shopper’s high— it had always been a mystery to him how people with six figure salaries ended up in seven figure debt, but…. this was a rather pleasurable past-time, even if he said so himself.

His wicker basket was full of multicoloured crystal vials as he stepped out of the general section, trying his best to maintain the air of nonchalance he had been cultivating since the moment he stepped into the store.

Now comes the tough part.

The silver-streaked hair man seated behind a sturdy wooden table hadn’t escaped his attention. It was hard to really, for it only took one glance to know that everything from the table made out of dark, rich wood with wave patterned swirls that his hands were resting on, to the two or three dozen crystalled vials stored behind stained… no, some manner of magical glass that was shielded, perhaps, by glowing magical writing that exuded an aura of power.

The most impressive of all though, was the man himself.

He wore an odd black full-sleeve shirt, where only the left sleeve reached his wrist, the other end tapering off at the elbow. His well-defined physique was one thing, but the arm musculature peeking out from behind the half-sleeved side spoke of a man that possessed immense strength. An immaculately stitched jade-green vest and prim white trousers completed the elegant look. Most of all though, the man carried a certain presence, almost like an aura that he projected outwards to the world— on the outset he looked like a man in his early forties with hair greying a little before its time but…. he had a presence to him that… felt far more wizened than that. Most of all though…. He was dangerous. Very, very dangerous.

Each step he took made him feel like he was walking into the lion’s maw, but he had already resolved himself. It wasn’t that he was inclined to make enemies of the nobility, but penniless and resourceless as he was, he would die if he tried to escape Renovia as he was now. And getting an opportunity to copy a noble’s image would probably never come by again, not after what he’d done.

“Lord Zenakris,” the man, who Tom was almost certain was Cygnar himself, had a surprisingly easy going tone as he addressed him.

That was not good.

“Are you alright? You seem a little disconnected,” he asked, allowing Tom to detect the hint of concern in his voice.

It seemed that Zenakris had at least passing familiarity with the alchemist who did not suit the profile of a man that lived off brewing potions for a living.

Fuck.

“I have…,” Tom lowered his voice enough to make it clear that his words were only intended for the alchemist, “.... been dealing with a little, ahem, emotional turbulence of my own,” he explained, very much hinting at a plausible truth. It had worked once, after all.

“Ah,” the old man replied, rather delicately. “I see. Well, how may I assist you today, Lord Zenakris?”

Phew.

Tom’s gaze went to the likely elixir’s resting behind the Alchemist’s seat, struggling hard to suppress the wave of desire that washed through him.

Except….

[Analysis Failed!]

[Analysis Failed!]

[Analysis Failed!]