Witch Hunt

My eyes shoot open.

I awake without air, pulled from my feverish nightmares with a start. My throat is too tight; muscles clenched and unresponsive. Pleading like a desperate animal, I claw at my neck like it would remind me how to breathe.

The moment lasts just long enough to skim the edge of death, before the panic subsides as quick as it came. I suck in a ghastly, shaken gasp. The beating in my chest threatens to burn straight through to the skin, and I stare into the cold, hard wood of the floor I find myself on.

There is no time to lose. I force my eyes closed and think; delving deep into my mind, trying to remember my vile dreams, searching for answers. Flashes of blood and scraps of burnt memory flit and escape, charred pages thrown to the fire. My thoughts turn to mercury, slipping between my fingers.

Only red and vile visions and the vague impressions of horror leave an imprint. Once again, I have failed to make sense of these nightmares, to plumb them for fragments of truth.

Instead, I shiver and sweat on the floor like a scared pig. My soaked-through button down sticks to me as if a loose set of second skin. I blink once, twice, thrice to banish the scratchy burning beneath my eyelids. I must smell completely foul, judging by my state, and I've been left light headed from hyperventilating.

All expected side effects, of course; I induced this state myself.

I take stock. I am on the floor of my office, the dark oak littered with papers swept off my desk. The underside of the writing table obscures half my vision... Did I fall asleep at my chair, or crawl underneath? Either way, it looks as though I didn't get very far.

Along the opposite wall, my alchemy station churns ever along. A series of tubes, beakers, alembics, and flasks sit suspended aloft with metal wiring, connected to one-another with swirling funnels. Controlled flame under the near-empty cauldron pot boils off the remnant elixir. Furnaces still smolder with the embers of their fuel, long since having scorched the herbs within to useless charcoal.

I forgot to turn the burners off: an unusually clumsy mistake, doubtlessly born of my sudden sleep. An involuntary grunt of frustration escapes me.

I turn onto my side, preparing myself to stand. The room tilts along its axis. Nausea grips my core, occluding every feeling and thought. My stomach churns, rumbling with hunger and sick with pain. The familiar yearnings rise atop the wave of revulsion. My hands ache to tear, my mouth turns dry for lack of drink. I crave blood, to be sated, to fill my empty innards. I dig my fingernails into the floor, grimacing through the cramps, and force the blackened thoughts down to the depths from which they arose.

It's always worst in the morning.

My faculties returned from the onslaught of hungers and my tumultuous awakening, I finally find the strength to stand, still feeling a low spin. I shamble like a corpse reanimated towards my workstation. Clumsily, I let the barest traces of muscle memory guide me through shutting the burners and mixers off. Drops of foulest potion drip-drip-drip into a flask, the aftermath of my night of mad experimentation.

I clutch at my forehead. The thoughts are gone, but the headache returns doubly, pulsing and throbbing behind my eye as an angry, squeezing buzz. Dehydrated and decaffeinated, I'm useless like this. I'll return to fix the rest of the symptoms I've wrought on myself once I sort the necessities. A common theme, these days.

Outside my office, the kitchenette nestles in the corner of the open area of my home's second floor. It's practically an ancillary workstation all on its own; cooking is its own form of alchemy, in a way. I move mechanically, grabbing what I need from the chipped-paint cabinets to brew myself a cup of coffee. The grounds come straight from the Enderin Isles: my one regular indulgence. Though, quality ingredients are a necessity in their own right.

As I wait for the water to heat, I inspect my surroundings. I didn't make it outside last night... did I? I look over the windows, the stairs leading to the first floor. No signs of exit or re-entry, no muddied or bloodied footsteps. It seems I spent the night confined.

An immense relief washes over me, followed by a flash of realization. I pull out a notepad and pencil from my back pocket. Under the scrawling of last night's experimental recipe, I write:

Octobrea the 22nd, 919
Induced fever dreams ineffective for recollection of dreams or involuntary activity, but brew did perform adequately as a sedative. Potential to modify for more effective sleep potion?

I flip through the notebook's pages, skimming the last weeks of desperate musings, the documentation of my rapidly worsening condition. I'm no closer to a solution, but I may be closing around a means of mitigation. I exhale deeply, and pull my coffee off the burner, sipping at the hot liquid and letting it burn my throat as it goes. My ice-cold fingertips warm against the mug. The headache still pulls at my attention, but at least now I have attention to spare.

My eyes scan the interior of my office through the ajar door, to the spot I woke on. If there were no answers to begot of my dreaming mind, then I suppose my conscious self will have to do.

As I set the mug down and move to begin my work anew, I catch the colorless eyes of the photo hanging on the wall next to the door. A happily married couple, with their unhappy son. My parents stand a full head shorter than me in this photo, as expected of halflings raising a human child. Their tanned skin and bright smiles a far cry from my pallor complexion and blank stare. In the ten years since this was taken, I've grown that black bowl cut all the way down to my lower back, often pulled into a tail. Cutting it would be more convenient, and would draw less attention my way, but... I could never bring myself to. I brush away the strands I keep in front to frame my face, still sticking to my forehead from the remnants of last night's sweat.

The photographed boy's eyes stare back at mine through my current spectacles, rounded frameless things of darkened red lenses sitting squarely on the bridge of my nose. He didn't know he needed glasses yet; he thought all children couldn't stand the light.

This was our first proper family portrait, since becoming a family at all. We didn't know it at the time, but it would also be our last. My gut turns at the scowl my photo-self and I share. The boy in this photo is fifteen, not nearly so affected by his afflictions, with loving new adopted parents and an open future ahead of him.

What has he to frown about?

I shake my head, pulling myself from the spiral of nostalgia. My office greets me once again. It's going to be a long day, and I'll need to alleviate this headache.

* * *

It's almost noon before I'm ready to open the shop. A late start. Looking through the window, I see the streets of Marble City bustle with commerce and commotion. Horse-drawn wagons full of travelers and cargo stream up and down the paved and muddy roads. Tightly-packed brick and half-timber buildings line the street, creating a funnel of life stretching miles. Dozens of people pass by in an instant, of all shapes, creeds, and backgrounds. Humans, elves, fiendlings, orcs, dwarves. As diverse in ancestry as they are uniform in dress, they wear flat caps or tall top hats, suspenders and suits, and carry crates of supplies over their shoulders or hock newspapers on the corners or converse amongst themselves at the cafes or walk briskly from one transaction to the next.

The skyscrapers of the city's center tower over the local buildings, glass and steel monuments of progress. Blocked from my current view, the mountainous, cliff-edged hill that seats the true elite lays behind even the soaring high-rise center.

I saunter toward the shop's window. Printed in golden letters on the glass, backwards from my inside perspective, reads, 'Bromley's Apothecary - Potions and Herbal Remedies'. Swinging from a piece of dried putty on the window below the lettering, I flip the sign currently displaying Closed to its other Open side. Without one look toward the clouded sky, blessedly blocked with shade by a prominent green awning, I slip back behind the counter.

Hunched over my notebook, I begin to brainstorm.

Typical sleep potions ineffective at curtailing involuntary escapades. Experimental potion to induce vivid dreams had innumerable side effects, a more powerful sedative state among them.
Proposed synthesis: Mix sickness potion (tentative name) with typical soporific ingredients (waterbloom, poppy sap) to maximize sedation. Attempt to incorporate basic healing compounds to curtail fever-like side effects of sickness concoction, with understood concerns about mitigating effectiveness of induced lethargy.

DING, DING

The bell above my shop door pulls my attention from my notes, and... Oh, gods no.

Sauntering into my shop with their usual cacophony: my least favorite regulars. At the fore, Alabastra Camin, a towering half-elf of emerald eyes and pulled-up platinum blonde hair, local rabble-rouser and habitual thorn in my side. Her long coat accentuates her athletic form in an annoyingly self-assured manner. Already she plasters her face with that infuriating, cocky grin as she strolls forward, and I am unsure if she prepares to issue another recalcitrant rant or simply wishes to wisecrack.

Behind her enters her cadre of... friends? Team mates? Fellow adventurers? I've never been quite sure on their relation, but the two hangers-on stride behind their leader, absorbed in too-loud conversation. To her left, a young woman of barely five foot stature, ruddy brown hair covering one eye, and the small deer antlers, floppy ears, and fuzzy hooves of a faun. The erratic, mischievous, and altogether exasperating Faylie Nevis. Robes of our shared alma matter, the Lazuli Institute, lie under adornments of beads and silks, the bottom halves tucked into a pair of palazzos. Barely having entered my apothecary and already she puts her grubby hands on everything.

The other side of Alabastra stands a woman of my own height, clanking and clattering in her steel plate and chain armor. Brash and unlettered, the human of light brown skin and pixie-short brunette hair fiddles with the straps of her sword hilt. Tegan of Drywater's dark grey eyes always seem to stare through me, and between her code of honor and general act-first demeanor, it is a wonder she is yet to smite a sinner such as I straight into the hells.

Behind them all, flitting into the building on blackened wings, Alabastra's pet raven swoops onto her shoulder.

"No, no. NO!", I say immediately, "What did I tell you last time? The raven. Waits. Outside."

Alabastra's grin never leaves her. "Oh, c'mon Moodie-"

"That's still not my name." The half-elf's attempts to stick me with a nickname over the years we have known one another have only grown more insistent with time. They started as innocuous jabs at my field of study-turned profession, 'Flowers', and 'Brewster', but overtime shifted to slights at my personality. She seemed particularly confident in the more sarcastic 'Smiles', before shifting to this current attempt.

Unimpeded by my interruption, Alabastra continues, "Paella's a part of the team. She goes where we go." Sometimes I swear they speak about that damnable corvid like it's a person. It is a recent addition to their posse, and has been a hellion for my herbs. Despite the group paying out of pocket to compensate my consumed plants, they continue to insist on bringing it inside.

I point for emphasis. "Out!"

Faylie speaks up, her voice as high and cutesy as ever, "Ooh, we're getting feisty Oscar today!" I shoot her a dagger glare, and push down the brief wince of pain that rocks my form. Despite my insistence, it's often jarring hearing my given name. A bizarre period of adjustment, but disastrous consequence might follow if I ever explain that to the cohort. The faun only grins and waves in response.

Alabastra sighs, hands on her hips. "Sorry, Paella, owner's rules. Go on, ya rascal." The raven turns its eye toward me, issues a matter of fact 'CAW', and flies back out the open door before it can swing shut.

Arms crossed and leaning backwards on nothing, Tegan looks me up and down and says in her trademark blunt and boorish tone, "Oof. You feeling alright, Bromley? You look like death." I glance down at myself. I'd changed out of my sweat-drenched shirt into a far less filthy ensemble, and thought I had done all I could to cure myself. The restorative I brewed up before opening should have alleviated any outward-showing symptoms, at least. Tegan is either more perceptive than I give her credit for, or more likely, weariness this deep simply shows no matter how thoroughly it's buried.

It only now occurs to me that this is the first time I've seen this little posse since my condition began to deteriorate. Only a month ago everything had been perfectly boring. Now, their appearance is almost a welcome slice of regularity amidst the rising chaos. A reminder of what my days should be.

This does not make their visit any less tiring, mind. I deign to ignore the knight's comment. "What's your business, Alabastra?"

The blonde cocks an eyebrow, her smile turning incredulous. "Aw, don't tell me you forgot my usual, Moodie!"

Oh. Dammit. Shame creeps over me like a haunting shadow, and I feel my face blanche in embarrassment. In all the tumult I had, indeed, forgotten to brew Alabastra's regular order. "Ah. Well..." My stomach twists. What a disgraceful display. Alabastra is practically my patient, and this damned illness has turned me forgetful. I may not like her; her very presence perturbs me to the bone in fact, but she still deserves better than that. "It... it slipped my mind. I apologize."

The contemptible and hungry pit within lavishes at the thought of her suffering. I grit my teeth, twisting as if to wrench the thought from my mind. It flits as quickly as it came, but my display of effort catches their attention. More than just humiliation, but fear starts to creep upon me.

Alabastra looks concerned, darts her eyes, before settling slowly back into her usual grin. She head-jerks toward Tegan. "Stardust is right, you're not lookin' so hot. You got the sick?"

My muscles relax, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Thank the Gods, they just believe I'm ill. I suppose that isn't even inaccurate; I am awfully sick. "It's a... passing illness. I'm doing what I can to mitigate, but, that's occupied my time."

The half-elf shares sideways glances with the other two, then shrugs. "Don't sweat it. Pun... intended." I roll my eyes, but find myself grateful that she has the tact to not press further. Instead she says, "Besides, I'm not even out of my last order yet! I'll hold over!"

Faylie says to her, almost doting, "That's because you forget to drink your potion."

"I do not forget! I am a busy woman, with a full-to-brim schedule of insurgency and a strict regimen for rationing", she protests. I choose to drop my comment that she shouldn't be rationing. And the one about 'insurgency'.

Tegan turns to me. "She forgets."

Alabastra crosses her arms, her tone a jokey and too-familiar kind of cross, "Unbelievable. Insubordinates, the both of you. If we were on a boat, I'd throw you overboard." The breezy, unimpeachable way with which she speaks, as if I'm to be included in some unspoken camaraderie, has always been jarring, but there's a new degree of unreality in the shadow of my undivulged deeds. It is a farce that my nightmare week and this woman's joking manner exist in the same universe.

These three started early in their instance on conversation during our shared days at the Institute, and they've continued in that tradition even as our relationship turned from classmates to clientele. Most of my customers understand the purely transactional nature of our relationship; Alabastra, Tegan, and Faylie never got that hint. Their stubbornness would be admirable were it not so irritating.

I elect to steer them back towards business. "Apologies again, Alabastra. Give me two days and I'll have your brew ready."

Her tongue clicks. "You're a star, Moodie."

I can't help but roll my eyes. It's not simply that these nicknames are a nuisance, though they are. They breed familiarity. A dangerous territory to find myself in on the best of days. Now? Outright lethal. "I've told you not to call me that."

"With that sunny attitude of yours? How can I not?"

Faylie chirps over her shoulder as she turns to the shelves, "Call people what they want to be called!"

The armored woman adds, "You of all people should know that, Allie."

Their leader turns back to me, insistent and nonchalant all at once as she approaches the till. "Well, whaddaya wanna be called, then? Obviously not 'Oscar'." She adds air quotes. I narrow my eyes. What's her game? Is she trying to get a rise out of me? Is she projecting onto me? My skills of insight crash and break against the wall that is Alabastra Camin.

Under no circumstance can I show discomfort. "That is my name."

Alabastra leans forward across the counter, chin resting on one hand. Close. I can see the kohl painting her eyelids, the peculiar, almost catlike curve of her smile, the mole on her cheek. The brass pins on her coat, the monochrome scarf. The lilac and sandalwood of her perfume...  Her verdant eyes lock with mine, and for an instant I am paralyzed. "And that wasn't my question."

"Alabastra." Tegan's arms are crossed, her voice carrying an edge.

Without missing so much as a beat, Alabastra turns and says, "Don't think he wants to be called that. Though, I'd be flattered..."

Suddenly, I remember where I am, and snap out of whatever had me so transfixed. They always get rather carried away in our interactions. Impossible to say if they do this with everyone, or have especial hatred for me. "I'm right here", I remind them.

"Sure are!" She turns back to me, clapping her hands together once. "And we're gonna make Moodie stick. You watch."

Business. Keep them on business. "Do you need anything else today, Alabastra?"

She brings a hand to her chin in a quizzical motion. "Hmm. That depends. How many healing pots you got?"

Finally, a sensible question. I think for a moment. "Two dozen, I believe?" I try to keep a consistent stock of healing potions. Sellswords and adventurers make for good, if inconsistent business. Hardly regular customers, due to their impending certain deaths, but flush with bountied gains.

"Sounds good", she says, "We'll take 'em."

I must have misheard. "... You surely don't mean... all of them?"

"Now you're gettin' it."

This woman is impossible. Through flabbergasted blinks, I say, "What could you possibly need nearly thirty healing potions for?"

"Overthrowing the government", says Faylie, nonchalant and matter-of-fact. She doesn't even look up from the herbs she's dutifully fussing with.

Tegan quickly interjects, "Sh-she's joking!"

The trio, and especially Alabastra, are always harping on about some matter of local, or even national politics: industrialization, community organizing, which members of the Common Assembly they'd like to, quote, 'throw in a river of bees'. That sort of thing. Not to say I harshly disagree with any of their points, per say, but they're just so... loud about it.

"I didn't think she was serious until you said that..."

The paladin says, "Uh. Pretend I didn't then."

I pivot back to the leader. "And how are you paying for this? Because if you try to issue me another bounced check I am going to have to decline the offer."

Alabastra flashes a quick grin. "Cash."

"... Is it stolen?"

Her pause is all but confirmation. "Technically... no?"

"Not technically stolen is the best kind of stolen!", the faun shouts. The other side of the coin. Their blatant criminal activities border on comically obvious. They always manage to weasel out of becoming wanted outlaws in any official capacity, but whether that speaks to any ability on their behalf or the incompetence of the burgeoning MCPD is debatable.

I sigh, steepling my hands along my forehead. "Fine, then. Give me a moment." I descend downstairs to collect all I can of my healing potion supply. The basement greets me with an omnipresent chill, and I wish I'd donned a jacket. It is an odious march up and down the stairs to collect the crates of clinking potion bottles, but soon a treasure trove of small flasks sloshing with red rejuvenating brew is spread over the table.

To my surprise, Alabastra is good on her word, and pays in full. The other two continue to bother themselves with my shop's interior garden, until our transaction is complete and they all gather at the counter. Each grabbing one of the three crates, I ring up the register and give them a nod. All things considered, one of the least troublesome business interactions I've had with the three. Not-stolen cash aside...

As they move to leave, I tender one last question. "Seriously... what do you need all of these for?"

Alabastra's grin is so wide it could split her face. "We're huntin' a vampire."

My heart drenches in ice-cold water. No... there is no Godsdamned way...

"Yea, got any stakes or garlic you can sell us?", asks Faylie. She sounds distant, and I barely hear her over the ringing in my ears.

"We've got stakes and garlic at home, Glowbug", says Alabastra. The three funnel back out into the autumn air of the city. "Thanks, Moodie! Cya in a couple!"

I wait a solid five minutes until I am sure they're well and truly out of sight of my shop. And then I lie down on the cold linoleum of my shop floor, and stare at the ceiling, eyes locked in wide disbelief. I have been visited with innumerable cruelties over the course of my life. As if everything I've experienced has been the setup to a cruel prank, an idiot's tale waiting for its ironic twist. Like I'm the boxing bag of fate. The plaything of some cosmic joke.

Well. There goes the punchline.