Snippets and Stories: (BP) The Elixir of Life

They were passing through a village. One that like many in the quaint countryside had once seen better days.

When the rot was still amongst them, many fled beyond the stone walls of the 16 Sanctums to these quaint towns.

And for some Time it did seem that the wilderness and fresh country air healed.

Until the rot was passed to them as well.

Village populations were decimated, entire towns lost and the once cobbled roads since fallen to ruin.

The dilapidated ruins they had thought abandoned.

Until they chanced upon a scant few left. Scarred by the rot, for it passed through the flesh, and though the few remaining denizens survived, they decayed.

Sour pus oozed from open sores. Some had lost their eyes, and all that remained were festering sockets with their hollowed, empty stare.

They had stopped for a rest. The town wared them at first, but when Zeal dealt with them as they would any other, they welcomed the travelers tentatively.

Merchants were scarce and they were in desperate need of materials.

Materials that they carried.

It was part of their guise, after all. Sometimes they entertained, other Times like now, commerce was their trade. Either way, it was an easier and less suspicious means of blending in with denizens of any kind despite how utterly foreign they were, and a means of paying for expenses. 

Thieves and their ilk were little concern. Zeal dispatched of them easily enough, and the presence of a Seeker and acting mercenary in their midst all the more believable. It played well into both, giving credibility to their front.

Especially for those who have supped deep upon the meager scraps of desperation and drunk deep of the same chalice.

Traveling merchants were scarce in these parts. Oft avoiding places of heavy infestation, and shying away from those who suffered still. Those that did brave such ravaged lands were disdainful, treating the inhabitants as lesser being.

It was scarce. Scarce, but not unheard of.

And for their tiny caravan, they would be the latter.

A clever ploy, and they had the young Bræmbel Shol to thank for it.

"Clever little Coty." Lockes had murmured as Vye explained his plan. Perhaps this was why Furzé chose the young Shol to succeed them.

It was simple and resourceful, an easily sustainable means of keeping their image. Merchants were free to travel without rousing much suspicion. It was, after all, their trade.

And so they traded.

And Zeal, ever the vigilant guard, ensured no goods were passed without the proper coinage or equivalent.

But such dedication needn't be so.

Though the concept of currency seemed foolish and foreign to Vye, he was not a fool himself.

Currency is the lifeblood of the sanctums. Worth in something that in itself is worthless. A notion that oft puzzled Vye.

The moorland Shol was quite shrewd and knew how to drive a bargain. Months of watching Zeal's exchanges and observing the din of marketplace bartering had been enough for him to pick up on it, and what he didn't yet know, he learned.

And he didn't just do it as well as the usual vendors.

He did it better.

Vye drove a hard bargain, easing up when the crowd found him without purchase, and unyielding when hands were played, as any mechant worth half their salt knew to be. But he played like a veteran. His youthful appearance he played to his trade, feigning ignorance.

Many had more to offer, but only fools played their trumps in the first hand.

And so it went on, the back and forth draws as he lured them in and feigned interest back. Just a little, but not too much.

A difficult feat, especially where the claws of sickness gouged deep, leaving gaping wounds that bled still.

But they were merchants. And so Vye wheedled them out of coin like a goldlusting miser or overzealous dragon, then feigned astonishment as some "antique" or useless garbage caught his attention. Thinking they'd found a chink in his armor, a lucky break, they took bit the tossed bait. It was odd then for Vye, having shown interest and feigning a lack of, to subtly offer a pretty penny for the junk item. And the crowd never noticed it was just enough, for them to have made back the excess profit they would have given to the travellers.

When Zeal asked why Vye went through such a hassle for the ruse, the answer was simple.

"It's more believable. And--" Vye peered at the slowly gathering crowd, "--no one wants to be a charity case. Like this they can keep their pride, and feel no remorse in our exchange. To them I'll be the money loving merchant with some eccentric and questionable tastes, and they'll be the poor that I sup upon but whom catch a lucky break to get even. A perfect storytale classic, wouldn't you say?"

And so they bartered, and bartered, and bartered.

Lockes managed inventory as Vye took center stage, with Zeal as his burly guard.

At intervals the Bluepine would slip out for a status report, and information exchange, or to appraise. 

Here, their extensive database proved most beneficial.

All in all, it left everyone content.

Zeal didn't have to interact with anyone, Vye handled sales and got to observe the world, Lockes got to stay far away from the world they had decidedly had their fill of, an aversion neither of the other two would so much as think to fault the Bluepine for it.

Everything was going well, until one denizen came closer to the stall. He had nothing to exchange, but the threads on his back, and being a cold Spring day that it was, he could but stared longingly from a distance at the Apples Vye had grown just a week ago. Fresh, plump, and juicy.

And hard to come by in these parts. The soil was jnsuitabke for their cultivation.

At first Vye ignored him, though both the Shol and his guard had their peripheral alert for any sticky fingers. It wouldn't be the first nor last attempt, and especially being of the Verdance, nothing taken would escape Vye. He could sense the Life in each apple.

So during intermission, the Shol made his way over, and to the man's surprise, took his seat beside him.

"Share with me your story, stranger. I've a penchant for tales."

And so the man talked, and Vye listened.

And at the end of it, offered up cloth bindle for the man to fill with the stock he pleased, so thoroughly had he enjoyed the tale. An exchange both found satisfying.

"You're going to lose us coin." Zeal grimaced.

"On the contrary, I'm making us more." Vye smiled up at him, "This town is very close knit and love one another dearly or so I've gathered. They'll not forego necessities for pride so I'll not likely offend and, I've shown them that I'm not all fire and brimstone with this generosity. See, I'm just doing m' trade."

And here Vye nodded to the town, "I've made myself more loveable. They will welcome me now, I am closer to them and they will more readily trade with me, and offer up more as well."

And they did.

Some did try to exchange a tale as the man before, and the Shol would contemplate then agree though only if the amount was under his discretion. Each story being a different tale after all, and he was picky with his cup of tea, or so he told. Still he appreciated the sincerity and would offer up what he could.

Such traits made him more genuine, and lovable.

And by the end of the night they were offered a seat around the bonfire.

"... T'wont be comfy as a bundle but I warrant it twice 's warm an' no wolves t' deal with." An elderly man smiled down at Vye, and Vye nodded his agreement and happy with such hospitality.

It was with warmth that they met the few remaining survivors of the MireBrook Boughs.

A bandage on the man's arm had come loose, and Vye reached out to fix it.

This the elderly man observed and smiled,"You've a soul born kind. May the North Star ever light your path." He sighed, "Many are repulsed by our rotten flesh, and the Death that clings to us in stench and flesh."

"... Perhaps what you need is Spring."

"Come again, young 'un?"

Not again.

Zeal made to stop him with a hand on his shoulder but Vye slowly reached up and grasped it. Squeezing it once softly, he removed it and smiled up at Zeal.

But his eyes sent a very different message in their glower.

Don't interrupt me.

"Legends speak that water from a well drawn from a pure fount will cleanse the sickness."

"... Is that so? I've ne'er heard such a tale before." the elder spoke with great hesitation. Many a tale they have believed in desperation, only for hope to only ever be a merry chase. He dared not do so again.

"Aye. But it must be drawn from a pure source. Tainted water brings only pestilence. Know you of any?"

There was a break in the conversation. And at length, the old man nodded, "I'll take ya. Ye wont find it on 'ny maps. ...'s what keeps it pure I s'pose."

And so they excused themselves and were led out into the moorland.

"This 's it."

It was a pitiful well. Covered with a splintered wooden round, and obviously fallen into disuse, for the stonework was crumbling and altogether missing at intervals, the rope in tatters and its future potential in splinters. But Zeal pried the cover off as per Vye's silent command, and the Bræmbel Shol bade their guide leave.

The old man was wary, and rightfully so, but did as Vye bade.

Certain their guide had left, Vye removed a sizable vial from the inner pocket of his cloak, the soft brilliance of a scintillating golden light flickered within, emanating a faint warmth. Not that felt in the flesh, but in the Heart.

A soft sweet scent drifted through the clearing as Vye broke the wax seal.

Uncorking this, the scent grew stronger. Vye held it close--and then unceremoniously upturned the contents, the glittering drops of sunbeam pouring into the well. Such pretty flecks, twinkling softly like stardust in their descent, their glow lighting down the depths of the well.

They had not too far to fall, and plopped into the water below.

"That should do it."

Zeal scowled, "You can't keep doing this."

"... They shouldn't have to suffer."

This was going too far, "And neither should it be at your expense. These are the same people who would kill you, need I remind you?"

A touch on his wrist, on the bone circlets, was enough to hush him. Enough to remind him that he was once no different. 

...And no less worthy of scorn.

"Do you know why humor is hard to understand, but tragedy universal?" Vye didn't wait for a response, nor did he want one. It had been rhetorical. "Because suffering is the same, no matter who or what you are. We all know what it's like to hurt. To be hurt. And... No one deserves to suffer. Even if it's arguably karmic retribution."

Zeal grimaced, so blatantly plain was the indignant fury that brimmed, just beneath that steady calm voice. And yet here they were.

Noticing this, the Bræmbel Shol heaved a sigh, "I'm not indifferent, and I'm not pretending to be." He looked up at Zeal, "I'm angry. And this anger I acknowledge, but it's not just about what we think or feel, it's what we do. I wont act upon. Vengeance wont accomplish anything." 

Suffering, there is plenty of. Vye bit back another sigh, "Let's go, it's getting cold and I didn't get to finish the porridge they gave me."

And so they passed the night in relative comfort, and bid farewell a couple days later.

In that Time the village, as per Vye's instruction, drew the pure water from the well. Drank it, bathed in it, and already their open sores had started mending, their skin pink and raw, but unbroken. No longer did they hurt, or their rotting flesh spread. Their bodies healed quickly, with the vigor of youth. A miracle, the denizens cried, an elixir of Life itself!

And thus did the legend of the fountain of youth slowly spread.

Whispers that would eventually lead to more foot traffic to frequent this part, as it had and would for many others.

The lowland Shol smiled. Slowly but surely, they were healing. With Time, the land and Life would thrive again, and Prismatic Arc raised once more. Vye would ensure it.