Bottomless [Chapter Two]

Skrog approached what appeared to be a dilapidated three story shack in the center district of Hamwall. It resided on the main street and attracted quite a lot of business. The old man sold various types of nonmagical herbal remedies, all of which were purchased eagerly by the city folk.
The front portion of the shack was like a small shop, it had shelves filled with vials that ascended from the floor to the ceiling. Inside the place smelled of a variety of different herbs and spices. Skrog was sometimes taken aback by the intensity of the smell, but not exactly the smells themselves.
The back door was where Skrog entered. It was made of solid mahogany and fortified with massive iron railings. A rusted iron bolt lock kept the door sturdy. Skrog slid it off the door and opened it. In the back the smell was fainter, but still intense after being outside on the streets of Hamwall. Skrog closed the door behind him and walked up the first flight of stairs. His footsteps were heavy as he climbed them.
"You made it back alive." The old man said with a rough chuckle as Skrog entered his laboratory. The room looked like a library with an assortment of strange devices for making potions in the center. The walls were stacked with tomes and rolls of parchment in every language Skrog could read and hundreds more in languages he couldn't. He walked toward the old man and set his pouch on a desk.
"That isn't funny, old man." Skrog said with sincerity. "I could have been killed."
"But only if you had been a patron once prior." The old man said as he walked toward the pouch.
"But why have me go to a place like that to begin with? Would it not have been easier for me to find the mint in the bazaar?" Skrog threw his hands in the air.
"Why didn't you?" The old man asked with a child like honesty to his voice.
"I-I-I don't know! Y-y-you told me t-t-t-to-"
"That's quite alright, Skrog." The old man hushed the half-goblin. "You know I can't stand that nervous stutter of yours." He lifted the pouch and turned it upside down. The contents fell onto the desk. Skrog let out a sigh.
"But this is the best mint in all of Hamwall. And the mint is the most essential part of this particular potion." The old man began to rummage through the haul. "And sometimes its better to go through the hardships of finding the best than to go through nothing at all for something mediocre."
"I suppose you're right." Skrog said as he leaned against a nearby desk. The old man touched one of the troll teeth and turned to Skrog, confused.
"What are these doing in here?" He asked.
"They were on your list." Skrog replied.
"Were they?"
"Yes."
"Oh, my!" The old man began to laugh. "I had intended for Vola to acquire them for me."
"But you know she hates cemeteries!" Skrog shouted.
"The mystery of how the troll teeth ended up on your errand list has been solved then, my boy." The old man lifted up the two silver coins in the haul on the table and tossed them to Skrog. "Here."
"Wha?" Skrog clumsily caught the coins.
"Consider them a bonus, for being such a good errand boy." The old man snatched up the mercury and the mint and waddled toward one of his strange machines. "I never thought you'd actually go to Sky Hook's. I'm proud of you."
Skrog felt a strange feeling in his heart, as if some kind of delicate hands were tugging on the strings that held it in his chest.
"Now get out of here before I reconsider that raise and get yourself something to eat." The old man said to Skrog. He snapped out of his sentimental moment of silence and adjusted himself.
"You're right." He replied. "I'm starving." Skrog started walking toward the stairs. He turned back to face the old man. "What time should I be in tomorrow?"
"Oh, let's make it day break." The old man said with his face pressed up against a machine with glass tubes protruding out of it and steam slowly streaming out of them. Skrog waved to the old man and left his shack, locking the back door as he went.

The roads in Hamwall were still a bit more empty than normal due to the rain, but the skies were letting up and more and more people began to fill the streets. Skrog wore the robe and colors of the old man, when he asked him about it once the old man replied,

"The robes of an apothecary are a symbol of healing. Like all Mages, we serve a purpose. Now my healing may not be one performed with majik, but it is still a form of healing. People will seldom forget a healer, regardless of their race."

Skrog would often replay this bit of advice in his mind from time to time. These were tough streets and the level of hatred between the goblinkin and the common races was still very high, even though the Great Goblin War had been over for nearly two decades. When he began working for and studying under the old man, Skrog had asked for a weapon.
"I'd feel much safer on these errands with a weapon on my person." He told the old man.
"Yes, indeed." He replied and walked into a pantry. When he returned he held a slender staff made of rosewood. Skrog's heart dropped.
"Is this it?" He asked when the old man handed it to him.
"Absolutely, my boy." The old man's demeanor changed. "A mage must never look menacing. We are healers, let the warriors radiate fear with each step."
Skrog examined the staff and the old man continued.
"You are, no doubt upset with this, Skrog. But let me tell you something my master had taught me when I was in your position." The old man sat on a nearby stool in the workroom and removed a pipe from his robe. "Every weapon has a name. When you've used the weapon long enough it will tell you its name; and not in the sense that it gets a voice and speaks it to you, but in the sense that suddenly a name will pop into your mind and it will just seem right."
The old man lit his pipe and sucked on the bit until the embers in the bowl were a bright orange. He inhaled deeply and exhaled a long stream of smoke that wafted around the room.
"Once the weapon has told you its name you will be bonded to it and the weapon will protect you. No matter the weapon, you will be more powerful than someone not bonded to their weapon."

So with his rosewood staff in hand and the robes of the old man Skrog made his way to an eatery in the port district. Hamwall was built on a peninsula and the ports were where it made most of its income. The goblinkin resided in the port district because they were the laborers and they didn't seem to mind the smell of dying fish and salt water.
The smell got worse the closer he got to the ports and the languages changed from the tongues of men, dwarves and elves to goblins, orcs and hobgoblins. The streets here were more crowded than in the center district, the goblinkin cared little for rain or the slug on the cobblestone. In fact, many would say it reminded them more of their homelands than any other part of the continent. For Skrog, it reminded him of his terrible childhood; killing so he wouldn't be killed, stealing so he wouldn't starve. It was a life he wanted to leave in his past and forget forever, but the green of his skin and the sound of his voice would never let onlookers forget and because of that, he would never forget.


But there was a rumble in his stomach and soon that was all he could think about. So Skrog followed his nose to the nearest source of cooking meat.

-Jestro