Lucian turned his gaze toward the voice's owner.
At a dark crimson stall were laid out vessels of every sort—throwing pots, knives, and fragrant vials. The stall's keeper wore the garb of a depraved perfumer, her apron stitched with the blasphemous mark: a crimson serpent coiled about the Erdtree in mockery. Her voice betrayed her as a woman.
A Depraved Perfumers? Here, of all places?
Lucian froze for a moment, then remembered. On his very first visit to the Roundtable Hold, Nepheli had pointed to an empty stall and spoken of a wandering perfumer who once claimed it. This was that place.
Yet never had he thought the occupant to be one of the fallen perfumers.
If so, there might indeed be treasures to find. Frenzyflame Perfume, and Ironjar Aromatic—potions of rare and potent effect. Such brews were drunk, not diffused, corrupting body and nerve. No ordinary perfumer would craft such things. Only the depraved dared to do so.
Lucian stepped forward. The perfumer smiled as a customer approached.
"Greetings," she said. "I am Hildegard, a dealer in tools. Perfumes are my trade, but I also sell pots and other throwables. And should you need them, I offer delivery, unless your path leads to some forgotten waste, other Tarnished can bring your wares to you."
Lucian gave a short nod and began to look over the stock. Nepheli had not exaggerated—this stall was well worth a Tarnished's notice.
Fire pots, oil pots, throwing knives; all the common things were here. Behind her, stacked high, were rows of empty pots, ready for commission.
Lucian chose two fire pots and one oil pot—more than that would only weigh him down. Throwing knives seemed useless for his path, so he let them be.
As for perfumes, only Frenzyflame Perfume and Uplifting Aromatic were of use to him, and he took one of each. Yet Ironjar Aromatic was nowhere to be seen.
"Do you not carry Ironjar Aromatic?" Lucian asked.
Hildegard blinked, surprised he knew the name at all. Then she gave a half-smile.
"I seldom make it. I won't send hunters to slay living jars for their flesh. Still, if you provide the materials yourself, I can work them into form."
Though she wore the garb of the Depraved, Hildegard was no true fiend. Still, she brewed and drank perfumes herself—once exiled from the Royal Capital, she had no more criminals to test them on.
Lucian waved a hand dismissively. "No matter. I've no mind to hunt jars." He leaned closer. "But tell me, can you craft other kinds of pots? I've rare materials I'd see put to use."
From his pouch he produced five blossoms—pale violet, frail as though they might wither any moment. Trina's Lilies, plucked long ago from the ruins of the Forlorn Hallow.
"I hear these can be made into sleep pots. Can you make them?"
Hildegard's lips curved, her tongue darting across them in excitement. "Trina's Lilies… It has been long indeed since I've handled such a treasure. Yes, I can make them into sleep pots."
"How will you take payment?"
"Five… five lilies?" Her composure faltered. So rare a bloom, few had ever seen even one. To have five laid before her was staggering.
"I'll keep one as fee, and craft four sleep pots for you. Is that fair?"
Lucian agreed without hesitation. He had no urgent need for them, better they be used than left to wilt.
He placed the five lilies into her trembling hands. Her breath quickened, eyes alight. She had handled rarities before—even the rarer Miquella's Lily—but never ceased to be enthralled.
"Splendid," she whispered. "Wait here. I'll prepare them at once."
As she worked, Lucian noticed something strange among the pile of jars behind her. One of them… moved.
A small pot, red-lidded, with stubby arms and legs. A living jar.
It shrank back behind Hildegard's leg, hiding from Lucian's gaze. He remembered the talk of Ironjar Aromatic, and to the little jar he must have seemed a butcher.
Hildegard saw where his eyes had strayed and spoke quickly. "Ah, my apologies. That one is not for sale."
Lucian inclined his head. He was not the sort to hunt such creatures. A foe on the battlefield, perhaps—but not this.
"Did you make it?" he asked.
Hildegard shook her head, still busy mixing powders into the cracked pots. "No. I found it outside, after poachers had raided a jar village. All others were taken. Only this one remained, so I brought it with me. It's well-behaved enough."
Lucian's surprise gave way to a faint warmth. "Is that so. May it grow strong, one day."
At that, the little jar peeked out, raised a tiny fist, and shook it with timid courage—his way of thanks.
Soon Hildegard placed four sleep pots before him. "All done. As for your perfumes, that will be twelve hundred runes. The three pots you chose earlier, take them as a gift."
She smiled slyly. "And should you come across more rare materials, remember me. I'll make them into weapons worthy of a Tarnished."