The silence following Eric's declaration was thick with the lingering steam of the distillation boiler. He looked at the three glowing types of vials—Red, Purple, and Green—and then back at the bewildered faces of the scouts. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Do not mistake simplicity for a rule," Eric rumbled, his voice echoing off the stone rafters. "I told you these three were born of the earth and the grain. Many of my brews do not require the blood of beasts. But do not think the monster's heart is useless to me. I have used the fangs of the wolf and the hide of the boar to bind my runes. There are higher crafts—brews that require the essence of the fallen—but a true scholar knows when a weed is enough and when a beast's soul is required."
Deith nodded slowly, his hand instinctively touching the faint pink line on his palm where the wound had been. The mystery of the man only deepened. He was a warrior who spoke like a sage, a giant who understood the microscopic world of the leaf as well as the macroscopic world of the sword.
"We have seen enough," Deith said, signalling his scouts to stand. "The North is full of shadows, but you... you are a fire we did not expect to find. We must return to our kin and speak of what has been built beneath the limestone shelf."
Eric didn't move to stop them. He reached onto his workbench and gathered a small collection of the vials he had just finished. He handed them to Deith, the glass clinking softly.
"A parting gift," Eric said. "The mountains are cold, and the path is long. Take two vials of each type: the healing red, the purple of strength, and the green of the stone-skin. These will ensure you see your hearths again. Tell your people that the 'muscular ghost' is no ghost at all. I am a man of flesh and blood, and my doors are open to those who seek a haven, provided they bring a scholar's mind or a warrior's honor."
The elves bowed—a deep, respectful gesture they rarely afforded to humans. They ascended the stairs, passing the humming Sawmill and the Automatic Arrow Towers that stood silent guard. With a final glance at the timber-shell hut, they vanished into the indigo night.
Days later, in the hidden Elven settlements deep within the unclaimed valleys, the scouts told their tale. They spoke of the Warrior-Scholar who wore armor the color of sunset and moved through the night with eyes that saw the invisible. They told of the underground fortress and the alchemy that healed without the burn of toxicity.
"He is a master of artifacts we have never seen," Deith told the Elders, holding up the empty red vial. "He builds a paradise in the dirt, and he does it with the strength of ten men and the wisdom of an Archmage."
The whispers began to spread. To some, Eric Bloodstone was a threat to be watched. To others, he was the first glimmer of hope in a world that had forgotten the meaning of the word.
******
In the heart of the elven settlement, tucked away within a sun-dappled valley of the North, the Aen Seidhe gathered in hushed anticipation. Enid, a female elder whose face was a map of centuries and whose eyes held the weary wisdom of her race, sat before the six vials Deith had brought from the mountain.
She reached for the first set. Uncorking the Red vial, a soft, floral fragrance filled the air, reminiscent of a spring meadow after rain. "It smells of life," she murmured, her voice like wind through dry leaves.
Next, she took the Purple vial. She wafted the air toward her nose, then frowned, shaking the glass slightly. "Nothing. A void. It is as if the scent itself was stripped away by a scholar's hand."
Finally, she reached for the Green vial. The moment the cork popped, a wave of truly disgusting stench—like a mixture of wet wolf-pelt and burning sulfur—erupted into the tent. Enid immediately pinched her nose shut, her face twisting in a grimace of pure revulsion. "By the stars, Deith! What is this foul thing? Has the mountain giant sent us the bile of a Slyzard?"
Deith stepped forward, a faint, respectful smile on his lips. "It is called a Lesser Stone Skin Potion, Elder. The name is a bit misleading—it does not turn your flesh to rock, but it hardens the body against the bite of a blade as if one were wearing a second skin of leather. The stench is the price of the earth's protection."
He then gestured to the others. "The purple is the Lesser Strength Potion, which grants the drinker the power of the bear. And the red, as you sensed, is the Lesser Health Potion—the brew that mended my hand in heartbeats without the burning toxicity of the Witchers."
Enid looked at the vials with renewed intensity. "A potion that heals both wound and humours, yet carries no poison? Such a thing is not found in the Northern Kingdoms."
To be certain, the Elder tested them. She administered the red draught to a scout suffering from a lingering fever; within minutes, his skin cooled and his breath cleared. She gave the purple to a young warrior, who found himself lifting a massive supply crate as if it were filled with feathers. Finally, she braved the green liquid's taste to test its effect, marveling as a sharp needle failed to pierce her forearm, merely leaves a faint, dull mark.
"It is true," Enid whispered, her eyes wide as she looked toward the distant peaks of the Dragon Mountains. "This Eric Bloodstone is no mere barbarian. He is an Alchemist of a lost age."
She turned to Deith, her expression solemn. "A man who offers such gifts to the Aen Seidhe is either a saint or a king in the making. We must decide if we are his neighbors... or his subjects."