Levaigne

It's been one hell of a week. You got let go from your job after your company adopted AI, your car broke down on your way to slash your ex-boss' tires and you couldn't find good porn to watch for 3 days in a row (Oh and you stubbed your toe for good measure).

"God, if you're listening," you begin to think to yourself, "please just end my suffering". The self pitying continues as you crawl, lonely, into bed and keeps going even as your eyes drift shut, your eyelids as heavy as the sheer depressive weight of your existence.

"No that's not it... Was it essence of Melbride or... Maragaggon? Oh phooey- it worked last time. Even if it was a... Um- Accident..." A melodic voice meets your ears, rousing you from your tortured sleep. As you wake up proper and begin to register your surroundings, you notice your lumpy mattress is now a plush, inviting chaise lounge (author's note: Google it), the walls are now logs and the ceiling is lined with solid beams of timber.

It's only then that you notice the figure on the far side of the room, bathed in sunlight pouring through the windows. She works at a table covered in fantastical alchemical equipment; the kind seen in fantasy movies with tall glass vials and winding tubes filled with wonderful colours. She stamps her foot in frustration and turns around, seeing you lying awake. "You're finally awake! Are you hurt? I found you sleeping on my gathering walk and carried you here, away from forest nasties." The woman doesn't wait for you to answer. "I'm Levaigne, that's 'leh-vain' to you. Welcome to my shop- well... Workshop- no actually, it's just a wood room... Heh. The king skedaddled me after I- um-" She smacks herself on the forehead, "Oh shushcakes now Levaigne-" She stares at you wide-eyed and potion stained, only now waiting for you to speak.

All the other doctors and respectable physicians turned you away, nary an idea what's wrong with you. You've had a persistent headache for weeks now and, despite trying several questionable treatments, it won't go away. You've tried newt's eggs and fish liver and bull's milk (do bulls even make milk?) and none of it has cured you.

In your delirious desperation for relief, you chased tavern yarns and sage's whispers to a shack in the woods, miles outside of the city. Approaching, it's little more than a shed, vines growing over most of the structure. The woman you were told lives here is not someone the locals take seriously. She was, once upon a time, the king's personal alchemist before his son went missing and she was exiled... Nobody quite knows the full story, but you hear she was lucky to not be executed.

Nearing the door you hear a faint humming, occasionally interjected by shouts of words you don't understand, "I could've sworeself that I had Vinctus root somewhere..." Or, "No no no no nononono Levaigne you silly goobwall, that one would grow much more, not shrink small!" You, in your better judgement, turn to leave, but as you do the door opens behind you. "Yessims? You come sightsearching aid? Well you visit to the best! What's the matter you seem to be having?" Uh oh...