“That just means I’ve an even better reason to pay a little extra. An honest apothecary is nearly as rare as an Imperial these days,” the old woman added, placing two more silvers on the counter seemingly out of nowhere before she turned and walked out.

Sig noticed something as she went, something that caused him to forget to even say goodbye. Her hair had shifted a little, just enough to expose the scars on her ears. Scars that Sig, as a historian, recognized. He’d seen depictions of them in a book that covered most of what little was known of surviving Imperials. They were known to cut down their considerably pointy ears and intentionally scar the wound so they wouldn’t grow back, as a means of blending into the rest of the population.

“No wonder she can afford to pay through the nose if she’s had a couple millennia to build up wealth…” the historian thought to himself, sitting back down behind the counter and picking one of the pulp books he had under the counter. Most pulp literature was trashy, but Sigmund found the ridiculous, implausible martial arts books truly entrancing.

The moves described in them were perfect for a rehearsed stage show, but with some adjustment for practicality and his own superhuman physical capabilities, Sig was able to make a hobby of learning functional versions.

“”Just pick him up and drive his head into the ground” doesn’t exactly warrant being called a technique, but a’ight…” he murmured to himself. There was an exaggerated, simplistic full-page illustration that depicted the move in use, including the gruesome detail of the victim’s head splattering like a melon against the ground. Only a couple minutes and a page’s worth of reading after the last customer, the doorbell rang again.

Sigmund had expected another customer, only to be greeted by the faces of friends. He dropped his pulp and rose from his chair to greet them, yet found the words yanked from his mouth when he realized that Zelsys was missing an arm.

The pierogi were gone long before Riverside Remedies even came into view, the paper crumpled and stashed in a pocket. A few minutes later, they’d traversed a third of the promenade’s total length and Riverside Remedies was in sight. Just as the storefront came into view they saw some older lady leaving with a small crate of six bottles in tow.

A few minutes later still, they finally reached the store and entered.

A ring of the doorbell resounded.

The floorboards creaked lightly underfoot and an indistinguishable alchemic smell filled the nostrils. Behind the counter, Sigmund sat reading a pulp book bound in a garish, multicolored cover depicting a scene of exaggerated hand-to-hand combat.

His eyes flicked up to meet them at the doorbell’s beckon. The historian all but leapt from his seat to greet them, dropping his book in doing so. He opened his mouth, yet no words came - instead, he did a double-take before his gaze glued itself to Zel’s stump.

“Your arm, uh…” he blurted out in a stupor before he snapped out of it. One could see blood-red Fog wisps briefly rising from the corners of his mouth.

Zel grinned at him in amusement as the two women walked up to the counter. “Nice to see you too,” she snarked at the half-stunned historian.

He finally shook off his stupor with a single question: “What happened?”

“Locust Queen bit it off,” Zel answered plainly.

“Bit it off?!” exclaimed Sig exasperatedly. “Y’try shoving your arm-cannon down her mouth or what?”

“I’d probably still have it if I’d done that, she would’ve just chewed up the gun,” the beast-slayer replied. “She just somehow extended her jaws and bit in before I could pull the trigger.”

“Ext- Wait, locust. Mandibles. Oh… Well, at least you’re alive. Hopefully the pay is good enough to cover a custom prosthetic…” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and staring into the counter just to get his eyes away from that stump.

“Maybe one stronger than the original and with a gun already built into it?” Zel proposed half-jokingly. Sig looked up with a look that said he took the suggestion completely seriously, prompting Zefaris to cut in with, “No, I’m sure we can just reattach it. Metal limbs are a last resort.”

“Wait, you have it with you?” Sig looked to Zef, then back to Zel. “Isn’t it rot- oh, of course. Fog Storage.”

The pair nodded in unison and Zel continued, “Might want to let Makhus know that we’re back and that I’ll need whatever he’s made from the Necrobeast, if it’s usable at all.”

Sig nodded, “I’ll go check if he can come up, but it might be a couple hours. He’s taken a contract from the governor and ever since he’s just been toiling down there most of each day trying to get it done. Can’t even help him with it, way beyond Basic Alkahestry One-oh-one.”

“Really? What’s the governor need from an alchemist?”

“Immortality elixir,” Sig said, but he made no attempt to hide that he was exaggerating. “At least it used to be considered one in antiquity. It’s called Fivefold Philter, the governor’s been working nearly nonstop for weeks now and he can’t afford to stop working now so this is the solution. There’s more to it, but that’s the short version. Y’say you’re fine even without the arm?”

“I’d sure as hell rather have both, but I’m not bleeding out or dying of sepsis, if that’s what you mean,” Zel said.

“In that case just…” he trailed off, sniffing the air and grimacing exaggeratedly, his beard bristling up like a tumbleweed made of copper barbed wire. “Go wash up, y’both smell pretty bad. Can’t imagine how bad it must’ve been before you got scrubbed by the Fog Gate. But then, I doubt I can imagine the crazy shit you’ve brought back with you.”

Zel nodded in agreement and made her way towards the storefront’s back door, Zef following closely behind. However, the markswoman stopped briefly before moving on, grinning at her bearded comrade, “There’s boulders of jade. We wouldn’t have been able to carry it all in the supply crawler we left back in the E.Z.”

Sig blinked a few times, raised his eyebrows, and blurted out, “...Boulders?”

Zef was already halfway up the stairs by then.