Kingdom Stance
"Aaaand a little gingrit root!" you say triumphantly. Having plucked the last thing from the earth necessary for this latest potion, you haul your pack to the nearby riverside so you'll at least be close to the water when the time comes to mix it.
You take out the book of alchemy that your mother Maacah has been letting you learn from. It is odd to you that your skill is so highly regarded, even though you are still so relatively new to the Herbalist game. After all, you've only been dabbling in it for a couple of years, and that only because your mother had a passing fancy in it one weekend. It just seems that every potion you mix or poultice you put together or salve you concoct just seems to have some sort of extramagical property or potency to it... almost as if they were blessed somehow.
You shake off your wandering thoughts to concentrate on the love potion you've decided to make, combining the ingredients in your mortar in the proper order. Unlike most love potions, this doesn't require the object of the love to actually imbibe it, but rather just be within range of the smell of the admirer's breath. You've always thought such things should be more in control of the admirer, anyway. It's always seemed slightly intrusive and creepy to have to get a stranger to whom you're attracted to drink some random swill. "Imagine..." you sigh. "That some lonely heart could but exhale this potion to enrapture the mind of their heart's desire." You always did have a flair for the poetic... which is perhaps why you frequent such secluded groves in the forest.
By this time, you've ground the ingredients with your mortar and pestle into a fine, reddish powder. You funnel the powder into a glass flask upon which you've had the glass-blower melt a raised heart on the surface. You dip the mouth of the flask into the river, filling the glass only full enough to not allow any of its contents to escape downstream. You swirl the liquid around, lightly mixing it in the glass. It grows brighter, from a reddish-brown, to a red, to a fiery glowing pink! Upon obtaining that color, you halt the mixing with a quick turn in the opposite direction, which causes a magical pink cloudspurt from the top of the flask. At that, you swiftly cork the mixture and label its spot in your satchel as "Love's Breath" before inserting the flask.
It's not a moment after closing your pack that a band of brigands comes crashing through the woods in your direction. They look to have come freshly from some questionable deeds of affluent endeavor, as they are laughing, boasting, and carrying large sacks over their shoulders.
What will you do?
You take out the book of alchemy that your mother Maacah has been letting you learn from. It is odd to you that your skill is so highly regarded, even though you are still so relatively new to the Herbalist game. After all, you've only been dabbling in it for a couple of years, and that only because your mother had a passing fancy in it one weekend. It just seems that every potion you mix or poultice you put together or salve you concoct just seems to have some sort of extramagical property or potency to it... almost as if they were blessed somehow.
You shake off your wandering thoughts to concentrate on the love potion you've decided to make, combining the ingredients in your mortar in the proper order. Unlike most love potions, this doesn't require the object of the love to actually imbibe it, but rather just be within range of the smell of the admirer's breath. You've always thought such things should be more in control of the admirer, anyway. It's always seemed slightly intrusive and creepy to have to get a stranger to whom you're attracted to drink some random swill. "Imagine..." you sigh. "That some lonely heart could but exhale this potion to enrapture the mind of their heart's desire." You always did have a flair for the poetic... which is perhaps why you frequent such secluded groves in the forest.
By this time, you've ground the ingredients with your mortar and pestle into a fine, reddish powder. You funnel the powder into a glass flask upon which you've had the glass-blower melt a raised heart on the surface. You dip the mouth of the flask into the river, filling the glass only full enough to not allow any of its contents to escape downstream. You swirl the liquid around, lightly mixing it in the glass. It grows brighter, from a reddish-brown, to a red, to a fiery glowing pink! Upon obtaining that color, you halt the mixing with a quick turn in the opposite direction, which causes a magical pink cloudspurt from the top of the flask. At that, you swiftly cork the mixture and label its spot in your satchel as "Love's Breath" before inserting the flask.
It's not a moment after closing your pack that a band of brigands comes crashing through the woods in your direction. They look to have come freshly from some questionable deeds of affluent endeavor, as they are laughing, boasting, and carrying large sacks over their shoulders.
What will you do?