CHAPTER 5

With his entire focus now on scooping different amounts of the dried herbs he had collected and grinding them with the mortar and pestle, Loch was unaware that the seemingly inattentive old woman had looked up from her book, with her gaze now focused on his small form, a slight curve to her lips spoke to the fact that at least at that moment his actions appeared to be the correct ones. Even with the fact that most of the procedure appeared more awkward and slower with Loch's handicap in play, he still took a great care with every one of his actions and never hesitated performing the next step. The old woman consistently emphasized that the tincture-making process must continue without interruption unless absolutely required. Loch remembered a phrase that was handwritten on every front page, in all the novice alchemist books the Old woman had given him over the last year. When dealing with the art of potion making, one could never know whether the catalyst for an ingredient to change its properties was simply time. "Time in a certain state can change many things," the old woman always warned Loch. 

Loch mixed the dried herbs from the chest and grabbed the berries from the bowl before bringing over a metal contraption resembling a sandwich maker with a crank that closed the top plate over the bottom. Placing three of the fullest-looking berries between the two plates, Loch turned the crank with a steady hand, which led to the berries being squished. The limited juices within the dried-up-looking fruit leaked out and followed along a slight furrow in the bottom plate to a lip. Which then dripped the liquid into the mortar Loch had placed there beforehand, with the already smashed herbs. 

With full concentration on the slow dripping liquid, Loch counted out the drips of juice, and once he got to seven, he moved the mortar away and placed a clean vial under the furrow to catch a couple of the drops that were left. Leaving the contraption alone, Loch looked over to the now boiling water and poured the contents in. Even though several small hand-wound clocks were on the bench, he instead opted to count out the time as he watched the herbs and berry juice mix into the clear colored water, turning its color a murky purple that became a brighter purple the more it boiled. Once he reached two minutes on the dot, Loch used a clean cloth to lift the pot off the fire and placed it on the metal table. He picked up a small but sharp-looking knife placed next to several other small tools and put it next to the cooling pot. Then, using his good hand, he lifted his wrapped-up left arm, placed it on the table, and removed the cloth, revealing his beastly looking hand. Retrieving the small knife again, and with no hesitation, he drove the sharp point into the index finger's tip. Piercing deep enough into the dried skin, that a thick drop of dark red, almost black blood began to leak out. 

This substance coming from Loch's finger should have been blood just like any other human, except his appeared far too thick, almost resembling sludge. Even though Loch had cut into his think skin with ease, it still required him to put pressure on his finger, as if he was trying to squeeze out a splinter, before the liquid came out in decent sized globs. The color also didn't resemble blood in any way; it was almost entirely black, and it appeared as if his left arm had an oil leak. After a moment, a thick stench filled the area; it wasn't unpleasant, smelling like the scent of rain hitting the cobblestones after baking in the sun all day. Loch didn't seem phased at the sight of the odd-looking liquid coming out of his own appendage and swiftly picked up a clean metal spoon after putting the knife down on a cloth. With a deft hand, he gathered a spoonful of the thick black substance and placed it into the now lukewarm and light purple liquid in the pot and began to stir the liquid in a slow rotation. Once he saw that the black liquid had disappeared and mixed into the light purple, turning it far darker, he lifted the pot and placed it back on the burner. 

Loch wrapped his left hand back in the old cloth bandage without taking his eyes off the heating pot. As he internally counted the seconds that passed, the old woman also took her eyes off Loch and scribbled into her book. She lifted her head to gaze at the young boy's now-covered hand every few seconds. Along with Loch stirring it every couple of minutes, the once smooth liquid began thickening, appearing more like a soup. After another ten minutes of this routine, with a now shaky hand, Loch lifted the pot from the flame again and placed it on the table. Staring into the thick, dark purple liquid, all the nervousness Loch had been holding at bay came flooding back as he finally changed his sight from the brew and towards the old woman who was still scribbling into her book. 

As if feeling the young man's nervous gaze, the old woman sighed and looked over. "Please, Granny." Loch breathed out as his eyes went from her to the cooling pot and back again. With another dramatic sigh but a deceptively quick movement, the old woman retrieved her cane propped up against the table and approached Loch and his pot. Saying nothing to the sweating young boy, she gazed at the thick liquid in the pot, and, not appearing to care about the temperature, she placed one wrinkly but clean finger into the liquid before placing it into her mouth and closed her eyes as if taste testing a real soup. With several exaggerated, confused, and pondering facial expressions emerging on her face and an almost hyperventilating Loch, the old woman opened her eyes at the young man and said, "Mediocre, but acceptable." Then, without another word, the old woman turned on her heel and marched towards her previous position before plopping herself down with all the gracefulness of a drunk swan and began writing in her book again. 

A wide smile, even adding a little color to his pale cheeks, quickly replaced Loch's stunned silence. Looking back into the dark purple liquid, Loch didn't see a weird-colored and smelly pot of soup but something so much more beautiful and something he didn't think in these long few months he would be able to brew; it was a pot of hope. 

The old woman appeared to finish writing and looked at the stupidly grinning and inactive boy. A small but genuine smile graced her perpetually scowling face for a moment before it was wiped away and replaced by her signature smirk. After fixing her face, the Old woman called out, "Stop staring, you little hooligan, and distill it before it turns into a poison." The words snapped Loch from his staring state and had him almost leaping in place before he rushed over to retrieve a funnel and empty glass vial from further down the table. The glass vial was thin at the top but rounded significantly near the bottom, looking to hold two to three cups' worth of water. Placing them both down, he poured the thick contents into the funnel, doing his best not to waste a single drop. 

The old woman gave a slight nod as she watched over Loch's careful actions and serious face. She wrote one last line in her book that read, 'Taint catalyst Marsh Tincture, success.' With the 'success' part underlined twice, she closed the book and placed the pen back into one of her many pouches. Standing up again, the old woman went over to a locked cabinet that was placed in a crevice behind the table. Retrieving a cord from around her neck with a key attached to it, she unlocked the cabinet, revealing several skinny test tubes with corks closing their tops. The number of empty test tubes outnumbered the filled ones, with only a few holding a black liquid, and even they appeared only half filled with what appeared to be oil. Retrieving one of the empty vials and what looked like a metal syringe, the old woman returned to Loch, who was now squeezing a cork into the vial's top. The Old woman placed the empty vial and syringe on the table before Loch and said, "Pay up." 

Looking up at the old woman and then seeing the items on the table in front of him, Loch didn't look surprised and answered, "Of course". He then placed down the filled vial with a careful hand, which had a flat bottom so it didn't go rolling around, and unwrapped his left arm again. While he did that, the old woman took out another book, this one a little smaller, from beneath her robes and retrieved her pen again. Loch had just finished unwrapping all his bandages, revealing his grey-colored bony arm, with its grey root system veins, and retrieved the metal syringe from the table. With a practiced hand, Loch aimed the thin, pointed end of the syringe at the thickest-looking grey vein on the inside of his forearm and swiftly pierced the needle through his skin, as if it were tissue paper. Loch's face twitched in pain for only a moment but otherwise he had kept a neutral expression as he pulled the handle at the back of the syringe, filling the empty tube within the syringe with thick black liquid. The old woman said nothing until Loch had retrieved the needle from his forearm and handed it over to her with a smile as he said, "One vial of tainted blood for you, milady." 

With a laugh, she replied, "Why thank you." The Old woman put down her book and pen and, with deft hands, emptied the contents of the syringe into the skinny test tube before corking it and placing the tube back on the table. Retrieving her book and pen, the old woman looked back to Loch and asked, "So, any updates? How has your arm been since the last time? Any more lost feeling?"

Loch answered as he began to re-wrap his arm, "No real changes. I still have the slight sensations now and then, but besides pain, the rest of the time, it feels like I have slept on it all night, and it just needs to wake up. More often then not i get these small surges through my arm, like it's suddenly filled with fire that has no release." 

The old woman appeared to write down Loch's words in her little book word for word while she replied, "Don't discount pain as an entirely bad feeling; at least it tells us that you still have working nerves in there, which can only be a good thing. There is still so much we do not know about the Taint, and after all my long years of research, I have noticed that there is such a wide variety of symptoms. Some of them weren't entirely bad for the one inflicted, either. As I am sure you have heard before, a lot of famous Hunters and Knights were born with tainted blood for one reason or another." 

"I know; I try to look at it that way, too, and hope that the advantages just haven't shown themselves to me yet. But besides those few miracle cases I have heard you talk about, everyone I know, including myself, who is born with the Taint experiences nothing but suffering. It's just hard sometimes, that's all," Loch retorted, and as if he could hear the way his voice sounded closer to the child-like whine that matched his age, he finished his statement abruptly and changed the topic, "I still find it odd that so many of the remedies you have shown me the last couple of months require the Taint for it to be effective." Either not bothered with the change of topic or just showing the young Loch a little pity, the old woman replied as she placed her small book back within her robes, "Just like anti-venom requires a little of the original venom. Taint-based illness requires a little of the Taint itself. And like I said, Tainted blood doesn't just help with those remedies; along with a Fiend core, a specific Tainted blood is the main component in a certain potion, I know you know of very well." 

After hearing the leading statement from the Old Woman, Loch couldn't help but say out loud, "A Hunter's Nightmare Potion." With his eyes shining, his imagination ran.