30th day of Summer, 513
There was something missing. The dried, powdered fungal mycelium had reacted as it should, temporarily inhibiting the natural blocking characteristics of the cell walls to allow the catalyst to invade and bead up the cytoplasm and replace it with whatever corrupting toxin he wanted to mix in. This was something on a deep level of effect. This was something that might not only 'sicken' something, but actually 'alter' it.
But it wasn't working. Every toxin he tried to blend in was met by the same inhibiting factor that should have been fully spent in creating its effect on the cell walls. He knew from his readings that there was a very limited number of toxins that were able to bypass this hindrance. And for what it was worth, after every failure he was able to "put the stew in the pot" and recover a large portion of the pure toxin.
This was an expression he liked to use to describe the spinner that had a gear apparatus that generated a high rate of spin able to separate mixtures into layers of individual liquid by their "weight", the heavier liquids settling at the very bottom of the vial, the lightest settling at the top.
Still, he was on the verge of something here, but it was eluding him. He took a deep breath and set aside his pride. He had just purchased some books and one of them was about fungi to avoid. This was, in effect, a book on fungal based toxins, though it was veiled as a "How-to" book, but in reverse. 'A 'How-NOT-to' book' he sneered to himself. It was a good comparative reference book in conjunction with the pure "Fungal Toxins and Their Sources by Region" textbook at the IHL.
He knew the fungal paste he had processed was correct, but he had simply forgotten which poison it was used to process. He went to the back room and pulled his book from the shelf and began leafing through it. As if to compound his frustration, the door to the shop opened and a man walked in. He was somewhat dark of skin and had his hair cut evenly and uniformly short over the entirety of his head. Had Inoadar not been preoccupied he might have noticed his excessively long nails and the slightly vertical pupils. His smooth stride could have just been chalked up to his highly athletic build.
Had he not been so preoccupied he might also have noted the hateful fury that set in this visitor's eyes as he recognized the man that had tormented his friend Cawleena, the Klevic woman, at the research institute nearly a season ago.
"I'll be right there. Just make yourself comfortable." Inoadar called from the back room, the beaker of fungal paste still in his hand, the smell of dry leaves following with it.
"I intend to..." a voice answered, a voice low with threat, deep with conviction, and passionate with anticipation.
Alarms exploded across Inoadar's consciousness as an odd violet glow shone in a square on the far wall, generated by the same light shining in the front room and being allowed to glare only through the customer cut-out counter space in the wall separating the front room from the back. He looked up in instinctive hatred of a presence that was clearly hostile and saw loose clothes on a chair, shoes on the floor and a black panther leaping to regather its springing balance from its new position in the cut out.
"Petching Kelvic Punk!" he snarled, feeling the weakness in his leg betray him as he tried to transfer weight onto it for attack balance.