Closed [Infirmary] Reverse Engineering

[Hadrian]

45th Winter, 512 A.V. Although he had purchased the ointment from the Konti herbalist, L'orlei, back in the Spring, there hadn't been much time for his personal pursuits. He had taken over Professor Stonemiller's work at the University, the Farson Home at the Lord Maria's request, and then that research trip to Sahova that took over a season to complete. But he had a little time now, and he thought he had finally managed to figure out just how she had created the cream that could protect the skin from the sun. It would be useful for people leaving on ships, though the sailors all had weatherburned skin anyway. Claira had given him leave to use supplies, especially when he offered to leave the results of his philtering with her. A Konti cure sounded quite good to her. While she was doing her rounds, then, he did his work. He melted the beeswax and cocoa butter in the pan over a low heat, quickly following up with sesame oil. Stirring the contents as it melted, he ensured it was all one solution, equally mixed. Before it could get hot enough to smoke, he set it aside, turning down the fire. Then he added tea, essence of rose hips, powdered zincite, and lavender oil. All this had to be mixed as well, and the powder mixing with the oils and whatnot gradually coalesced into a cream. Observing it with his eyes was one thing, and knowing that the properties of its constituent parts ought make for a sun-protecting ointment another. But he also took the stuff's worth with his auristics, which yielded strange impressions, the which he would have to later make sense of. He was no great philterer, no herbalist, but he could learn. He had to learn. And his magical senses would learn what seemed right, and he could match that sense with clinical trials, the which Claira would oversee. If it worked, he could make it himself with Lily at the Farson Home, and then the children would be protected from overexposure to Syna's light. He poured the soupy cream into a glass mason jar and let it cool while he cleaned up after himself. Claira appreciated that sort of thing, as did he. When he was done, he would label it and put it up where she stored such things.

[Lock Cicuta]

45th of Winter, 512 A.V., University Infirmary, Zeltiva Lock had quietly slipped in. He wasn't working today, but had decided to stalk the halls. Lock wanted to know the place well, he felt uncomfortable without advantages like the terrain. Often too, might arise the need for materials for his poisons, the best place for which from to obtain would be the Infirmary. He had no qualms about stealing, but needed to be sure he could get away with it. Lock couldn't afford to stain his reputation, plus it was always better to get away with it. The pale man pulled his cloak tight about him as he walked through the halls. There seemed an unusual number of sick in the beds. I have heard of the sickness spreading, proof of Vayt's unconquerable nature. You may cure him for a moment, but like any good poison, he sits in your bones festering until you die from what you thought vanquished. The man walked on. As he walked a smell came to his nose, cocoa butter? He sniffed, a pungent aroma was coming from around a nearby stony corner. Lock followed the scent like a bloodhound. Rosehips too, what is being made here? He walked around the corner and saw the back of a man at work adding this and that to some mixture. What ever he was making it wasn't going right, the cocoa butter was browning, the rose hips had been added too late and now weren't mixed in properly. Lock was no expert in making medicines, but clearly the man had attempted something out of his league. Lock's own concoctions tended to be more toxic, but he could tell when a philter went wrong. The man, obviously involved with whatever he was doing, hadn't turned around yet. Lock smiled softly, a gentle mien would be appropriate for the moment, helpful even. Getting himself in good with the people of the University would be most beneficial. “Sir,” he said softly, “I apologize for disturbing you, but your brew has gone wrong.” He stepped in a pace closer, “It seems to me that this is a little out of your league, but then again, mine too.” A smile touched his lips, “Care for another pair of hands?”

[Hadrian]

The voice brought him out of the humdrum choreography of cleaning up, his thoughts going from wishing he could do more for the ill than make a skin ointment. Poorly. He blinked and looked over at the other man, as fair of skin as Hadrian, though shorter and not otherwise so wildly colored -- thank you, djed storms. "Has it?" he wondered aloud. He had at least got the consistency right, but other than a philtering class in university, he hadn't used the skill for much more than improving his charging water in magecrafting experiments. "Well, Mistress Claira will check its efficacy and let me know what I did wrong. But certainly, you can help me put everything up." He took the mason jar in both hands, judging the glass still too warm to seal. So instead he wrote on a tag: Hadrian Aelius, sun ointment, possibly not so good. This he tied around the neck of the jar, and then worked with the man to take care of the rest of the things. "With the illness running rampant, I thought it might be a sign that I need to focus on abilities that might help. If not now, then in the future. I'm Hadrian, by the bye. Thank you for your help."

[Lock Cicuta]

“How...wise of you. Ever helpful, eh?” Lock said as he screwed the corked the jar of rosehips. I can't believe he enlisted me like some servant boy. “I haven't seen you about, sir. Are you a new employee such as I, or else a student, professor?” Lock didn't have to feign an expression of interest, if he could net a more influential individual, it would be most helpful. Long slender fingers fluttered over caps and corks, stopping up bottles and sealing tins. Lock was fairly versed in a philtering lab, and could handle one even as new as the Infirmary's. “I am employed here personally as an herbalist, though my specialty is anti-poison.” he smiled pleasantly, becoming more and more comfortable with the lie the more he used it. Plucking one of the dirtied measuring spoons from the low wooden table, tossing it into the wash basin he said, “My name is Lock, Lock Cicuta. I feel I recognize your name, though I don't know why. Did you have something to do with a charity or some such.?” Lock new he had heard of a well-to-do man named Hadrian something or other. Where, he wasn't quite so sure.