The Bloody Bakery

[Inajira]

There stood a building, in Myrkentown, with a dark history. In this sense there was nothing unique to the building, for many where claimed to be haunted, many had seen the wrath of fugitives, or suffered beneath a visit by the Ashfiend. This one, which squatted pleasantly along the street, bespoke murder within its gentle walls whose whitewash had begun to flake from being abandoned. A shingle or two had loosened since being occupied, and the front porch had begun to bow a little lower towards the earth beneath the lingering wrath of past, inclement weather.

Now, however, those front steps occasionally creaked with the passage of someone. Now the windows occasionally shed orange illumination out onto the streets below, occasionally marred by the passing of some figure given mostly to late hours and keeping to himself.

Bea's Bakery had a new occupant.

[Inajira]

The bakery's new occupant had made it a point to follow correct procedure. There had been a matter of registering the legitimacy of his busienss for appropriate tax purposes, certain fees and even a small fine, the procurement of interesting alchemical devices to concentrate fire, to mix and crush ingredients, to carefully measure and consign things to becoming new creations. There was the matter of the new smell that hovered, sof and unobtrusive, about the house within the first two weeks of its new occupancy. It was the pleasant scent of muted lilac and occasionally pine, growing stronger at night to the olfactory roar of a heavy cinnamon mixed with myrr.

The buildings windows, often shuttered during the night and occasionally during the day as well, particularly in a certain quarter of the building, entertained a brilliant orange illumination from within that flickered and writhed at the whim of some unknown master. Some had whispered that the newcomer was a magician, others that he was a potter. A simple sign, scrawled in large and blocky letters, offered what it could to dispel such thoughts:

Alchemist & Herbalist

It was how he identified himself to the guards when he sought passage beyond the gate at later hours, claiming with a small and knowing smile that some plants were best harvested as close to night as one could allow for, or even during night when possible. He was not unwilling to pay a small fee for the priviledge of doing such either, though certainly only offered in an experienced veneer of polite friendship, an encouragement to accept to treat one's self to a hard earned drink or such.

There was also the matter of being willing to hire people to transport his product. For some reason he seemed to favor people who lived in or near the Hollows for this task, to sell merchandise as they saw fit, and to return a reasonable amount of profit to him.

[Inajira]

Alchemy and herbology were pursuits that, in cities, attracted two groups of people. There were those who did not trust the physicians and preferred the traditional ways of poultices and potions, of strange roots harvested just before sunrise (like the mysterious mandrake), and could only afford such humble treatments for their ailments. In the Hollows these were the far more common customer, particularly at first, which brought a small but faithful clientele to his door. Enough patronage to begin spreading word of faithful and skilled services, if not enough to cut a true profit. Undoubtedly the portly Treadwell considered his taxes not even enough for an appetizer.

While skill might keep business, word was required to capture it. Word had thus, only in the beginning stages, moved to bring a handful of customers into his shop which smelled of mint and myrrh.

There were other customers, however. Those with coin enough to afford physicians, and who often used them, but sought and savored the social and intellectual delights and curiosity of being servied by something more exotic. To those with wealth the land from which they were estranged, no longer needing to till and work it as swine and farmers, natural things had begun to fill themselves out in imaginations with mystery and legends. Cures fo cattle weakness became love potions, and protection against rats would, in turn, ward off dangerous spirits. Sometimes their hungry gleam for some conversational piece fairly led them to beg to be taken advantage of.

However, for a mind given to opportunity, such customers (of which there was no more than could be counted on one hand) were most invaluable indeed. Their use was in coin, to be sure, but also for far more interesting and long-lasting things than money. To those who came searching for such his response was the same: a polite but eager smile, and a slight leaning-in to share a secret.

"Soon."

[Inajira]

The note stared up at him from the table. Its edges were torn and tattered, its face the product of having suffered beneath remaining folded and in someone's pouch for an extended length of time, most likely buried beneath some package or something of great every-day worth. Whatever it was, the message was in a sorry state; legible, but still sorry without being apologetic. After all, one did not expect inanimate objects to offer much in the way of apologies.

This was Myrken, however.

Dismissing such silly distractions from his mind with a curl of dark lips, the gypsy-blooded leaned forward and perused the note several times in succession. It spelled out, in no uncertain terms, that there were certain boundaries, certain territories, that one should be loathe to cross. Certain elements had claimed certain places and persons as their own private herd and poaching, it warned, was frowned upon. There was nothing in the way of exclamation, nothing save several poorly spelled words.

The misspelled words accompanied by a few severed fingers.

Clearly, he surmised while folding the parchment back upon itself, there were places where he was not welcome - or more specifically, his business was not welcome. For someone who took such things personally, they were one in the same. Alone in the kitchen of the once-bakery, the walls which had been stained from long dis-use, peered at him with a blank, off-white color from between the hulking stove, squatting cauldrons and immaculately kept counter tops.

Emerald eyes wandered along the seam that marked the walls, the wandering cracks where the structure had just begun to give away through some neglect and exposure to potent temperatures. That one crack needed repairing, for it had begun to spawn delicate finger-like erosions in the wall, like a river overflowing and slithering into new territory. He was the crack to be smoothed over, and the note spelled the doom of one outreach into the community.

Apparently, there was already some market in the trade of illicit herbs and opiates.