The Cat Who Knew How to Cry

1. THE SERPENT'S DEN (part 1)

... And the moment you allow that tiny evil enter your heart, the moment you act in a manner unbefitting your race, the moment you start complaining about life – they will see you. And a female beast with glowing eyes and sharp fangs will come to you. She will bewitch you with tales that all the evil in you is actually good, and she will drag you away into her den – an abode of vice on the cursed blue star, devoid of warmth and true light, with only hatred and bloodlust to keep you warm. With a cold flame they will burn your soul, stripping it of beauty and nobility, compassion and honor. So foul will your form become that even your friends will begin to hunt you like a beast, for a soulless beast you will be.

A Liddarean Tale

The green flame of thick white candles reflected off the gleaming black counter top, giving the dozens of bottles lining it an enigmatic twinkle. In one, cloudlets of whitish mist swirled in spirals; another was filled with ground stone the very sight of which caused inexplicable toothache; the third held a miscellany of rusty chains; the fourth was like a sea urchin, with hundreds of spikes constantly shifting in length. The fifth teemed with myriapods of refulgent vermillion, spitting poison in futile attempts to break through the thick wall of their prison, while its elegant neighbor, blown from cranberry-colored glass, enclosed peach halves, slumbering sweetly in a bath of syrup sprinkled with the ash grey petals of Darlaron cherry. Next to it perched a paunchy, squat vessel on eight spider legs, inside which rocked a dark something resembling either a giant slug or somebody's toxified liver. This "something" was transfixed with roughly a dozen bone tubes, passing through holes in the vessel's walls and plugged with varicolored corks. A device of seemingly sinister purpose glimmered darkly in the bottle's neck, looking like a syringe with three needles of varying length. The metallic rings on one end were lined with rime, the chill radiating from the jug of blue Nel-Ileyn clay standing nearby, itself girdled by hoops of phantasmal icicles that cast their pale, quivering likeness on the counter top.

As Irson Trimm gazed upon all this magnificence, he indulged himself in the recurring thought that not every Lindorgite alchemist by far could boast such an impressive collection of rare substances. And survive the boasting to boot, considering the spate of coveting it would elicit in others; many would risk it all to get their paws on his bottled treasures, if only to safeguard their own skin – after all, who could be sure it wasn't their soul being targeted at the alchemist's workbench?