"Why do you say that?"
Sigurd's expression was serious. "First, their appearance. You'll understand the moment you see one. Beyond that, the Skraelings are an inherently evil race. I used to believe no living thing was born evil—until I met them.
"In short, show no sympathy to any Skraeling, not even their women or children."
Haldryn turned the words over in his mind. He had known the Skraelings were savage, but not to this degree.
Asgard's streets were so orderly that even a common thief was hard to find; he had been short of genuine evil to sanction. If the Skraelings truly were evil by nature, they would supply him with targets in abundance.
They talked a while longer before Sigurd returned to his own room.
The next morning, after breakfast, the two of them went to the camp's preparation room and began the day's work. Shelves of herbs filled the air with a complex fragrance. Haldryn's eyes lit up the moment he stepped inside.
Lifia Mountain was called a sacred ground for herbs, yet its area was small and the rarest specimens grew only in the royal gardens. For ordinary people, Vanaheim's botanical wealth was far greater.
How many of these plants, he wondered, could serve as substitutes for the Flask of Talent?
Other medics filed in and set to work. "We need more antidotes today."
Sigurd explained while sorting ingredients. "Besides ordinary healing stones, the preparation we make most often is antidote—mainly Greenhild Antidote.
Vanaheim is rich in medicinal herbs and equally rich in poisonous ones. The Skraelings love using toxins.
"Most poisons won't kill a god-race warrior outright, but they hinder movement. In battle that hindrance can matter a great deal."
He glanced over. "Have you learned the Greenhild Antidote?"
"Only recently." Haldryn was already processing the required herbs with steady, practiced motions.
Sigurd smiled. "Ask if you need anything. Antidotes are something I'm fairly good at."
Haldryn said nothing and simply kept working, one precise step after another. Sigurd began his own batch.
For a time they worked in silence. Then Sigurd's expression grew odd. He glanced at Haldryn several times. "Why are you so fast?"
"Am I?" Haldryn did not feel particularly quick. "My cousin is much faster."
Mention of Elle brought a brief wave of homesickness; his hands slowed for a moment. Sigurd seized the chance and sped up, trying to close the gap.
Haldryn's attention soon returned fully to the work. His pace increased again, pulling several steps ahead. Sigurd's eyes widened; sweat beaded on his forehead.
By the time Haldryn finished a complete antidote, Sigurd was only halfway through. Looking at the other man's calm face and remembering that he had offered to give advice, Sigurd felt his cheeks burn.
"You… you said you only just learned this?"
"Not that recently. A little over two months." Haldryn opened the Tome on the table as he spoke.
Sigurd fell silent.
Haldryn took a nearby herb and placed it on the Flask of Talent recipe for appraisal. As when he had shopped for magic gems, he kept several ordinary pages of dense notes tucked inside the Tome so that the act of consulting it looked like ordinary study.
[Cannot substitute]
He tried another.
[11% substitute for Purple Lotus]
[Cannot substitute]
[26% substitute for Briarthorn]
Grayline Grass – 92% substitute for Silverleaf
His eyes brightened. He recorded the result at once. Ninety-two percent was excellent; unless something better appeared, Grayline Grass would almost certainly be the Silverleaf substitute when he finally brewed the flask.
"What are you doing?" Sigurd asked.
"Taking notes."
Sigurd leaned closer, stared for a long time, and understood nothing. Exactly as intended—the inserted pages contained only the most obscure excerpts from the Greenhild Pharmacopoeia.
Sigurd neither recognized the material nor dared ask. He left looking thoughtful and slightly daunted.
When every herb in the preparation room had been tested, Haldryn had three useful results: Grayline Grass at 92% for Silverleaf, another plant at 59% for Briarthorn, and a third at 51% for Goldthorn.
Modest progress.
Those three ingredients were the easiest of the flask's requirements.
Arcanite, Blood of the Mountain, and dragon blood would be far harder. Purple Lotus also looked scarce, and he still had no idea what a Lightning Core even was—he had begun to wonder whether it truly belonged to Azeroth at all.
Difficult or not, he would gather them. His present body would never amount to anything otherwise.
Over the following days he settled into camp routine: preparing medicines with Sigurd, treating the occasional wounded. Most injuries the Skraelings inflicted were ordinary; the warriors handled them with their own supplies.
The medics' main work remained production, and the days passed relatively easily.
That night Haldryn was nearly asleep when a sharp whistle cut the air.
"Raid! Raid!"
Sleep vanished. He rolled out of bed and looked through the window.
Torches flared. Soldiers formed ranks with practiced speed. From the surrounding forest came a dense rush of running feet and high, insect-like cries—repetitive, almost like a single word chanted over and over.
As the sound drew closer the firelight revealed the attackers.
They were green, roughly humanoid, yet scaled and tailed like lizard-folk, their heads closer to insects than to any mammal. By any human standard the appearance was repulsive.
The Skraelings.
They came in a swarm from every direction, so many that the ground seemed to tremble. Most carried crude weapons; many wore nothing at all. They charged the camp waving unmentionable appendages and shrieking.
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