The window (glass, quite a rare construction around these parts) slammed open with a decisive bang, and a thick cloud of black smoke roiled out onto the streets, startling a pair of passing drunks, who blinked disbelievingly at the issuance of smog from the small, apparently boarded-up workshop. The cloud was followed, however, by a head, this crowned with a length of most distinctively-hued hair. The associated face wore a half-grazed grin, made all the more absurd by the soot streaking in seemingly-random patterns over his nose, cheeks, chin, and forehead.
Upon seeing the passers-by, the smile only stretched, in a way that made the one walking closer to it shift slightly sideways, nearly tripping and knocking into his friend. “No-no,” a rumbling bass intoned in what might have been a sing-song fashion. “Don’t you mind me. Just an everyday disaster, this is. Carry on, carry on.” The head, and the shoulders that had accompanied it out the hole in the wall, disappeared back inside, and the drunkards scurried off, shaking their heads and supposing that the alchemist must be as mad as they said.
Ah, but ‘they’ said so very many things, didn’t they? Things that no self-respecting person would claim to have uttered, but all believed anyway. Couched in the guise of the mysterious ‘they-voice,’ so much could be spread, laid in the minds of people like good earth gone fallow with poison. Not that he minded so much, anymore: ‘they’ were his best weapon against responsibility, for ‘they’ named him irrational, crazy, mad, absurd, and so many other lovely synonyms for out of his damned mind, Rachelle, and stay away from his bloody shop if you know what’s good for you! So perhaps, when things all fell on their respective sides and the battle-lines of reputation and gossip were drawn, ‘they,’ those indistinct, indiscriminate, tactless, nonexistent, powerful people were his friends.
He loved it.
Whistling a jaunty little tune to himself and uncaring if it carried out into the street, Zilocke Thane went about resorting his extra materials (salt-peter, sulfur, fire…) into their proper vessels, and these he restocked onto his shelves, the order seemingly incredibly random, enforcing no alphabet but only some clandestine numbering system that few were taught and fewer understood. He enjoyed things of this nature: the esoteric, the obscure, the absurd. The absurd most of all—it was just as hard to know as the esoteric, only nobody thought to try and know it, because it was, well, absurd! Positively delightful.
The minor explosion had, of course, been completely intentional, as had the fact that it took place before witnesses. He had been getting a little too much legitimate business lately, and it was leaving him very little time to experiment as he would have preferred. Making medicines and so on was all well and good for some people, but it bored him, so very much. He preferred other pursuits, and putting people off in this manner had the added effect of causing them to assume that this was what all of his research looked like. It transformed his esoteria into absurdity in the medium of public opinion. Esoteria? Was that a word? Probably not, but it should be. He resolved to use it in a conversation sometime, just to see what kind of look it would get him from the other party.
But alas, the day grew late, and though he would have much preferred to stay and keep working, his irritatingly-human body demanded nourishment and rest, and most of his currently ongoing experiments involved sunlight anyway, so it was perhaps best to get home. Brushing most (but not all, oh no) of the soot and debris from his clothing, he exited the shop with the soft, merry jangle of bells and buckles and the whisper of fabric, pulling the door closed and locking it with a large brass key hung about his neck. Not bothering to turn the sign (it always read ‘closed’ and people learned to come in anyway if they really needed something), he wound his way through the city streets until he came at last upon his modest dwelling.
As he hadn’t been back in over a week, there unsurprisingly a piece of communication left on his door. Probably another warning about the new public nuisance ordinances… he was about to light it on fire in his hand when he caught sight of the seal on the back. Oh? What did the Order want with him? He was quite obviously a good-for-nothing alchemist with as little sense as a magpie, and he was quite certain they knew as much. Maybe he was finally getting his wish and they were informing him that he was no longer required to check in yearly and update them on his activities. He did have fun with the forms though—‘describe the nature of your current work.’ Well, mostly I combine things with other things and watch the pretty exploding lights. Sometimes, I accidentally cause structural damage to the surrounding area, and every once in a while, I go for a walk, preferably in the company of a pretty lady, eating figs if at all possible. Me, that is, not the lady. Though she’s perfectly welcome to some, naturally.
He didn’t envy whoever had to make sense of his forms.
As it turned out, the note was an official summons, requesting his presence at the cathedral… a few days ago. Ah. Well, someone was bound to be displeased about that. The Order was the one bureaucracy that would even notice his absence, and definitely the only one that would care. He wasn’t important, they just liked to be obeyed. Briefly, Zilocke debated actually going, but discarded the idea. Being fashionably late could be fun, but even if he were, he’d still be where they wanted him to be…
Actually, scratch that. Might as well do something completely unexpected and actually show up. Humming pleasantly to himself, he ducked into his house to pack a few items and grab some food, but he was out on the road in less than ten minutes, all told.
Time for an adventure, it seemed.