McIan
Journeyman
In the secluded privacy of his alchemical lab, Thraxas carefully scrutinized the new recipe he had received from his “friends.” The shipments of black rock he had been steadily delivering to them over the course of months had truly impressed them; so much in fact that they were willing to share one of their special secrets with him.
The components were not too difficult to obtain, but the mixture had to be very precise, something he hated. He dared not entrust this operation with any of his underlings no matter what their expertise in alchemy. Besides, he did not want to share this with anybody. It would take a good while him doing this alone, but in the end the results could be most gratifying.
The glistening ebony oblong object that lay before him had hardened from the pulpy mass of its original form. He had to shape it and so made it fist sized, something easy to handle and throw. It took a few days to harden. He picked it up carefully. It looked like polished glass, opaque, but the runes etched on it stood out well enough. He thought about using white etching filler in the runes to highlight them, but changed his mind; he wanted it to look like a relatively ordinary, but smooth, stone.
He did not know the term, but what he had made would one day be called by others a “dirty bomb.” It could be thrown after an incantation and explode in a brilliant blast of fire and lightning, releasing searing incandescent heat equivalent to dragon’s breath within a small radius, the size of a small shed. Beyond that, it would send nearly invisible particles of black rock into the air and ground, thus polluting it, causing a withering sickness, potentially lethal, that might last for weeks until the particles were dispersed by the wind or covered up in some way.
He had to try it out somewhere and considered possibilities. It could not be Papua, of course and certainly not Delucia. They would discover it in time, but not just yet. As he turned it over slowly, a smile crept on his face. His friends had their aims, and he had his, but, in the end, both of their aims dove-tailed perfectly.
The components were not too difficult to obtain, but the mixture had to be very precise, something he hated. He dared not entrust this operation with any of his underlings no matter what their expertise in alchemy. Besides, he did not want to share this with anybody. It would take a good while him doing this alone, but in the end the results could be most gratifying.
The glistening ebony oblong object that lay before him had hardened from the pulpy mass of its original form. He had to shape it and so made it fist sized, something easy to handle and throw. It took a few days to harden. He picked it up carefully. It looked like polished glass, opaque, but the runes etched on it stood out well enough. He thought about using white etching filler in the runes to highlight them, but changed his mind; he wanted it to look like a relatively ordinary, but smooth, stone.
He did not know the term, but what he had made would one day be called by others a “dirty bomb.” It could be thrown after an incantation and explode in a brilliant blast of fire and lightning, releasing searing incandescent heat equivalent to dragon’s breath within a small radius, the size of a small shed. Beyond that, it would send nearly invisible particles of black rock into the air and ground, thus polluting it, causing a withering sickness, potentially lethal, that might last for weeks until the particles were dispersed by the wind or covered up in some way.
He had to try it out somewhere and considered possibilities. It could not be Papua, of course and certainly not Delucia. They would discover it in time, but not just yet. As he turned it over slowly, a smile crept on his face. His friends had their aims, and he had his, but, in the end, both of their aims dove-tailed perfectly.