“The shop sits under a sagging awning at the bend of Shadycreek Run. Within, the shelves lean and glass jars glimmer beneath a perpetually sputtering lantern. Mire sells her best wares behind a patched curtain and keeps a ledger full of names crossed out with rude haste. She charges coin, favors, or 'a story worth bottle space'—often mixing the latter into experimental brews. The back room occasionally emits an odd chittering noise; locals blame rats, Mire blames 'failed lemur-lemongrass crossbreeds.' She hates being called an apothecary and will correct you to 'potioneer' while offering tea that may or may not be fortifying.”