Edda Morrows' Hearth & Phial
Est. 2025 • Human Artificer (Alchemist)
Edda Morrows' Hearth & Phial
The shop sits half-below the road level, its windows veiled by stitched linen curtains. Moss grows in the mortar between the stones and moths cluster about the ...
Shopkeeper
Edda Morrows, a Human Artificer (Alchemist) (Lvl 4)
Keeper's Species
Human
Shop Inventory
(13)A battered wooden chest of glass vials, a mortar and pestle, a small brazier and several labeled jars of foraged reagents. The shop's basic kit for a working alchemist.
A greasy flask of clarified oil. Cheap and ubiquitous, the shop keeps a thin supply for lamps or impromptu fires.
A small, silver-foiled bottle sealed with wax and a faded church sigil. The liquid smells faintly of iron and rain.
A sewn leather pouch containing herbs, clean cloths and a small bone needle. The scent of antiseptic herbs clings to it.
A tiny tin of dark, resinous oil with bits of thorn leaf suspended in it. It smells of damp earth and old wounds.
A bar of sooty soap caked with ash. Edda says this was made from tallow rendered with belladonna leaves and pine ash.
A thin, needle-like rod tipped with a grey paste. It leaves the faint scent of lavender and stale bread.
A small, corked phial filled with a warm-red liquid that smells faintly of iron and marigold. The label is a faded handprint.
A syrupy, amber vial. The stopper is chewed at the edges. Locals call it 'bitter salvation.'
A jar of silvery liquid that shivers like moonlight. Edda insists it was brewed under a new moon and that moths like it.
A bitter, peat-brown draught kept in a thimble-sized bottle. Locals drink it before midnight journeys to the graveyard.
A stoppered vial of pale green liquid; it hisses slightly against the glass. Edda warns: do not uncork indoors.
A black-sealed flask wrapped in oilcloth. When uncorked it smells of pitch and dried nettles. It sticks to hands if it bursts.
Edda Morrows
Shop Atmosphere
“The shop sits half-below the road level, its windows veiled by stitched linen curtains. Moss grows in the mortar between the stones and moths cluster about the eaves. Inside there is always a low fire, the air tasting of soot, thyme and bruised apple. Masoned shelves sag under jars labeled in a shriveled hand: 'Ash of Ashen Oak', 'Heart of Marsh-Mallow', 'Salt for Warding'. The shopkeeper hums a half-remembered lullaby while she works. She keeps a small wooden doll pinned to the workbench that absorbs bad moods and a jar of 'collected dusk' that she polishes each evening. Prices are fair but inventory is limited; she prefers to barter local favors, stories or rare foraged reagents. Touching certain jars makes the lights gutter, and locals swear that if you buy something named after a creature you have offended, it will be returned to you in the night.”
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