“The shop is called The Cindered Crucible, a narrow three-story building wedged between a cooper's workshop and an old shrine. Its front windows are crowded with colored bottles, preserved herbs, mineral samples, and warning placards written in three languages. Copper pipes run along the walls and occasionally hiss steam into brass cooling coils. The air smells of citrus peel, lamp oil, bitter roots, and something faintly singed. A tiny homunculus made from wax and glass spends the day dusting bottles and ringing a handbell whenever a customer touches a restricted shelf. Most stock is arranged behind a counter of black slate, with common goods displayed openly and dangerous reagents kept behind wire screens. Master Orwin Vellum is a wiry human alchemist in his early sixties, with one cloudy eye, ink-stained fingers, and a scorched white beard tied into three neat points. He wears a leather apron over a faded burgundy coat and speaks with precise courtesy even when accusing someone of attempted murder. Vellum is cautious, practical, and willing to offer modest discounts to adventurers who bring him rare reagents or reliable field notes. He keeps a trained mastiff named Copper under the counter and has a habit of tapping each vial three times before handing it over.”