Old Mossy’s domain is a hovel woven of grass reeds, with a pat earthen floor that has clearly seen hundreds of feet over the years. His sleeping area, a thick pad of straw, occupies one corner, while a simple set of alembics and burners occupies another. Old Mossy bids the gang lay the afflicted down on the straw mattress while he tools around with the alchemical glassware.
“Where, praytell, did you acquire such expensive tools?” Cang asks.
“Trade with the tall ones,” Old Mossy replies, without taking his eyes off his work. Glasses clink and clunk together as he sorts them.
“Until they take princess?” Abia asks.
The grey creature with the long beard nods once, sadly. “There have been… clashes in the past.”
Cang holds his hands palms up. “Certainly not any of our concern, Abianarin. We’re inveighing on this poor fellow’s time enough as things stand, without dredging up painful memories.”
As Old Mossy begins to slice the phosphorescent mushrooms, he says, “Bad memories is right. Just you wait.”
