For those herbalists who tend to others and themselves from the carefully-accrued bounties of the earth, such medicines are just as scrupulously crafted. And as such, there is a long-held conviction among them.
One tenet is always upheld - any tincture, no matter how diluted, will always work. Even should it be stretched to its breaking point, the potency is no less dulled, to the point of unbelievably impossible circumstances.
He supposed it was a thought particularly well-suited to him. Spitting out a bit of blood from his busted lip, the thief strolled through the inscrutable maze that was his Soul Room. None of the doors were unlocked, naturally, and he hand to hand it to his jailer - it was a perfect prison for something that so valued their freedom.
Stranded as he was, the sounds of the final Dark Game still resonated off the dank walls. It was progressing well, at least for Zorc, and at least for the moment. He gave a bitter, sharp grin.
Atem was too strong to win - even fractur