To my initial dismay, Thrang, one of my fellow travellers, spoke for the entire available stock of Blackthorne Rose before I could speak. However, his motives seem sufficiently noble that I can hardly complain. With my own plans delayed, I determined that I might as well aid him in obtaining and delivering the cure, especially since the others are following as well. After some deliberation (which Glyss’s peculiar avian accent did not expedite), we negotiated both a reasonable price (or so I assume) and a contract that should provide means for me to recover the 1,000 gold pieces I provided to bolster the others’ meager funds.
We returned in the morning to find the shop locked, and knocking produced no response. I immediately assumed something was wrong; given the avian’s apparent business success and his fondness for carefully worded contracts, I had fully expected that he would have his shop open and the cure ready at the appointed hour. Indeed, something was wrong, but it was merely absent-minded incompetence. We had to break into his shop like common thieves, and I found him attempting to work with what was clearly the wrong potion base: nearly the most elementary mistake possible. I’m ashamed to admit that I snapped at him a bit from my sheer frustration, but we soon got things sorted out and were on our way.
Our trip to Thrang’s home county was rather uneventful aside from our crossing of an unusually treacherous ford. It seems a pleasant enough place; it reminds me of home. Home—one day I will return there. I can only hope that Mother will accept what I have become.