RP:Gross Potion Motions Foul Notion, Much Commotion

Part of the Rise of Larket Arc

Summary: Macon stops into the Red Ogre Inn to check on Muzo's progress with the planted evidence. The research connects the jar in the chest to the recent outbreak; Muzo is utterly convinced of Kelovath's guilt. Talk of a cure comes up, and just as Macon is beginning to bring up compensation, the two are interrupted by motion outside. Kelovath has escaped, and the city guards are hurrying after him.

Red Ogre Inn

Muzo sits at one of the many tables, a glass of tomato juice and a small tray of celery in front of him. His precious spellbook, Formulae, flutters lazily around his head. "... in manifold polymetastatic overlap to compound the estoteric paradox ..." The naga mutters a mile a minute to himself, lost in whatever scientific madness preoccupies him. Absentmindedly, his tail begins coiling around the table's central pedestal, and he drums his fingers noisily. There are several vacant chairs, but no one's been forward enough to bother the researcher yet. Even the waiting staff seems keen to give Muzo a little thinking room.

Macon enters the inn wearing his dull silver armor and accompanied by a pair of Larket guardsmen. Outside the Red Ogre a aged, drow servant waits with the Death Knight’s prized great axe, the weapon clearly too big for the diminutive dark elf to use effectively, and The Rage Stone somewhere on his person. That furious aura that was present at Lucy’s crossing seeps inside around the time Macon steps in. The former councilmember scans about half the room before grey eyes land on the naga and heavy footfalls take The Death Knight to Muzo’s table, the guards staying behind near the doorway. He stands before the preoccupied researcher for a moment, but doesn’t wait long before speaking if he isn’t noticed, “Any progress on wha’ we found in that chess’?”

Muzo furrows his scaly brow as he mutters, and the corners of his ophidian lips slant downward. "... without the intermodular cotransmutant to catalyze the phase reduction ..." Muzo babbles on until Macon addresses him aloud, upon which the naga gasps and sits bolt upright in his chair. It takes him a second to tumble back out of the clouds, and one can almost see the light of his thoughts bleeding out from his black, featureless eyes. Muzo blinks. "Hmm? Ah, Macon. Pleased to see you," he sighs with conviction, "even under these unpleasant circumstances. Yes. Ample progress." The snake fellow plucks a celery stick up to use as a makeshift baton and point, apparently expecting Macon to comprehend the invisible blackboard at which he points. "Pathology of the chest sample subjects perfectly matches that of victims in morgue and clinic. Utterly condemning evidence. More than sufficient. Anticipate no trouble in obtaining a just verdict, though," he dares a grim smile, "am no student of the law."

Macon raises a brow at the celery stick and invisible information it points to. The Death Knight smiles at the findings of the scientist, pleased even having already known what that jar held, “Excellen’. Not t’worry. I’m sure we can leave the trial t’the law students. I than-” He was about ready to thank the naga for his work and take his leave right then, but remembers to keep up his act of concerned hero. Hooking his foot around the leg of a chair he pulls it out and takes a seat at the table, dropping one armored elbow onto the top of it with a ‘thud’ and leaning forward, “And what of a cure. Is there any hope?” His eyes are wide, his frown subtle and worried, and his tone low and hopeful. Once he puts it on, the act is flawless.

Muzo nods apprehensively at Macon's reassurances, looking saddened by the circumstances, yes, but hopeful at the prospect of order. And punishment. A moment of guilt twists at his heart, for he is not normally a vindictive man, but rage-fueled indignation wins out. His resolve deepens. "Hope?" Again, Macon startles him out of a budding reverie of introspection. How quickly Muzo can drift off! "Cure. Cure! Yes," he nods and reaches up to pluck Formulae unceremoniously out of the air, interrupting it mid flap. "Clever malady, but should yield to analysis soon enough. Suspect I'm very close to synthesis. Should be able to manufacture antidote in no time." Flipping to a dense page of diagrams and charts, he slides the book over to Macon, expecting the arcane charts to explain, rather obviously, the rate and nature of Muzo's progress. He even slides the celery stick along a few lines, indicating... something. Sven knows what.

Macon takes a moment to stand in genuine awe of this man. The Death Knight cannot even fathom what the first step would be in uncovering the secrets of that jar of disease Gevurah had supplied him with, but this Naga is close to thwarting the mystery of it entirely. Clearly two very different skill sets sit across from each other here. The charts and calculations being shown to him are white noise, the former sheriff noting while barely looking at them, “Tha’s incredible… Muzo, Larket is in your debt. If there is anything y-...” Just as he is about to offer the researcher anything the kingdom can muster to assist in the speedy creation of a cure and perhaps convince him to stay in the city for as long as possible, alarm bells begin to ring. Not long after, muffled shouts reach the Inn. -Something- is happening. “Wha’ in the..?”

Muzo shakes his head at the mention of debts, apparently uninterested in tracking favors or expenses. "The city already furnishes my lodging," a fact he seldom advertises, but Macon has already won the naga's trust. "Would rather consider everything even. Least I can do, for..." Before he can trail off into some sort of babbling, a commotion interrupts them. Concerned and annoyed, he looks to the door, eyes narrowing. "Nothing serious, I hope," the slender fellow cranes his neck, trying to get a peek through the open entryway. A few clear snippets of shouts make their way through as guards and irregulars rush past. "-hurry-" "-lovath-" "-after him!" Muzo gasps in realization. "Sherrif," wide eyes look to Macon in astonished alarm, "he's on the run!" The revelation strikes him like a ton of bricks, and he veritably reels from the weight of implications and possibilities. How!? What does this mean for Larket? What is at stake, now, with such a man loose, on the run? Will he be caught? Dizzied with worry, the overstimulated scholar collapses into his chair.