Alva Berzelius is a ludicrously handsome man. It's a shame his personality is so utterly obnoxious. Montgomery Crockett wonders what Nes Altizer even sees in him, all the while knowing exactly what it is about him that's so charming, deep down. Effortless genius, indefatigable energy, and an inability to look anywhere but up — archetypally Mothgardener. And Monty Crockett has always had a hard time with Mothgardeners.
The fact that Mr. Berzelius simply does not seem to age makes it hard to date this memory. He stands at the front of the Potions lab, over a small cauldron of something powerfully fragrant. Earthy herbal and bright citrus scents mingle in the air as he works. The Peckenpaugh Potions lab looks pretty much like it always does. The shelves are in different places, and the bottles and containers aren't quite the same, but a Potions lab is a Potions lab, really, and Alva has always run his the same.
"So, Monty Crockett, huh? Of The Crocketts," asks Alva as he whips up a potion that should be handled with deadly seriousness as though it's the third cocktail of the night. He grins as he pours a bit of this, a bunch of that, and a dash of something else into a cauldron.
It makes Monty anxious. He wrings his hands together. "It's—hm. It's been a long time since I last heard someone...make a big deal about The Crockett name..."
Alva Berzelius goes right on grinning as he stirs his potion three times counter-clockwise. "Studied your mom's works a bit before I dropped out of healer school—hey! Didn't you go to Peckenpaugh with Zelda and George?"
Monty nods, watching Alva stop and stir three times in the other direction. "George, Youngblood and I were roommates, actually."
"Damnedest thing," Alva says with a fond shake of his head. He shuts off the flame to the cauldron and lets what he's brewing sit, glancing back up at his guest. "Guess that's how it is in small towns, right? Do you all hang out much?"
"I don't, uh...get out much," Monty admits.
Alva waves his hand dismissively, then grabs a bottle of shimmering liquid from beside him. For some reason, that particular glowing white-gold concoction spikes Monty's nerves to sizzling. Alva doesn't seem to notice, too busy dumping the whole thing into the cauldron and discarding the empty bottle in a nearby sink.
The color in the pot changes abruptly, green to gold to black and iridescent.
"You should consider it," Alva says, his eyes fixed on the cauldron, watching the contents intently. He waits for exactly three bubbles to surface on the thickened liquid, and then begins to ladle it into bottles. "We play poker once a week, a bunch of us," he adds, one bottle full, then moving onto the next. And a third.
MEMORY: Blackmail
[CRITERIA: Minimum 14 posts]
Alva Berzelius is a ludicrously handsome man. It's a shame his personality is so utterly obnoxious. Montgomery Crockett wonders what Nes Altizer even sees in him, all the while knowing exactly what it is about him that's so charming, deep down. Effortless genius, indefatigable energy, and an inability to look anywhere but up — archetypally Mothgardener. And Monty Crockett has always had a hard time with Mothgardeners.
The fact that Mr. Berzelius simply does not seem to age makes it hard to date this memory. He stands at the front of the Potions lab, over a small cauldron of something powerfully fragrant. Earthy herbal and bright citrus scents mingle in the air as he works. The Peckenpaugh Potions lab looks pretty much like it always does. The shelves are in different places, and the bottles and containers aren't quite the same, but a Potions lab is a Potions lab, really, and Alva has always run his the same.
"So, Monty Crockett, huh? Of The Crocketts," asks Alva as he whips up a potion that should be handled with deadly seriousness as though it's the third cocktail of the night. He grins as he pours a bit of this, a bunch of that, and a dash of something else into a cauldron.
It makes Monty anxious. He wrings his hands together. "It's—hm. It's been a long time since I last heard someone...make a big deal about The Crockett name..."
Alva Berzelius goes right on grinning as he stirs his potion three times counter-clockwise. "Studied your mom's works a bit before I dropped out of healer school—hey! Didn't you go to Peckenpaugh with Zelda and George?"
Monty nods, watching Alva stop and stir three times in the other direction. "George, Youngblood and I were roommates, actually."
"Damnedest thing," Alva says with a fond shake of his head. He shuts off the flame to the cauldron and lets what he's brewing sit, glancing back up at his guest. "Guess that's how it is in small towns, right? Do you all hang out much?"
"I don't, uh...get out much," Monty admits.
Alva waves his hand dismissively, then grabs a bottle of shimmering liquid from beside him. For some reason, that particular glowing white-gold concoction spikes Monty's nerves to sizzling. Alva doesn't seem to notice, too busy dumping the whole thing into the cauldron and discarding the empty bottle in a nearby sink.
The color in the pot changes abruptly, green to gold to black and iridescent.
"You should consider it," Alva says, his eyes fixed on the cauldron, watching the contents intently. He waits for exactly three bubbles to surface on the thickened liquid, and then begins to ladle it into bottles. "We play poker once a week, a bunch of us," he adds, one bottle full, then moving onto the next. And a third.
And suddenly everything freezes.