It bubbled and grew, consisting of an ugly orange hue. Strings of it seeped over the wooden frame that held it, glopping onto the surface below. Two large, green orbs gazed at the substance. The light reflecting within them danced about in disappointment. "You did it again, Torheng. I'm not even sure what this is." A voice muttered, a reluctant sigh following the remark. The emerald eyes belonged to a young apothecary, the messy brown mop atop his head often poking into them while he worked. His brows turned up and his thin, chapped lips curved into a pout. A slender, unwashed finger tapped the surface of the bubbling goo. It didn't react. An orange-gray clump pulled away from the substance, however, sticking to the calloused pad of his finger.
"Dragon snap powder, bone meal, clay slip and dwarven soil.. All to make a new, complex…. adhesive..? And for what?" Torheng groaned, tugging a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the substance off his finger. Swiftly, he swiped the bowl of messy, orange 'glue' from the table, sending it flying towards a messy pile of failed mixtures in the corner of the room. The wooden container slammed against the wall, slowly sliding down as the glop held it to the structure.
Torheng collapsed into an oak chair, the wood groaning under his weight. Never once had he made a successful potion. A week prior he had intended to create a strong restoration potion. He had spent a month before collecting a few rare ingredients: Kings-Root, Vexlafin Scales (the thin, bony plates of a very rare, magical fish), and blue peach nectar. He had figured that, perhaps, if the potion consisted of the rarest ingredients and he followed a very strict recipe developed in regards to the properties of said ingredients, he may finally have a success if fate allowed him such a luxury. Torheng had truly never been able to create a proper potion. He could mix poison and water, and yet the mixture would simply be harmless.
Torheng was a very talented wizard, but could never fulfill his position as an apothecary. Everything he made was a disaster. Even the simplest of potions simply became something that it was not. Many believed that he had been cursed, discerning that he was haunted by some sort of apparition. Many suggested that he pray to the god Apotheraca, the god of spirits and creator of Vals'piouns (the land in which many believed they'd venture to after death, if worthy). Others, however, suggested he pray to the goddess Analar; the goddess of all things wicked and evil, such as Werve's and Blood-Walkers. Why should he believe that praying to a deity would help him regain something he never had?
Torheng moped in his failure til the sun set behind the mountain. A peaceful daze consumed the young wizard, pulling him into a deep slumber. As he slept, the mucky glop that streaked down the wall and puddled in the messy corner of disposed bowls, began to fester and glow. Seething an orange-gray foam, the glop subtly began to come together until finally the seething stopped. However, there was no longer the mysterious mixture that Torheng had made. Instead, a small creature sat in the bowl. It had long white hair, a full mustache and beard to match. His cheeks were full and rosy red that matched the color of its tall pointy hat. It was a gnome - nearly five inches tall and dressed in a yellow tunic secured by a black belt. The tiny creature crawled to his feet and looked about the room. He didn't know where he was, but he knew there was something, or someone, here that he needed to help.