The small timber hut on the surface was a lie of wood and twigs, a shell that Deith and his scouts had initially dismissed as the crude shelter of a barbarian. But as they followed Eric down the stone stairs, the air changed—growing heavy with the scent of pine, iron, and a strange, clean sweetness. They emerged into a hall that defied the logic of the Northern wilds.
Eric moved with a practiced fluidity that contrasted his massive frame. He set a heavy copper kettle upon the Cooking Stove, the coals already glowing with a steady, magical heat. While the water began to hum, he turned his attention to a bundle of Honeysuckle.
"Sit," Eric rumbled, his back to them as his powerful hands began to refine the blossoms, extracting a thick, shimmering Honey that smelled of a summer that never reached these mountains. "The tea takes its time to steep. A scholar does not rush the water, and a warrior does not rush his guest."
Deith and his rangers stood in a stunned circle. Their eyes darted from the Underground Throne to the Sawmill that spun with a persistent, runic hum, and finally to the Forge where copper ingots caught the firelight. But it was the Distillation Boiler that truly confused them. In the Witcher world, Alchemy was a mess of bubbling cauldrons and pungent retorts. This was a machine of cold copper pipes and precision, looking more like a weapon than a medicine kit.
Eric approached them, handing out heavy wooden mugs. The elves took their first sips, and for a moment, the tension in the room vanished. The fragrance was intoxicating, a blend of mountain herbs and the pure essence of the earth. It was the most delicious brew the Aen Seidhe had tasted in a century.
But the work was not done. Eric returned to his machine. He poured the freshly extracted honey into a chamber with the Hops he had gathered, the boiler hissing as it began the fermentation process. Within minutes, the golden liquid began to flow—Viking Beer. It was a drink of his people, both a hearty refreshment and the volatile alchemical base for his true craft.
Working with the speed of a master, Eric added Clover and Dandelion to the bubbling beer. The liquid transformed, swirling into a vibrant, glowing red. He bottled the concoction, the glass reflecting the firelight.
"What is this magic?" Deith asked, his voice trembling with a mixture of suspicion and awe. "It smells of life, yet it burns like fire."
"It is a Lesser Health Potion," Eric replied, wiping his hands on a rough cloth. "Brewed from the grain of my home and the weeds of yours. It will close a sword-cut in seconds and purge the blood of any common fever or rot that plagues the lungs."
Deith stood paralyzed. In the Northern Kingdoms, a potion to heal a wound was one thing; a tonic to cure the variety of diseases that killed thousands was a miracle reserved for the highest mages. To find both in a single, simple red draught—made by a man who looked like he could break a bear's neck—was impossible.
"You speak of a panacea," Deith whispered. "No ordinary brew can mend the flesh and the humors at once."
Eric looked at the elf, his eyes reflecting the ancient wisdom of his scholar's soul. "In my world, we do not separate the body from the spirit. To heal one is to invite the other back to balance."
******
The subterranean air, usually filled with the scent of pine and cold stone, now swirled with the heavy, medicinal steam of the Distillation Boiler. Eric reached into the copper machinery and pulled out a single vial of the glowing red liquid. He handed it to the stranger with the pointed ears.
"Test it," Eric commanded. "A scholar's word is nothing without a warrior's proof."
The leader, Deith, hesitated. He knew the stories of Witcher potions—vials of mutagenic poisons that could kill an ordinary man or leave him convulsing from toxicity. He looked at the clear, inviting red liquid, so unlike the murky, blackened brews of the monster hunters that require creature mutagens to function. Finally, he nicked his own palm with a slender dagger. As blood welled, he downed a single swallow.
The reaction was instant, but there was no darkening of veins or laboured breath. Instead, the skin on Deith's hand knit together, leaving nothing but a faint, fading pink line. The scouts gasped. To mend a wound so cleanly, without the searing price of mutagenic toxicity, was a feat they had never witnessed.
"The wound is gone," Deith whispered, flexing his hand. "And my blood... it does not burn. This is no Witcher's draught."
Eric didn't stop to argue. He was already busy, his massive hands moving with surprising delicacy as he lined up more vials. "Watch the fire. I will show you how we prepare for the hunt."
He began his next brew. Into the bubbling Viking Beer, he dropped the Boletus—the shimmering night-mushroom—and a handful of crushed Acorns. The liquid turned a deep, royal Purple. It lacked any scent at all, a void in the air that seemed to pull at the senses.
"This," Eric said, corking the purple vial, "is the Lesser Strength Potion. It wakes the sleeping giant in the blood. One draught, and a man strikes with the force of a falling mountain."
Without pause, he moved to the third concoction. He added the Lava Mushrooms and the remaining acorns to a fresh batch of beer. Immediately, a thick, Green liquid began to churn. As it boiled, a wave of a truly disgusting smell erupted from the boiler, filling the cavern with a stench like wet fur and burnt sulphur.
The strangers recoiled, pinching their noses. "By the Stars and Earth!" Deith choked out, his eyes watering. "That red brew smelled like a meadow, but this... this smells like a Grave Hag's breath!"
Eric chuckled, his chest rumbling. "The earth's protection is not always sweet. This is the Lesser Stone Skin Potion. It hardens the flesh against the blade and the claw. The name is a bit of a poet's trick—you won't turn to literal stone, but a sword that would have cloven your arm will now only leave a bruise."
He stood tall, the three colors—Red, Purple, and Green—glowing on his workbench like jewels of war and mercy. Deith looked at the potions, then at the man in the Copper Armor. He was baffled. There were no monster parts here, no decoctions drawing power from a beast's soul, yet the results rivalled the most dangerous alchemical secrets of the Continent.
"You use no monster blood," Deith said softly. "You brew miracles from the dirt and the weeds. What manner of man are you?"
Eric looked at his own calloused hands. He didn't know they were Aen Seidhe, nor did he care for the classifications of this world. To him, they were guests in his forge. "I am Eric Bloodstone. I was a hero who died for his kin, and I woke up in a world that needs a better class of ruler. I am simply the one who builds what others fear to imagine."