Plague Ingredients
A sneeze-killer is a perennial flowering plant of the genus Plaegus, of the Plaegus sternautius species. They form in small groups of plants that can emit a toxic chemical harmful to most forms of organic life. Sneeze-killers are always a uniform 40cm, or 15'', and often tend to be onyx black or dark purple in colour. This is what has lead to them being often confused with the Plaegus scabieas, which is near identical to them, albeit lacking the sharp thorns that the P. scabieas is infamous for. The petals of the sneeze-killer are odd in that they grow in perfect spiral shapes. These, 'Spiral Vine', actually contain the seeds of the plant, which are protected by a magically-charged barrier, and are coated in an acidic substance; which shall only drop when the flower dies. After being placed within a cauldron filled with the following ingredients (detailed on page 301) and boiled at 87 degrees celcius, or 188 degrees fahrenheit, they will dissolve into a silvery-blue, reflective liquid called 'tissue-juice'. After being placed in a vial already containing charged Medici digitite (please refer to page 2), the tissue-juice shall begin to react with the M. digitite. The result is a potion that is able to cure the Influenza Plague within approximately 7 hours. They are only able to grow within the magic rich soil of the town of Shearshire, in the Domain of Lauchasia of the United Human Empire of Kingdoms. Republics and Fiefdoms.
Side effects include, but are not limited to:
1. Dizziness and overall quezziness.
2. Stimulating the dopamine receptors.
3. Fainting.
4. Paranoid hallucinations.
pg. 300
*nOte to sELF reAdErz reaers REadeRS. inhabITaNTS of ShIreshear ShEaRshire are xenOpobic x noP obic. Ov zeal US.CAaReful CareFUL. TAKE WAEPONS WEAPONS.
Dr. Wingdings grinned widely to himself as he read his tome, especially as his eye slowly glided across his addition (though this wasn't really visible. Because - being a skeleton - he always smiled) with pride. Most people, if they had written such a thing, would be very disappointed in themselves. After all; the grammar was atrocious. The spelling, awful. But Wingdings didn't care. It was the best he could do, which he was sure was perfect. He wasn't ever taught how to write in Common, he had to teach himself - which he did if you squint hard enough. Oh. And there was the fact his handwriting was too sloppy since his hands always seemed to be jittering.
One might assume this be because he typically wrote in strange symbols - a peculiar language that he had apparently thought up one afternoon, probably spent running away from something trying to eat his eyes or something.
Of course, the one thing that his conscience - the blasted one that he tried to keep interaction with short and quick with - kept on cockily reminding him was that it wasn't an official addition.
It wasn't though Wingdings hadn't tried. In fact, he had just sent off a courier to the Medicinal Herbalist Union just the other month! And he was sure that she was just taking her sweet time getting there. Shows him not to trust the scams of the lousy human mail service, the basta-
Blighters.
Good heavens he had stopped himself there. He may have low morals but he was certainly above swearing to get his point across! He was only fourty years old, after all, it was an awfully taboo activity; wearing underage. In fact, his brother had once sworn at his mother when he was twenty-one years old.
He wasn't allowed back into the house for three days. Kek kek.
Of course, Wingdings never once, not even for a second, doubted that the Union would be overjoyed by his suggestion. He was, after all, the Great Dr. Wingdings. And everything he did, by extension, was great as well. In fact, he was sure that they would immediately come running to him, getting down on their knees and begging, pleading with him to join them- to lead them. Oh yes~, Wingdings liked that thought. He liked it indeed. It was nice to be reminded that he, the
"GRRRRRREAT DOCTOR WINGDINGS!"
Was appreciated. Wait. Grrreat. That reminded him of something...but what?
…
…
…
Oh wait! He'd forgotten breakfast!
Some would think it odd that the disowned son of Mr. Semi read the Tome of Magical Flora and Other Phenomena - or TMFOP for short - in his spare time. He had, after all, memorised every single detail of it (heck, if you don't believe me just ask him yourself. It'll save you a couple of quid). Perhaps it was because reading from a book, his non-existent eyebrows narrowed in thought, made him look clever. Or at least that's what Gerson suggested. Wingdings was far too confident in his abilities to say he needed to make himself look clever, and that the definition in the Encyclopedia Britannica should just be a picture of his chiselled white oval half blind face.
Gerson.
Gosh, it had been too long. Far, far too long- six years, at minimum. He needed to visit him one of these days. Gerson was his best friend, after all. The one that, despite what awful things he had done in his past, would still always be there for him. And Wingdings did too. Wingdings cared for him, for the only person he seemed to do it to. In fact, some would say that he was, to be frank, obsessive, clingy and all around freaky.
Not that Gerson knew that of course, Wingdings had made sure of that.
Though it must be made sure that we're clear: He wasn't gay for Gerson. He wasn't gay at all. To be honest he wasn't really anything. He just really appreciated his best friend, after all.
Wingdings, deciding that this miserable thoughts were really ruining the atmosphere of this story, shoved those thoughts to the back of his skull, and hopped to his feet. No use moping about! He had a job after all, and that influenza outbreak that only seemed to be effecting cats for some reason was really gettin' around, if you catch my drift. And so, with a grin on his face and a spring in his step, and a four meter laser cannon, he began his long and perilous journey to the town of Shearshire.
Who knew what dangers awaited him? Heh heh…
You'll just have to wait to find out, won't you?