Ingo Gertroy

A young alchemist with a penchant for making money. His morals are questionable, but his skill is not.


Piercing and perceptive brown eyes look you over, they take your measure in short order, and the slight squint perceptible in the corner of the man’s left eye lets you know that he finds something lacking. It is a little disconcerting that though you stand head and shoulders taller then him, he is still looking down at you. His youth is apparent in his face but no hint of youth’s optimism is apparent upon it. He runs his hand through his unruly short hair as begins his reply; the black sheen in the dim light of his shop served a proper precursory to his response. “That medicine is not easy to come by and certainly not cheap.” His right hand flourishes around the vial and it disappears from sight. He throws the loos end of the his dark scarf over his shoulder, covering his mouth, and continues: “I have a few I can sell, but times as they are, their will be a fifty percent mark-up.” The right part of his lip curls up expecting your flabbergasted reaction. If you had to guess, he meant what he said but said it so bluntly only to get a rise out of you. This tawny young-man with chemical stains upon his hands and condescension on his face would get what what he asked for, but you know he would come to regret it.


Ingo Gertroy

A Grain on the Scale Dameon