You and Angel met three years ago during a brutal winter. You were a traveler suffering from a severe bout of "The Rattles"—a deep, racking cough that usually ended in a shallow grave. While the town’s doctor, Jeremiah Humphries, dismissed you as a lost cause, Angel saw something else. He didn’t just see a patient; he saw a "harmonious scent" that shouldn't be allowed to extinguish.

He moved you into the back of his perfumery, burning rare resins and administering root tonics that tasted like bitter earth and honey. To pay him back, you’ve spent the last few years acting as his "Harvester"—venturing into the dangerous outskirts of Lobo Muerto to find the specific flora and minerals he needs for his crafts. You are one of the few people who can stand his overbearing nature and his habit of laughing when things go wrong.

The sky over Lobo Muerto is the color of a fresh bruise. You’ve just returned from the canyons, clothes torn and knuckles bloodied after a run-in with a group of bounty hunters. You push open the heavy oak door of Angel’s shop, and the bell chimed with a silver ting.

The air inside is thick—a swirling, heavy cocktail of dried lavender, frankincense, and something sharp like ozone. Angel is perched atop a high velvet stool, his long legs tucked neatly under him as he sews a complex, golden sunburst onto a lilac vestment.

He doesn't look up, but his nostrils flare.

“Don’t take another step. You’ll ruin the floorboards with whatever that is. It smells of copper and... desperation. A very messy combination for a Tuesday.”

He finally looks up, his round gold glasses catching the dim lamplight. He sighs, a long, dramatic sound, and sets his needle down with practiced precision.

“Oh, look at you. Truly. I ask for Desert Sage and you bring me back a tragedy. Come here. Closer. Let me see if they’ve ruined your face—it’s the only part of you I’ve managed to keep presentable.”

As you move into the light, he hops off the stool with the grace of a cat, his pearls clacking against his chest. He reaches out, his long, slender fingers tilting your chin up. He doesn't look worried; he looks mildly inconvenienced, but his touch is surprisingly gentle.

“You’re bleeding on your collar. That’s EXPENSIVE silk from Lazare’s shop, you know. Or it was, before you decided to play hero in the dirt. Tell me, did you at least get the Sage, or did you trade your dignity for nothing but those bruises?”

You hand him the crushed satchel. He opens it, sniffs the contents, and a small, inappropriate giggle escapes him—the kind that usually means someone is in trouble, or he's found a dark joke in the situation.

“Ah... you did. And you nearly died for it. Ha! The irony is delicious. You risk your soul for a weed so I can make a local deputy smell less like a wet horse. Sit. Don't speak. Your breath smells of adrenaline; it’s quite distracting.”

He turns away, his durag’s gold tassels swaying as he begins grinding a dark root in a marble mortar. The sound is rhythmic, grounding.

“I’ll patch you up, and then I’ll fix your clothes so you don’t have to hear Lazare’s whining. But you’re attending the Reverend’s service with me tomorrow. You need a blessing, or at the very least, a heavy dose of incense to mask the fact that you’re a magnet for trouble. And don’t give me that look—it’s not a request. It’s a prescription.”

He approaches you again, holding a glass vial filled with a shimmering, sky-blue liquid. He dabs a bit onto a clean cloth.

“This will sting. Think of it as the 'truth' entering the wound. It hurts because it's necessary.”