Of Tailors, Pills, and Heresy

The next morning, I wake up with a strange sensation: I actually slept through the night without nightmares or unexpected interruptions. No adrenaline jolts, no half-conscious state of survival. Just… proper sleep.

Pururun has installed herself inside my satchel during the night, only a small translucent portion poking out, pulsing gently in time with what looks like breathing.

“Do slimes even breathe?” I mumble. “Or are you just trying to mess with me, you gelatinous enigma?”

She wiggles lazily, clearly not in any hurry to start the day.

“Alright, lazybones. Up and at it. We’ve got plans to make.”

She emerges from the bag slowly, stretching like a cat after a nap. I have to admit, the way she moves — so animal-like, expressive, even human at times — is oddly unsettling. Adorable… but unsettling.

***

Downstairs, Marta is already bustling behind the counter, preparing breakfast for the inn’s lodgers. The smell of toasted bread and bacon hits me like a freight train of nostalgia. My stomach growls so loudly that a passing carpenter gives me a pitying look.

“Sleep well, Ethan?” Marta greets me with a warm, maternal smile.

“Like a baby. Your straw mattress is better than some hotel beds I’ve known.”

She laughs. “You speak strangely sometimes, you know that? But I like the way you talk.”

Lena emerges from the kitchen, cheeks flushed from the stove’s heat, eyes bright. She beams at me like a girl who’s been rehearsing this exact smile.

“Good morning, Ethan! I hope you dreamed about me?”

She adds, in a barely audible, shy whisper, “Because you definitely occupied mine all night…”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, kid. I mostly dreamed about booze and real women. Like your mother.”

She bursts out laughing, taking it as a joke. Pururun, on the other hand, is already vibrating with disapproval. My slime companion seems to have developed a very specific allergy to flirtation.

***

Breakfast is hearty: fried eggs, smoked bacon, coarse bread, and berry jam. As I eat, I discreetly watch the ebb and flow of the inn’s morning clientele. A lively mix: artisans on their way to work, merchants discussing deals over bread, a few peasants come to sell their produce at the market. The mood is easy, familiar.

“Marta,” I say between bites, “I’d like to stay here for a while. Would you accept a long-term lodger?”

“Of course! That would actually help us financially,” she replies without hesitation. “How long are you planning to stay?”

“Hard to say. Depends on… certain circumstances.”

Namely, how long it takes before my big mouth and general lack of pious restraint draw the attention of the local temple busybodies. But that’s a problem for Future Ethan.

Marta doesn’t push for details, though curiosity burns behind her eyes. Lena, on the other hand, looks delighted at the idea of having me around for an extended period. I’ll have to keep my guard up if I don’t want to end up accidentally married into this family.

***

After breakfast, I decide to explore Lowstone more thoroughly. Pururun rides in my satchel, peeking out like a living periscope, eager to observe everything.

We head first toward the artisan district. Shops line the uneven cobblestone streets: blacksmiths hammering away at forges, tailors bent over sewing tables, cobblers surrounded by leather scraps, carpenters shaping beams. A small, self-sufficient ecosystem.

I push open the door to the tailor’s shop. The man inside is scrawny, with clever fingers and the skeptical look of someone who’s seen it all. His eyes widen when he examines my scavenged clothes.

“Good heavens! Did you rob a corpse, good sir?” he exclaims. “Even peasants at work dress better than… this.”

“Let’s just say it’s a complicated inheritance,” I reply dryly. “I’d like something a bit more… modern.”

“Modern?” he repeats, confused.

“Different. Functional.”

After a long and awkward explanation — punctuated by all the necessary measuring pokes that make my skin crawl — I commission a black button-down shirt and matching pants. He raises an eyebrow at my color choice.

“Black? That’s mostly worn by undertakers and mourners. Respectable folk prefer earthy tones or cheerful colors — unless you’re trying to scare people.”

“Do I look like a clown to you? Black hides bloodstains. Practical.”

He pales slightly at that. Good. Less small talk that way.

Next stop is the cobbler’s, where I order sturdy leather boots, a three-quarter coat, and a proper belt. Goodbye, worn slippers that make me look like a medieval ballerina.

***

By mid-afternoon, I head back to the inn, ready for a well-deserved rest. Marta intercepts me almost immediately.

“Ethan, forgive my intrusion. My instincts tell me you’re an Apothecary. Could you use your knowledge to help me? I’ve been feeling… strange for a few days.”

Her complexion is slightly grayish, her eyes ringed, and she’s sweating lightly despite the mild weather. My diagnostic reflex kicks in instantly.

“What symptoms, exactly?”

“Low fever, headaches, and this fatigue I can’t shake.”

I take her pulse, check her temperature, palpate swollen lymph nodes. Nothing catastrophic yet, but left untreated it could escalate quickly.

“Pururun, come here.”

My jelly assistant bounces out of the satchel, curious. I’ve suspected for a while that she’s hiding more than just a talent for shapeshifting. She eats everything, but nothing ever comes out… logically, she must be synthesizing or storing what she consumes.

“You remember the willow bark you swallowed in the forest?” I ask her. “Try to reproduce its properties — or… regurgitate them. Can you?”

She stares at me in confusion, then focuses. Her body vibrates and shifts color as she strains. After a few long moments — complete with a facial expression that frankly worries me — she ejects three small brownish balls onto the table with a wet plop.

“Seriously? You just crapped on the table. Have you no manners?”

Pururun vibrates indignantly, as if protesting my ingratitude. Marta and Lena watch the scene, torn between fascination and disgust.

“What… what is that?” Marta stammers.

“If my hypothesis is correct, a natural aspirin equivalent. Willow bark contains salicylic compounds. These little… nuggets are basically medicine.”

I examine the pellets carefully. Compact texture, woody smell. If I’m right, they’re concentrated salicylates.

“Marta, you’ll dissolve one of these… pills in hot water and drink it. It should lower your fever and ease the headache.”

“You’re joking. I’m not swallowing slime droppings.”

“These ‘droppings’ contain something my people have used for centuries to fight fevers. Trust me.”

Lena steps in, pragmatic as ever — but not without that glint in her eyes that always seems to appear when she talks to me.

“Mother, you’ve been sick for two days,” she says, moving closer to my side like she’s suddenly part of my team. Her hand brushes lightly against my arm as she turns to Marta, the gesture looking casual but feeling calculated. “The priests will charge a fortune for a blessing, and Ethan is offering you a remedy for free. What’s the risk?”

She flashes me a quick smile — confident, playful, the kind that lingers a second too long. “I trust him,” she adds, voice dropping just enough to make it sound more intimate than strictly necessary.

Of course she manages to flirt even in the middle of a medical situation. This girl could probably bat her eyelashes during an autopsy.

After some hesitation, Marta agrees. I prepare the decoction myself, dissolving the Pururun-pill carefully. The result looks unappetizing, but the smell is tolerable.

“Drink it all in one go,” I instruct. “The taste shouldn’t be too bad.”

She obeys with a grimace. Pururun watches eagerly, waiting for her moment of glory.

“Now rest. If I’m right, the fever should drop in a few hours.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“Then you’ll go down in history as the innkeeper who drank slime poop. Trust me, though — I’m confident.”
Mostly.

***

By evening, the results speak for themselves. Marta’s fever has subsided, her headache is gone, and her complexion is visibly healthier. Word spreads fast through the inn: the foreigner and his weird creature have some kind of healing gift.

“It’s not a gift,” I correct anyone who’ll listen. “It’s medicine. Real medicine, based on active substances and dosage.”

Nobody listens. To them, anything that heals is either divine magic or sorcery. The concept of empirical medicine might as well be alien. The irony isn’t lost on me: here I am, probably the only hardcore atheist in this world, and they’re already branding me as some kind of blessed healer.

Pururun, meanwhile, is basking in newfound glory. She parades through the common room, puffed up like a celebrity slime, as patrons watch her with a mix of respect and apprehension.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” I warn her. “You just synthesized basic biochemistry, not holy relics.”

She quivers indignantly. Apparently, modesty isn’t in her chemical makeup.

***

“I need to study the local flora and fauna,” I tell Marta later that night. “Every plant, every mineral could have therapeutic properties — or dangerous side effects. I don’t want to accidentally poison someone through ignorance.”

“You speak better than most Temple healers,” Lena says, refilling my mug with practiced charm. “And you actually care about people. But you don’t belong to any Church, do you?”

“The Temple doesn’t have a monopoly on healing,” I reply evenly. “At least, they shouldn’t.”

This remark earns a few approving murmurs from other patrons. Apparently, not everyone worships the clergy unquestioningly.

“The priests charge us a fortune,” grumbles a craftsman. “And that’s if they agree to come for people like us.”

“Are their ‘divine gifts’ even effective?” I ask, feigning innocence.

The chorus of responses is telling: partial recoveries, frequent relapses, exorbitant prices. A two-tier health system straight out of my old world. Nice job, Being X.

“And you, Ethan?” Marta asks cautiously. “Will you charge for your remedies?”

I think for a moment. Back on Earth, my philosophy was clear: treat first, bill later if possible. Here, the context is messier.

“Those who can pay, will. The others… we’ll figure something out.”

That seems to satisfy everyone. Pururun vibrates approvingly beside me like a moral support blob.

***

The evening ends in a surprisingly warm atmosphere. Traditional songs, lots of local beer, Lena’s increasingly blatant attempts to flirt, and Pururun’s equally blatant jealousy. I eventually retreat to my room under Lena’s watchful gaze and Pururun’s disapproving tremors.

Once alone, I look at the slime as she settles comfortably into the satchel.

“You know you have an actual personality, right? That raises some philosophical questions.”

She tilts curiously.

“If you feel emotions like jealousy and pride, what does that make you? A pet? A partner? A sentient being?”

She vibrates thoughtfully, as if pondering the question.

“Well, we’ll figure it out as we go. For now, what matters is that we make a damn good team.”

I drift off to sleep, mind buzzing with possibilities. If Pururun can really synthesize therapeutic compounds from natural sources, we’ve got ourselves a portable pharmaceutical lab. In a world where healthcare is scarce and monetized, that’s one hell of an edge.

The only question is how long we can keep this up before the Temple authorities notice. Something tells me our peaceful stay in Lowstone won’t last forever.