The research outpost was carved directly into the living, stone-hard trunk of an Ironwood Macro-Mushroom that measured forty feet in width. Its outside was covered in weathered brass plates and heavy with steel guy-wires anchored into the cave floor.
Arthur kicked open the heavy oak-and-iron door, sweeping his tactical light across the inside.
The work-yard had been abandoned in haste months ago, but the potion-made equipment remained intact. Long rows of heat-proof glass condensers, steam distillation retorts, and clockwork copper presses sat upon heavy soapstone workbenches. Shelves lined with amber glass apothecary jars were stocked with dried botanical reagents, potion-made salts, and high-pressure canisters of inert cold air gas.
“This was an advanced field testing station,” Arthur said, inspecting the handwritten labels on the chemical jars. “The cult was testing various antifungal agents here, trying to find a way to prevent Nyx’s mycelium from accidentally colonizing their own personnel.”
“Did they find anything useful?” Morrigan asked through the radio link.
“They found the problem, but not the cure,” Arthur replied. He pulled on a clean pair of razor-sharp nitrile gloves. “They used man-made copper fungicides, which poisoned the human handlers almost as fast as it killed the mold. We’re going to synthesize an organic, targeted acid-burn fine mist.”
