A master alchemist famed for curing any disease, Alcourtia aids the forgotten while spurning the powerful. Beneath her brilliance lies a debt to a criminal shadow—one that threatens the life she built.

 “A crown buys obedience. A coin buys silence. But truth… truth alone buys my hand.”
— Alcourtia, to an emperor who begged for her cure

 
She is not worshiped, though some have tried.
She is not feared, though all who know her should be.
 
Alcourtia, known as the Elixir Weaver, is a name both whispered in back alleys and spoken with reverence by the desperate. Her apothecary holds no banners, no divine sigils, no guild marks. Yet kings and beggars alike have crossed her threshold, for her brews cure what gods cannot, and her potions unmake curses older than empires.
 
But Alcourtia is no savior. She serves no throne, obeys no creed, and bows to no deity. She is a force of balance, tethered only to her own philosophy — one that weighs worth not in wealth or title, but in truth. She has turned emperors away with silence, and lifted orphans from death with nothing more than a vial and a smile.
 
Her disdain for the noble class is well known; every potion refused is a declaration. Yet whispers persist of a handful of lords she honors — not for their blood, but for the weight of the burdens they carry.
 
Still, not all debts can be denied. Beneath her calm, amid the shelves of tinctures and salves, lies a shadowed truth: a binding debt owed to a faceless baron of the black market. No written contract, no coin exchanged — only names whispered, favors called, and silence she cannot break.
 
So Alcourtia walks the world free, her laughter sharp as glass, her remedies feared and desired in equal measure. But every chain she bears was one of her own brewing.