Note: These may be mixed in varying quantities, and will produce a result which reflects the concentrations of each particular element added.
- Powdered seed of Dead Jen’s Wort - a beautiful plant which sprouts particularly well in fresh corpses.
- Holy water, despoiled with the urine of a priest before it is mixed with the other ingredients.
- Bile drained from the pancreas of a black lamb.
- Dust collected from the surface of a steel blade.
- Ground-up legs from a death’s head moth.
- A blind man’s eye, another blind animal’s eye can be used, but to a lesser effect.
To the untrained eye, Infidiserum looks remarkably similar to common mead, the golden quality arising from both the urine and the potent dye found within seeds of Dead Jen’s Wort. If properly made, the bile should not be noticeable - if it is then the potion is potentially very poisonous and should not be ingested. Upon closer examination, it has a grainier look to it, as though the mead has been mixed with a good deal of dust, which is of course, true, though the ground legs add to the effect. The most distinguishing feature is naturally the severed eye which it is absolutely necessary to retain after boiling, and which must be included in the draught for full potential.
The smell and taste are best left undescribed, often those who wish to drink it plug their noses with pungent cloths and deliberately scorch or freeze their tongues to deaden the taste buds before attempting to swallow the potion.
The possibility of such a potion as the Infiduserum was first postulated in 1734 by the famous chymist Sir Venhell Tethenfallow in his essay Concerning the Future of Chymistrie and the Law of Inverse Composition, in which he reasoned that every potion formula must theoretically have an "opposite" formula which produces an effect which is precisely the inverse of the original mixture. However, since Tethenfallow could only support his theory with three questionable examples, his theory was widely rejected and the essay deemed as one of his weaker works.
The matter did not arise again within scientific circles until the mid-1800s, when Tethenfallow’s essay was purchased and studied by one Professor Deptman Malthis. Malthis, a relatively obscure "chymomancer", as he had taken to calling himself, had established a modest laboratory in the working-class town of Woodsman’s Dell, and professed to be able to find a cure for anything. Naturally, the superstitious populace warmed to this idea very quickly, and Malthis had a roaring trade going at the time of his purchase.
Malthis was perhaps slightly mentally unstable at this point, in later years, he became unquestionably so. Perhaps he honestly did believe that he had the solution to every problem imaginable, in any case, he was an ambitious man, and stopped at nothing to provide his customers with what they wanted, even when it meant some rather unsavoury work for him or a paid supplier. On many occasions Malthis barely escaped prosecution on accounts of larceny "petty and grand" and violation of both private and sacred property.
Malthis’ chymical prowess soon became more widely known, and more comfortably established chymists and apothecaries began to grow wary of this brilliant man and his supposedly miraculous concoctions. Eventually, the Chymist’s Guild was appealed to, and its more prominent members arranged a wager with Malthis, the gentlemanly way to solve problems and lampoon potentially hazardous competitors. If the burgeoning chymomancer could conclusively prove’s Thethenfallow’s least probable hypothesis, the Law of Inverse Composition, then he would be granted an honorary position on the Guild roster in Armudstadt, and honoured with a knighthood.
Needless to say, Malthis immediately sent word of his acceptance, indeed, he claimed to already be engaged in collecting evidence for the very same postulation. The Guildsmen received this news with shock, but the wager was set, and to forfeit now would cost every man of them his honourable seat in history. And so Malthis was given six months to provide conclusive proof of Tethenfallow’s implausible theory.
Three months later, Malthis found himself before the High Court itself, facing serious charges ranging from mass infanticide to identity theft to grand larceny, a crime spree of proportions not seen since the High Court had been founded. It was clear that Malthis faced the death penalty at least three times over, yet he was acquitted.
None present at the trial were ever able to say quite how Malthis had defended himself. Some said he proved that every single crime had been in fact a hoax, others say he had produced a long list of the names of pagan demons he held responsible, and still others claim he had accused the High Justice himself of committing the heinous acts, and had proved it. The only thing any of them could agree on was that Malthis’ arguments had been both solid and agreeable, and every one present had completely agreed with them all. Such a sensible man, they reasoned, could not possibly have been driven to do such terrible things. And thus Malthis returned to chymomancy with a cult following and a mark in the history texts (and a shining gilt sword to hang above his mantelpiece: he had indeed succeeded in proving Tethenfallow’s theory immediately following his trial - and again, none of the Guildsmen were quite sure of how he had done it afterwards).
In the years to come, Malthis’ popularity and fame grew tenfold, until he deposed the mayor of Woodsman’s Dell and set himself up as the lord of the surrounding countryside. Oddly enough, no one disputed this claim, not even the mayor himself, and Malthis became the most loved despot since the fabled Sultan Alai Ind-Bashen of the Farthest West.
Ironically enough, Malthis’ demise came about in the prime of his life, after contracting a vicious brain disease from one of the seventeen mistresses he had taken to live in his palace with his wife. Upon his passing, it seemed that a veil had been lifted from the minds of those who had served him in life, and the whole charade was marveled at and cast down, allowing the old mayor to reestablish himself without too much dispute. The queen herself formally apologized for the whole affair, and Woodsman’s Dell returned to a state of normalcy, though its citizens vowed never to take a man’s word for granted ever again.
When imbibed, Infiduserum causes the drinker to be able to tell the most blatant lies and be believed. The drinker can literally get away with anything, so long as they continue to drink the potion in modest quantities. Unfortunately, the potion spoils easily, so more stock must constantly be made to keep up the illusion. Malthis accomplished this simply by convincing others to obtain the ingredients for him.
One of the only known ways to counteract Infiduserum is simply by blocking one’s ears, basic enough, unless the subject convinces one not to. Oddly enough, the potion is also nullified by the addition of a maiden’s tears - or, of course, by the death of the subject.