Pembelon
A round, dense melon from Chult, and the last thing anyone expects to find in a frozen apocalypse. Cut one open and the exposed face radiates actual heat — amber-lit, wisps of warmth rising off it, warm enough to feel across a cold stone table. It is fruit that fights the cold on its own terms, which is exactly why Durok Deepseeker has spent so much effort on it.
Durok grows pembelon in the enclosed hot ground of his volcanic oasis, where the warmth of the earth does the work the sky refuses to. There it thrives. The unsolved problem — the one he half-hoped the party’s Arcana might crack — is getting it to survive out in the open snow, away from the heat of the spring. That is the whole project: a crop that could feed people who don’t happen to live on top of a warm anomaly. He arrived at Cold Peak with canvas bags of them, food grown against the season, offered plainly to a camp that has been stretched thin.
The concentrate
The same crop-hardiness research produced a side effect Durok did not set out to make: a concentrated vial of something so aggressively foul that it functions as a weapon of its own. It smells horrible. That is the entire description, and it does not do it justice.
Brekk decided immediately that this was the funniest thing in the camp, which is high praise from the tribe’s foremost authority on gunting. “Hey, smell this.” What is it? “It smells horrible.” Three of the party waved it under their noses and failed their saves for it; River failed, and then tried again, which somehow made it funnier. Only Alina watched the whole performance and declined. Durok’s serious agricultural research and Brekk’s sense of humor turned out to be, briefly, the same object.