Before leaving, Khun spends his afternoon first roaming the town markets, collecting a small supply of cheap herbs and plants as well as conversing with the locals in their native tongue, his intent as much to practise his verbal skills as to gain what he needs. Then he retreats to the boat, where he secludes himself inside a cabin for a half hour.
There he lays out the tools of the alchemist, the mortar and pestle, the intense candles for small, but potent, flame, and the small pot to hold the mixture. As always, his slow prepartions almost as much of the ritual of the crafting as the crafting itself, this potion as much an act of meditation as of brewing, for the Elixir of Soul Perfection can only be made by one who knows themselves and can craft with the calmness of a pool of still water. Even now, he can still remember, still feel, the tense barely contained jubilation of the first time he knew he was going to be successful, of the joy when he drank the potion, and summoned his cirrus skiff for the first time. But now, he needed to look further. He had changed, he was no longer the person he was when he last crafted this elixir. And so, with the initial preparations finished, every tool an component in its place, he began the true depth of the ritual, and began delving into himself.
His hands moved of their own accord, reaching out, grinding the herbs, but now he chanted, low, thrumming words, he could hear it, the formula he used as recited in an archaic version of the oldtongue, one best used as quasi-musical chanting. He could feel the powers of creation moving through him, feel the hint of warmth in his brow as the powers of the anathema flowed through him.
Hah, it doesn't matter what I say, in my thoughts it's the gift of the Anathema. There's still a part of me, that wants to go back. This must be studied, and how can I do it? How can I know that whatever it is I've taken into me hasn't corrupted my thoughts, isn't bending me to its will. After all, it's said no anathema sees anything wrong with its behaviour, no matter what it's doing. The Circle could be objective, unbiased.
And I could be chained there until they've satisfied their scholarly curiosity. Which will be never. No. That would never do.
I can feel whatever this is, it isn't entirely passive. And it does have feelings, an agenda. It doesn't want me to be studied forever and a day either. Is it directing my thoughts? No, my memories, even my writings from before, all tell me that I want to go out and provide knowledge by finding it or learning it, or working it out on my own, not by having it dug out of me. But this thing, this essence, it doesn't seem to have a reason for why it feels, it just needs to go out and do something. It seems a power that needs to change things, but it does not seem to care what that change is beyond that. Could it truly be so helpful and benign as to rest all its power behind my will with such a simple commandment as that?His actions continue onwards, worked herbs and plants added to the heated water almost by instinct, his fingers and voice managing to help mix and separate the potion as needed, in ways he never could before, his twilight mark lighting the room. Indeed, he stokes the candles with his breath, but now they respond as they never have before, reacting almost as if they were mere extensions of his will.
Yes, three fingers of the silkweed, and... did I just chant a finger of nutmeg? But... yes, yes, nutmeg for need, and I have more need than I did before, and the Jace's Lily for action. Yes, it is changing, it is now what is, what must be! This certainty, this knowledge. Let us see how well my hands are guided in this endeavour! 1,0Snackoo_Detective_Excal rolled :1,0 11#d10 1,0plus willpower autosuccess --> 1,0[ 1d10=4 ]1,0{4}, 1,0[ 1d10=2 ]1,0{2}, 1,0[ 1d10=3 ]1,0{3}, 1,0[ 1d10=3 ]1,0{3}, 1,0[ 1d10=1 ]1,0{1}, 1,0[ 1d10=7 ]1,0{7}, 1,0[ 1d10=3 ]1,0{3}, 1,0[ 1d10=5 ]1,0{5}, 1,0[ 1d10=9 ]1,0{9}, 1,0[ 1d10=7 ]1,0{7}, 1,0[ 1d10=10 ]1,0{10}
As the potion finishes brewing, in only minutes instead of the hours normally needed, he places it into three simple, if largish flasks. The room now well lit by his anima banner. Never before had it felt like that, and he knew, knew with utter certainty that he had succeeded. Done, he ends the ritual by cleaning up his ingredients and tools, before going to take a quick rest before it is time to leave.
-----------------
Hours later, upon the cloud.
He looked down at the port town. He recalled when he had stopped there last, and supposed that he could now check up to ensure that rower who had managed to break his arm had managed not to infect it. Perhaps also he could manage to hear some news, either from the peasants, or from the spirits.
"Good to know your name,
operative. We'll land in the town, most of these port towns know that a man arriving by cloud is me, or one of the other initiates of the Jin Tor. Came by here myself on the way in, so they'll be friendly."
Suiting actions to words, he aims the cirrus skiff to bring them down near the entrance to the main inn.
