Location: Floating Island Maximum Security Prison. Alright, maybe not prison, but after a solid week adrift in the literal stratosphere, the novelty has worn exceptionally thin. The sky-wards are holding (mostly – had a minor incident involving a cloud elemental trying to sample my chimney smoke, quickly rectified with aggressive warding and some choice swears), the garden boxes are looking increasingly suicidal despite my best efforts with altitude-adjustment charms, and the silence is occasionally broken by wind that sounds suspiciously like it's mocking me. Or maybe that's just the tinnitus setting in after four centuries. Hard to tell.
Anyway. Decided today was the day to replenish my stock of ‘Calm Nerves’ Tincture. The irony is thicker than the clouds below us. Need a calming draught precisely because my existence involves living on a fucking itinerant rock suspended miles above anything solid, dealing with sentient hair, and occasionally having cloud elementals get nosy. It’s a closed loop of magical absurdity.
Ingredient gathering was… an exercise in compromise. The Valerian root was fine, safely dried and stored from whenever we were last near an actual forest floor. The Chamomile, however, grown in the floating garden box, looks pale and vaguely terrified, like it knows it has no business being this high up. Probably about as calming as distilled anxiety, but it's what I've got. The Lavender refused to bloom entirely, just sulked in its pot, so had to substitute with powdered Moonpetal, which isn't ideal – gives it a weird shimmer and sometimes causes mild, prophetic hiccups. Needs must when your garden is clinging to existence halfway to the fucking moon. Didn't even try summoning fresh ingredients; atmospheric interference up here makes long-range summoning dodgy as hell. Last time I tried, I aimed for Ginger root and got a very confused badger. He wasn't pleased. Neither was I.
So, substandard Chamomile, substitute Moonpetal, reliable Valerian. Fine. Set up the small cauldron over a magically sustained flame (actual fire is too risky with the wind up here). Mortar and pestle ready. Started grinding the Valerian. And naturally, the Hair decided this was fascinating. A few strands crept over the table, questing like inquisitive, dark worms. I ignored them. Fatal mistake. While my back was turned fetching the Moonpetal jar, it apparently decided the Valerian dust looked 'lonely' and 'helped' by sweeping a small pile of stray tea leaves (left over from breakfast, dammit) directly into the mortar.
"No!" Caught it just before it started grinding the tea in too. Spent five minutes meticulously picking out tiny specks of dried leaf while the Hair coiled innocently on the floor, pretending to be fascinated by a dust bunny. It knows exactly what it's doing. Little shit.
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Finally got the base ingredients ground and into the cauldron with distilled cloud-water (one actual benefit of this location – pure H2O, assuming you filter out the stray wind spirits). Started the gentle heating process. This is where it gets tricky. Tinctures like this need slow, even heat, consistent stirring, and minimal energetic fluctuation. Try doing that on a floating island where the ambient magic shifts like cheap silk and the wind occasionally tries to rip the shutters off.
Stirring clockwise, seven slow turns. Anticlockwise, three faster turns. Maintain the low heat. Focus. Ignore the vast, terrifying emptiness visible outside the window. Ignore the faint whistling sound that might be wind or might be some sky-beast pondering whether my house looks edible. Ignore the Hair, which had now decided to 'organize' my spare potion bottles by gently nudging them towards the edge of the shelf with alarming precision.
Deep breath. Focus on the potion. Smells… okay. A bit weak, probably the sad Chamomile. Needs the Moonpetal boost. Added the powder carefully, stirring widdershins now to incorporate the lunar energy without causing it to, say, spontaneously start glowing with the light of forgotten stars and demanding prophecies. Been there, done that, the resulting migraine lasted three days.
The Hair, bored with the bottles, slid back towards the cauldron. I watched it like a hawk. It paused near the rising steam, seemed to sniff appreciatively (how? It doesn't have a nose! Don't think about it), then, before I could react, it dipped a single, multi-strand tendril directly into the simmering potion.
"GET OUT OF MY TINCTURE YOU UNHOLY MENACE!" I shrieked, swatting at it. It retracted instantly, leaving a faint, iridescent shimmer swirling on the potion's surface.
Gods dammit all. Who knows what residual magic or pure, concentrated annoyance it just imparted into the brew. Probably means this batch will either induce uncontrollable giggling fits instead of calm, or possibly give the drinker temporary, extremely sarcastic sentience. Knowing my luck, probably the latter.
Strained the tincture into bottles anyway. It has the right colour (mostly), the right consistency (mostly), and smells… vaguely correct, beneath a top note of 'follicular interference' and 'existential dread'. Labeled it: "Calm Nerves Tincture - Experimental Batch #437-C (Floating Island Edition - May Cause Sarcasm)".
There. Productive day. Brewed potentially compromised calming potion while marooned on a floating rock, verbally abused my own hair, and contemplated the futility of gardening above the cloud line. Living the fucking dream. Now, tea. And maybe I'll test a drop of this batch myself. What's the worst that could happen?
(Famous. Last. Words.)
