On the other hand, Rebore - the more common variant by far - was relatively easy to grow, with the body of the plant used for fabrics, while its leaves and buds were used for various intoxicants, most commonly pipe filler, tea, and concentrated oils. It was known for its mildly arcane properties, and was thus popular even with those who didn’t partake just to relax without access to alcohol.

Culca, however, was the inverse.

It had been cultivated to prioritize its arcane properties and above all else with production rate a close second, causing the plant to be demanding to the extreme in exchange for its near-universal applicability in alchemy and magic alike.

The main dish itself was already complex to begin with - its apparent simplicity belying organic alchemy far beyond Abdul’s reckoning - but most of it was simply assembled from parts of other meals that Ozmir apparently had in time-dilated Fog Storage. A rack of what looked like tiny smoked ribs, each rib the size of a finger, the meat itself topped with some sort of bone marrow and herb mixture. It was coupled with sandswimmer meat noodles and some type of large, meaty-smelling reddish onion cut up into thin strips, topped with thick flakes of crumbling, pale cheese, partially covered in purple mold.

…And, as Ozmir’s commandeering tone served to drill into Abdul’s skull, the temperature required to render Culca oil alchemically active was precious few degrees lower than the temperature at which Wallora butter would burn and become a rancid, useless mass of fat and denatured alchemicals.

Despite that hair-thin margin, Abdul managed to dial the heat-rune temperature in, hold the glaze-to-be at the right temperature, and ensure it emulsified correctly. In a manner of speaking, this wasn’t all that different from the alchemy he knew. Most of the glaze was poured over the noodles and ribs evenly, while a small portion of the fatty emulsion was set aside.

The simple arrangement, the complimentary colours, and the mixture of scents made Abdul the Alchemist consider the legitimate merits of this old alchemy… But that was not relevant at this moment. His task was to ensure Ms. Newman’s swift recovery, and this was the shortest path towards that goal.

Besides the food, Ozmir had also procured a mug and pitcher filled with yellowish, cloudy liquid that smelled of familiar alchemicals, honey, and vinegar. He stirred in the leftover Culca oil and made Abdul leave the kitchen before he himself pridefully carried the meal out on a brass platter, muttering a backhanded compliment about how he had expected the alchemist to fuck up even the “simple” tasks he had been given.

Zel came back to her senses at a downright delicious smell, realizing at first that she was on the ground, next that Zef was next to her, and thirdly the precise source of that delicious scent.

A mixture of fatigue and muscle pain thumped from every inch of her being, her right arm particularly sore, but it was an ache she was glad for. Strange memories of the time when she was unconscious floated to the surface, simultaneously muddled and implausibly sharp at points, especially vivid as far as feelings and sensations went. Amidst the hazy daisy-chain of sensory snapshots, she found a crystal-clear memory of her Thinking Self’s brief residence in the Dream Desert, the Primordial Self kneeling on the ground while the Thinking Self’s head laid propped up on its lap as if a pillow.

Both thoughtforms had been frayed at the edges, with long strands of shredded skin, muscles, tendons, and veins spreading out from various points, floating weightlessly and slowly being mended over the course of the memory.

Strange imagery, to be sure, but not quite nonsensical considering the implications of such a mental scene; no more than a momentary recovery coma framed in the bizarrity of dream logic.

Thus, she remembered that the Primordial Self had had the good judgment to not do anything stupid, and to simply ask for a means to replenish that which she had depleted… And, more surprisingly, the wit to say things she herself would’ve said, even if its grasp of speaking wasn’t the most nimble.

Getting up and putting the Lightning Butcher in its proper place on her back, Zel walked over to the table with Zef’s help. She thought she might need to repeat that she was alright, but Zef at this point didn’t even seem concerned - just relieved that Zelsys was, in fact, alright.

Before so much as uttering a single word, she grabbed the ceramic pitcher and flushed away the sticky, mucus-like film that had formed in her mouth and throat, as she wouldn’t have been able to speak properly without doing so either way. Even the mild exertion of this act made it achingly clear that her right arm may very well be functional only thanks to her Eternal Beast trait. Her tongue was like a dead snake in her mouth before she took a drink, after which she asked: “How long was I out?”

“Twenty-four minutes,” answered Arnys impatiently, toking from her pipe. “An appreciably accurate estimate from your other self. I don’t have long enough to wait for you to finish that nutritional bomb of a meal, so you’ll have to speak with your mouth full if you want your answers.”

“Here? Just like that, no sound ward?” Zef asked while Zel dug into the food with gusto, slurping down a mouthful of noodles and following them up with some of the curious-looking steamed leafy greens.

“Of course not,” said Arnys as she pulled a familiar device from her sleeve, put it on the table, flicked a switch, and turned a dial, familiar thrumming resonance emanating from it as outside noise grew dampened. The design was similar to the one present in Crovacus’s office, but far sleeker and more compact, embellished with gold and brass trimmings. Even the fragment of glyph-etched rock that seemed to be its core was a particularly clean one, rough edges meticulously sanded down.