Solo Come into the Garden, Martin...

[Alses]

Timestamp: 22nd of Autumn, 512 A.V. Autumn saw Alses spending far too much of her limited free time in the raspberry canes – the vines were heavy with gently-nodding red and purple fruits and she'd discovered that favours could easily be extricated from fellow students and the staff of the Respite alike with a small punnet of ripe raspberries, still wet and gleaming from a wash under the pump. Besides, she'd found rather a taste for the experience of a raspberry and so generally managed to find some excuse to bury herself in the ordered rows of the vines, picking fruit until her fingers were stained with the juice and her auristic skills were perfectly attuned to the concept of 'raspberry', flooding her senses of taste and smell with it. The leaves were starting to turn, the trees preparing for the long winter ahead, tinting the canopies overhead with gold and purple and red and rich chocolate brown – slowly winning over the still-healthful green, but every gust and skirl of Lhavit's playful mountain breezes sent a gentle rain of brightly-coloured leaves dancing to the ground. The rich hues of the skyglass of the city seemed to react to Mother Nature's show by producing ever-more complex and subtly beautiful patterns, melting glows of bronze and silver and gold gently commingling with each other in intricate regressions that proved even stone had a soul. The whole debate on whether stone could feel jealousy or not was something that Alses merrily left to the philosophers, though, happy – for the moment, at least – to focus on the simple task of picking raspberries, relieving vines bowed under the weight of fruit of their precious burden, putting them into cloth-lined wicker punnets that Tahala had produced, magician-like, upon receipt of the first batch from the Respite's small fruit and veg garden, tucked discreetly behind a skyglass wall that served as separator and windbreak both. Regardless of how pleasant the time among the raspberries was – she was looking forward with some excitement to the raspberry-leaf tea she'd been promised – the autumn was a busy season in the garden, and, most importantly, the late roses were in their last and most spectacular bloom, trees and hedges and bushes covered in riotous profusion of blossoms – white, red, yellow, pink, even a few secretive purples half-hidden in the mix. Alses' own room was already generally stuffed to bursting with all manner of flowers, too, most particularly the purple roses she loved so well, with their scent sweeter than memory and rich with the sense of summer, but earlier today Tahala had asked her to cut some for the common areas of the Respite – 'So everyone can enjoy them,' she'd said, with a meaningful look that sailed right over Alses' oblivious head. It would soon become one of her more pleasant jobs in the garden: to regularly cut flowers for the Respite and fill the ornamental vases in the Commons and the other communal areas. Bees hummed from flower to flower, flitting from one bloom to the next down the flowerbeds, filling the air with their gunship drone – someone's hives were doing very well indeed out of her hard work – as Alses set down her half-full watering can next to one of the larger rosebushes. The Respite gardens hadn't come with a bucket, and the watering can served as well as anything, at least until she got the flower bouquets in the vases. 'No magic, Alses,' she reminded herself forcefully, clamping down on the habitual impulse to examine her surrounds with auristics. It had been an invaluable boon, that particular skill, to see when a plant needed more water, or when it was fighting a losing battle with its neighbours over air and space and light – and hadn't that been an interesting experience, finding out that a garden was a battlefield more than a place of rest? Right now, though, when cutting flowers, empathy was the last thing she needed – plant auras screamed and twisted whenever she pruned or cut back, even if it was for the greater good. No, best to close herself off to the silent screams and not return to the Respite a blubbering wreck. She shuddered, reflexively, then firmed her grip on the secateurs (really nothing more than a rather rusty pair of oversized scissors) and began to cut, the brisk snap echoing around the garden as she worked, methodically cutting some of the finer specimens, discarding and deadheading those which didn't quite measure up to the required standard. Impressive stands of white roses were joined by smaller contributions from a crimson bush she had great hopes of – it had been struggling mightily at first, in the lee of an enormous (and, from its aura, rather overbearing) kariino, and seemed mostly wild, but a careful replanting (under the watchful eye of Martin, who'd popped over to see how she was getting on) and a good bit of care and attention had resulted in it shooting in every direction and producing velvet-petalled flowers the colour of rich red wine. Not much of a scent, true, but the colour was quietly glorious. The sun was high in the sky by the time Alses returned, watering-can heavy with foliage and roses, to the gardening pavilion's translucent shade. Seated placidly at a workbench, positioned to see anyone coming down the path towards her and about three-quarters of the gardens to boot, assembling bouquets was a task which let her rest her feet and back. Her first experiments in arranging flowers had had mixed results – she'd generally started out arranging them any old how, in essence taking a bunch of blooms in one hand, a container in the other and bringing the two into forcible connection. That had looked untidy, however, and so one lazy summer afternoon she'd sat down, gazing at her latest effort, and thought logically about the problem. Most Mizaharans probably learned these sorts of arts from watching and helping their mother – Alses didn't have that advantage, instead trying to work everything out from first principles. First, you needed a backdrop. This generally wasn't showy stuff – usually a plant with interesting or beautiful leaves that would contrast nicely with the flowers themselves, providing definition for a bouquet. That much, at least, was obvious from observing some of the fine flower displays that periodically graced the entrance hall of the Dusk Tower. Alses had always thought that bay had a lovely viridian green shade to its glossy leaves, and the notching of the edges broke up the dull curves. Then, too, there was the fact that it was apparently a useful kitchen herb – the Respite's kitchen garden had plenty of bay for her to play around with, therefore – even if it did occasionally get her dirty looks from the kitchen staff. Not caring much for the physical act of eating, and by extension, the means of preparation, she bore their occasional dislike with equanimity – when she noticed it at all, that was. Broad sprays of the deeply-green leaves provided a richly-textured backdrop for swathes of white mountain roses – Alses squinted critically at her handiwork. It would do for a rough shape – she could always change how it looked later, with a few snips of the secateurs and maybe some tactical defoliation. The stems tapped out a toccata as they hit the ceramic bottom of the vase, a disordered and tangled mess that she regarded with a philosophical sigh. Giving up on the bay leaves for the time being, she turned her attention back to the roses, picking out the best of them and snipping away, cautious of the thorns which had punctured her flesh time and again in the past – and never mind that Tanroa's little gift took care of those sorts of minor wounds in a twinkling. 'There must be a way to get rid of the thorns,' she thought idly, mind freewheeling as her hands worked, sizing rose stems and sliding them into the vase or flourishing the scissors with a vengeance. Everything was subjective; that was what made making bouquets so hard, in a way – what Alses found pleasing to the eye might not take another the same way. “Oh well,” she murmured, more to herself than anything. “If they don't like it, they're jolly well welcome to make their own.” At length, the backdrop was assembled to her liking, a broad fan of dark viridian leaves that curved to a suitably dramatic apex, sheltering and framing stands of white late roses. The older blooms shaded slightly to cream at their very edges, softening the harsh glare of the clustered whiteness. The last piece of her bouquet-puzzle, the richly crimson blossoms that would form the heart and centrepiece of her dramatic display, well, they would have to wait – her eyes had caught a familiar figure coming up the pathway.

[Alses]

From her half-sitting position, Alses bent into a slightly foreshortened bow. “Gardener Martin! What an unexpected surprise!” “Afternoon t'ye, too,” the sprightly old gardener returned, settling himself comfortably on one of the sun-warmed skyglass walls that abounded in the Respite gardens. “I jus' came t'see how you was getting' on, is all. Haven't seen ye about the Tower gardens lately; wondered if'n there was anythin' as was eatin' ye.” As ever, it took a split-second to actually interpret the thickly-accented Common – when Alses did, she laughed briefly, inordinately happy that someone had missed her semi-regular appearances in the Tower. “No, nothing, Martin. In fact, I've been at the Dusk Tower more than ever before. We were given a commission, you see, from Ald'gare Dusk. We haven't had nearly as much free time as we used to.” A self-deprecating smile. “When we couple our commission work with couriering for the Tower and doing the gardening here, to earn our keep, all of a sudden there's so much to do there are barely enough bells in the day to get it all finished....you understand, yes?” The last was said slightly anxiously – she couldn't help that. Martin's laugh rang out, earthy and reassuring, cutting through the background drone of the bees. “Aye, I understand that right enough!” He whistled through his teeth, appreciative. “A commission fer th'Patriarch hisself, eh? Ye're movin' up in the world, lass. What's he like? I mean, th'man pays me wages an' all, but I can't say as I've ever actually spoke to him, proper-like.” Alses shook her head with a smile. “Nor have I. We've just exchanged letters – although from his writing he seems intelligent enough. Generous, too, paying me for m'work instead of taking it as his due for my tutelage.” Martin chuckled. “Aye, th' Dusks are that. Most o'them, anyway. Never stintin' on sick pay an' gifts at the Festivals. O'course, they're wealthy beyond th' dreams of avarice, but it ain't as if they've got an obligation t'do that sort o' thing. There's many as wouldn't, if they were put in th'same situation.” Alses blinked. “Why not? Happy staff are productive staff – I know we work harder for a little consideration.” “Aye, you an' I know that, but that's cause I am a servant and you're moonlightin' as one fer a bit. We knows what it's like bein' in service. Lots o'the rich – 'specially if they've bin rich a generation or two – don't know what it's like t'work fer a livin'. They gets this idea in their heads that th'gods gave 'em all the comforts 'cause they're better'n us. That we need the whip t'keep us in line, like. Petchin' shyke, o'course, but some of'em believes it.” He shook his head at the follies of man, and looked around the Respite gardens, everything green and growing. The paths were carefully raked into scallops and swirls, completely free of the taka moss which had covered them when Alses made her first forays into gardening, the dwarf primroses were carefully potted up and kept well away from bare soil, where they could creep and invade as they had done before, and everywhere the Respite's stock of roses were flourishing. “Ye've done a good job here, you know,” Martin said after a few minutes' comfortable silence. “Made a good start, 'specially for someone who didn't know one plant from another not too long ago, but autumn's a petchin' busy time, y'know. Have ye made a plan o'attack yet?” “Plan of attack?” Alses echoed, apprehensive. She had images of the Shinya vaulting over the walls and laying waste to the place. “Aye. What to do when and the like. No? Well, let's have a wander an' see what needs t'be done. Ye can pay me back wi' some hard work up at th'Tower when ye've a free afternoon.” A Martin laughed as they approached the garden pool. “Oh, ye're goin' t'thank me fer telling ye this, Alses,” he chortled. She quirked an eyebrow at him in askance. “Th'pool. Ye've still not cleared out that duckweed, I see, an' just look at all the leaves driftin' into it! Prolly goin' t'be a wading job, at th'least. Ye can't let it die off in winter, y'see – all that duckweed and all those leaves, in that size o'pond, well, they rot, see, over the autumn and winter, and come spring that water'll be black as sin and it'll stink t'high heaven, too. The Tower don't have that problem, but I know as other gardeners use nettin' on poles to catch the leaves in the autumn so's they don't have to go wadin' in to clear all the muck out. Mebbe ye should speak to whatshername, girl who runs this place, about getting some fer next autumn? Just a thought, o'course – ye might not be here by then.” Alses laughed shortly at that, having been supremely unamused at the prospect of immersing herself in rotting leaves. “Lhavit is the closest we've been to Syna on Mizahar. We aren't going anywhere just yet.” “As ye say. Might want t'think about getting some zujin buds in there too – they're the waterlilies you see all over the place. They'll not brook any duckweed musclin' in on their patch, you mark my words.” Bless his craggy face – whatever his other faults, Martin knew when to ease off, when a subject was not up for discussion. “Now, let's have a look-see at yon veggie garden. A little birdie tol' me as you had a good crop o'raspberries this year. Lucky devils, you studenty types! Our canes got a bit manky – Vert- Verti- Vertici- well, some sort o'fungal wilt, anyways.” He grinned, suddenly, transforming his face into one surprisingly youthful. “Master Zentris was pleased as punch – 'e got t'test his new fumigation gear on th' soil, see. Ye've never seen the like – nozzles an' tanks full o' all sorts o' nasty stuff, and 'im dressed head to toe in armour plates, walking about with white smoke pourin' everywhere! Got a bit o' that stuff in me throat – couldn't get the taste out for days. Still, he thinks whatever he did worked, so next year we should get a bumper crop. A shame about this year, but I'm a gardener. We're used t'disappointment.” He grinned, ambling along the curving pathways, heavy boots crunching on the pebbles. “So, what did ye actually have in y'little kitchen garden?” he asked cheerily, bending to inspect a row of cabbages, turning the leaf over and over in his veiny hands, stroking them with an almost proprietorial care. Alses blinked, unconsciously standing straighter as though she were reporting to her instructor at the Tower. “Cabbages, as you can see, along with beans and various herbs, mostly. There were apparently some gooseberries once, but they've died, since we couldn't find any when we were helping Cook harvest all the peaches.” Martin nodded. “Aye, I c'n see th'remains of a pleaching trellis over by yon wall. Gooseberries often get trained in this spreadeagle form-” he ran a thick finger along the shimmering skyglass, tracing out a widely-spaced, flattened shape, more like a child's drawing than something that could represent an actual plant “-cause it makes it easier t'get all the fruit. Tart little things – not really my cup o'tea, but there's many as like 'em, in pies and suchlike.” He sniffed. “I prefer the sweet, meself. Now, the veg patch looks like it's gone t'seed a bit, so you don't have to worry about yer manure an' compost supplies just yet. Once the first frost hits – and hits proper, when you see everythin' all sparkly white of a morn – ye want t'get out here quick as a wink an' start diggin' all this rubbish in.” He bent down, fingers tracing leaves as Alses leaned in. “This, this, and this, too – they're all annual weeds; grow from seed every year, see. Easy to recognize, once you've the hang o'it – these ones ye can jus' dig in t' the ground, they'll rot down an' enrich the soil fer the things ye do want t'grow, see.” He paused. “Alses? What're ye doin'?” She was half-kneeling on the path, hand just touching one of the weeds, eyes closed and breathing slow and steady. “Practicing,” she replied, dreamily. “If I know the djed-nous of the plant, I'll always recognize it if we see it again, or if we hunt for it.” A half-there smile. “Our savage garden came as quite a shock, every plant fighting with every other for air and space and light and water.” Martin fell silent and backed away – whether to let her work her magic or to contemplate her words, she didn't know. Nor did it matter, really.

[Alses]

Quicker, surer – she was improving, no doubt about it – Alses drowned herself in the powers of Sight, falling into the ocean of colour and sound. Her constant companions, now, the auras of the world, a plethora of colours shimmering and dancing around every single thing she could see, layering on top of one another. Perhaps as a side-effect of that passive blessing, the dark was becoming less impenetrable, less of a terror – Lhavit at night was never truly black, for one thing, thanks to the glow of the skyglass and the phosphorescence of the local flora and fauna, but when coupled with the soft glows of auras, and the information they continually whispered into her senses, why, then night became as day, almost. Here and now, though, the power gave her much more than sight in the absence of light. She could sense the myriad twists and turns of the plants' emerald auras, the unique kinks and twists that marked it as different from any other, shivers of blue and yellow at the very edges showing battlegrounds over water and space and light, the vegetative striving of each and every plant. The auras of the weeds were indefinably tighter and somehow narrower, more focused, than those of the vegetables all around. In some manner unstable, too, exemplifying explosive growth and an opportunistic habit, in complete and total contrast to the sedate, steadying influences of the garden plants against which they competed. What had Martin said about them? Annuals, that was it, just a single year of existence – they grew fast and with furious abandon, not laying down energy in woody stems and supporting trunks, instead spending every erg they drank in recklessly in an orgy of growth, scrambling to outcompete the more sedate plants, to flourish and flower and set seed before they perished. 'Not in my garden,' Alses growled to herself, glaring at the vegetatively innocuous fat hen and opium poppy nodding gently in the breeze. “Fork them in, you said?” she asked – out of the corner of her eye, a complex, rich aura – a sign of a long life well-lived – flared and jittered; surprise, perhaps. “Aye,” came the reply, rather subdued. “Fork 'em in well; breaks up th' roots, see, buries th' leaves so's they can't take energy from th' sun and starves 'em. A good forkin' over's ideal this time o' year in any case – breaks up the really big pieces o'dirt, and then when th' frosts come, they'll do the rest o' the job for ye. Kill off most o' the pests that build up in th' soil over the year, too, an' somehow manage to break up the bits, leavin' ye with this fine, crumbly soil that Master Zentris and 'is fine, educated gardener friends call 'tilth'. Don't ask me how th' frosts work their magic – er, beggin y'pardon – but believe me, they do.” Alses straightened to stand at Martin's side. No longer focusing so ferociously, the eternal war that was the vegetable garden receded from immediate view; lashing tendrils of a million shades of green, recoiling and attacking in continual, sinuous movement faded into vague blocks of colour, the sense of motion only a peripheral feeling, more suspected than seen. Her gardening – she hesitated at the word 'friend' – acquaintance was looking – rather longingly, it had to be noted, at the Respite's raspberry canes. “Go on,” she murmured, with a faint smile. “It's the least we can offer for all your kindnesses.” Correctly interpreting his hesitation, she waved an airy hand. “As far as I'm concerned, those raspberries are ours to gift as we will. Besides, what Tahala doesn't know won't hurt her, no?” Martin grinned, boyish and sudden, the years falling from his face in an instant. She had a sudden and crystal-clear mental image of him as a child, halfway up someone else's apple tree and merrily scrumping for all he was worth; it brought a smile to her own face, that thought. “Well, if'n ye're completely sure,” he murmured, already gravitating towards the ranks of canes. She nodded, encouraging. “Then I don't mind if I do!” He grinned, conspiratorial, at her. “Th' lads will be right envious when I get back.” Surprisingly delicately, putting Alses strongly in mind of a Zeltivan society matron on her best behaviour, Martin popped one of the red fruits into his mouth and bit down with relish. “That's the ticket!” he sighed, happily. “Th' Respite's had a good crop this year. Ye've even had a few purples, I hear.” Alses nodded. “That's right – I gave them to Tahala; she seems to love them, and I wasn't about to turn down an opportunity to have her think well of me.” Martin sighed, regretful. “Ach, if only I'd been a bit quicker off o' the mark. Th' purples is my favourite too.” He clapped his hands, a loud, flat boom of sound that made Alses flinch. “Still, can't be havin' with lazin' around all day munchin' on yer raspberries! I said as I'd teach ye how t'prepare a garden for winter, and we ain't finished yet! Now, some o'your trees in 'ere, they'll need fleeces come th' hammer o'winter – don't look at me like that, girl, we does it up at Dusk Tower, too. Protects the buds and twigs from the worst o' the cold, see – stops half yer tree dyin' off 'cause of the cold. Now, I'd lay good kina on you havin' some in that pavilion o'yours, if'n you don't, a quick trip over to Sharai Peak an' the Okomo Villa should see you right. Now...” A The sun was much, much lower and redder in the sky by the time Martin left, and Alses' head was spinning from all the knowledge he'd so generously given her. Oh, she'd have to pay him back with a few afternoons' labour in the Dusk Tower's grand garden, in all probability, but in the grand scheme of things that was nothing. It did mean she'd have to deal with Brom again, and now that Alses was aware of the lovestruck girl, ignoring her attentions would be that much harder, but some things just had to be endured. Her trial bouquet was finished, proudly displayed in a heavy skyglass vase, a dramatic spray of viridian green leaves framing a sea of white roses which themselves protected a shy, secret heart of a red richer than wine, glowing darkly at the front and winding its way amongst the white outriders. All that remained was to position it in the Respite's entry hall – Tahala could do that, since it was for her anyway – and to take the rest of the roses down to the kitchens where Cook would render them down into fragrant attar of roses, for the Respite baths. Alses was aware, in a vague sort of way, that Cook had an actual name, something he'd been called before he became the Respite's victualler, but to all and sundry he was simply Cook, or Chef if one was feeling formal. It defined him, typified him, and he'd not have wanted to be addressed in any other fashion. He commanded respect from most people, probably because he and his team of sous-chefs and various other dogsbodies saw to it that everyone got fed. Alses, with her general dislike of eating and drinking both, tended to be mostly immune to this, and her interactions with the fiery cook had generally been limited to handing over baskets of flowers in exchange for essential oils. Today – she assumed – would be just the same, but when she ventured into the cavernous, steamy chamber half-sunk beneath the ground, an entirely different set of events unfurled. It seemed as though the Respite kitchens had been called upon to cater for some extraordinary event, given the barely-organized chaos that surged and beat against the condensation-beaded walls. Order and counterorder sang in the air, fighting to be heard over the bubbling of sauces and the clang of pots and pans. Sous-chefs whirled and skirled through the billows of steam, knives flashing, chopping mountains of vegetables in double-time, the metal dancing a toccata on wooden boards in their skilful hands. Chains ratcheted back and forth overhead, hands reaching up to pluck handfuls of herbs from their hooks as they rattled by, and Alses flattened herself against a wall as two chefs came by at a thunderous run, pushing what looked like most of a dead pig on a trolley. She swallowed down bile and forced herself not to think too deeply about it all, trying to breathe through her mouth. The odours of the kitchens were offensive enough without adding raw meat and blood to the mix. “Yes? What can I do for you?” The voice made her jump out of her skin, letting out a decidedly undignified squawk of surprise as she wheeled in the general direction of the noise – no easy task, considering the background cacophony. “Cook?” she asked, tentatively. A ruddy hand waggled at the corner of her vision; she turned, face red from heat and embarrassment both, to face the short and rotund master of the Respite kitchens. “That's m'job, yes. Was there something you were wantin'?” In answer, Alses mutely held up a basket packed chock-full of rose blossoms, snipped close to their stems and ready for distillation. Cook groaned, a heartfelt rattle from deep within. “Not more petchin' roses, girl!”

[Alses]

Alses contemplated the contraption in front of her with a critical and curious eye. It was a hulking thing, a heavy and bulbous still made completely from copper, resting on four chunky, clawlike legs that had been cast to look as though they bowed under the prodigious weight. There was ornamentation and scrollwork across the still doors and all sorts of miscellaneous twiddly bits – thick glass gauges and viewing ports, adjustable wingnuts and internal sieves – to confuse the issue and make the still look much more complicated than it actually was. Cook had been at pains to suggest, however, that it wasn't nearly as difficult to operate as it looked. "Most of this," he'd said, flapping a banana hand dismissively "Most of this, you don't need. Rose oil's easy t' distill. Just time-consuming, and I ain't got time for it today." Remembering her instruction, Alses grasped the still's doorhandles and turned them gently. 'No need to pull hard, they ain't that heavy, and you don't want to damage the copper. Do that and I'll have yer hide, Ethaefal or no.' A heady, thick scent rolled out – mostly roses, but with hints of a few other flowers and less pleasant things riding inside the overwhelming impression. Inside the still was cavernous, a large boiler that could doubtless take a vast number of flowers. Fortunate, then, that the Respite roses were doing so well, in their final and most spectacular bloom of the year. The boiler was empty at present, of course, save for a few forlorn rose petals clinging to the curving copper walls and flat sieve-plate at the bottom - a simple device to catch the mush the flowers would become after a bell or so of vigorous boiling, for ease of disposal once the distillation process was complete. 'Ingenious,' thought Alses – it wasn't something that would have occurred to her, but it was certainly a useful innovation. Saved on elbow grease and injury, probably, not having to ferret and faff around inside the still to remove all the wastes. Now, how had Cook said to lay the flowers out? Ah, yes. 'Two deep, Alses, until you've got a carpet of them right the way across the base of the still.' It was a painstaking process, unloading the blooms into the copper belly of the still – Alses sent a brief paean of thanks to Tanroa at the end of it, having used her Blessing more than once to get rid of minor puncture wounds from the occasional thorn that had managed to sneak in with the flowers. 'Now we need water, to make it up to the mark until all the flowers are floating, with a bit extra as heaven's share,' she reminded herself. Alses cast a somewhat apprehensive glance towards the kitchen pumps, in constant use as a whirl of cooks passed in front of them with pails and crates of vegetables, dirty cutlery and kitchen tools of all shapes and sizes. Maybe it'd be better to slip out and use the pump in the garden pavilion instead. In short order – whilst there was still a deadlock around the kitchen pump – Alses had nipped out, filled a bucket and come back, now quietly engrossed in pouring water into the belly of the copper beast, watching the flowers rise and float on its surface and keeping a weather eye on the water gauge. Too much liquid, and she'd be distilling and redistilling all day, and the end product would be about as reminiscent of roses as a compost heap. Too little, and she wouldn't get enough oil to fill a thimble, and be left with a right mess of soggy, collapsing rose blooms in the boiler to boot. Lovely. 'That should do nicely,' she thought, with a satisfied sigh. The copper firebox beneath the main still was full of tinder-dry wood (a good thing, as Alses had absolutely no idea of where the firewood was kept) – all it needed was a touch of flame to set the whole thing in motion. Not being a reimancer, and, more specifically, not one with control over the elemental flames, she had to dodge and weave and dance amongst the kitchen throng to reach one of the great ovens whose dull roar underpinned every noise in the kitchen. Fortunately, they were close by and in any case everyone was far too busy with their preparations and tasks to gawk at her; indeed, they barely spared her radiant form a second glance as she retrieved a burning log and hurried to lay it in the still's ample firebox. Gratifyingly, the wood caught quickly, a merry blaze that, in short order, had the water in the still bubbling away merrily, rose flowers rising and falling in the churning, roiling waters. There was a lot of heat involved in the distillation, it seemed – the copper still radiated it in vast quantities. Alses, used to (and immune to, more importantly) the solar blaze of the sun, found it quite comforting, hunched close to the still and keeping a weather eye on both the strength of the fire and the boiling rate of the water inside. The occasional wisp of steam that escaped from the condensing horn smelled pleasingly of roses, so that at least was an encouraging sign, especially to a novice philterer, but Alses had another advantage; her Sight afforded her a glimpse into what was happening inside the still as the boiling water seethed and churned around the rose blossoms, the heat and motion leeching out something of the essential nature of 'rose' into the water. That tinged its flashing, flaring, unstable aura with something of a rose's character, becoming more and more visible and integral as the steam rose inside the condensing apparatus, dripping slowly, very slowly, into the small glass flask at the other end. Cook had warned her it'd take at least a bell, and more probably approaching two bells, before even the first distillation was complete, but that didn't matter. Alses had an endless quantity of time with which to play, and in any case, the steam distillation process was an interesting one to observe from the point of view of an aurist. She watched with intent, focused interest how the indefinably clean, faintly blue-tinged aura of the water shifted and changed as it began to boil, setting up swirls and eddies within its own fabric and becoming more dynamic and chaotic, absorbing something of the energy of the blaze beneath it. Introducing the roses added yet another dimension to the ever-changing canvas, tumbling through the prevalent blue-and-white aura, dispersing and fragmenting, touches of pink and red and purple curling and spiralling off into the water, forming something entirely new from the mixture of the two. As the commingled substance rose up the condensing horn, the subtle and elusive colours of the roses became more visible in the aura, more there, the washes of colour and sound winding in from broad and diffuse, chaotic, to a more tightly controlled form. There was still a great deal of room for improvement, of course, but this was only the first distillation. 'Cohobation,' thought Alses, exultant. That was what it was called, distilling the distillate until you got something of sufficient concentration. Complicated term for a very, very simple procedure, really. When she judged, by her own auristic impressions, that the still had boiled dry – some time before the two bells that Cook had advised, admittedly – she damped the fire under it. The still had an ingenious mechanism for that; sliding long metal rods, by dint of an intricate system of levers and chains that Alses made no attempt to fathom, closed or opened vents on the sides of the firebox; when shut, the fires would be starved of air in short order and snuffed out, making it easier to remove the sieve plate and dispose of the rubbish before pouring the prime distillate back in. Fragrant billows of steam swirled and danced around her, cargoed with a strong, fresh smell of roses, the boiler dry and the copper bottom almost glowing with the heat from the fire under it. A mush of half-spent, discoloured rose blossoms carpeted the sieve-plate, looking very forlorn; it was the work of a moment to pour the slightly greenish prime distillate back in and set the fire to roaring again. A The sun was low and red in the sky by the time Alses judged the distillate to be as concentrated as her skill and the kitchen still could make it, the aura perfused with flashes of green and red and pink and her sense of smell full of the scent of roses, heady and sweeter than summer. She squinted, doubtfully, at the small flask of oily green liquid her efforts had produced – in truth, it looked almost completely dissimilar to the usual attar of roses she was used to seeing. Her shoulder slumped – something, somewhere, must have gone wrong, badly wrong. Green oil – oh, and with little white crystals in it, too, even better – a far cry from the near-transparent attar she was used to. “Done?” “Cook!” Alses nearly jumped out of her skin; somehow, somehow, the Respite's chef had managed, again, to creep up on her. “Something must have gone wrong, look – it's green.” He gave it a critical glance, tilting the flask this way and that, and waved it cautiously under his nose. “Looks fine t'me. Smells right, too. Ah, what you prolly think of as attar o' roses is this stuff all right, but massively watered down. This is what we calls rose otto, see - concentrate. Fetches a nice price on the market, 'cause it's so time-consuming to gather the flowers an' boil 'em down enough.” He handed it back to her. “Three parts in a hundred's the standard mix for yer bog-standard attar – that amount should keep you smellin' sweet for a while.” END

[Daydream]

Alses: XP : Gardening 3 Auristics 3 Philtering 2 Socialization 1 Lores : Lhavitian Gardens-Autumn Preparing for Winter- Partial Arranging a flower bouquet Steam Distillation An Attar Of Roses Comments: Sorry for the delay! Anywho, nice little thread! Any comments, questions, concerns, or even if you would like to see something changed or added please do PM me and I'll be sure to assess the situation and see what I can do. ~Keep On Dreaming