POV - Azra'il
There is an art, I have discovered over more lives than I can count on the fingers of just one body, to promising miracles. The easy part is the promise itself, words are cheap, especially when spoken with unshakeable confidence and a smile that suggests you know exactly what you're doing. The hard part, the part that separates the charlatans from the professionals, is delivering on the promise. And I, at that moment, standing in my cabin as the ship swayed gently beneath my feet, had just promised a traumatised former Reaver King/Pirate that I could silence a decade of nightmares with a single cup of tea.
Not that there was a physical risk of failure. Mahr'Lokk was far too loyal to Cassandra to do anything other than deliver us safely to Ionia, regardless of the outcome. The man would probably protect us from a kraken even if I accidentally turned him into a chicken with my tea. No, the pressure here was purely professional. A matter of principle. I had said I could do something, and my ego simply would not allow me to fail.
Besides, there was the small matter of Bilgewater. If the tea didn't work, there went my 'Operation Bilgewater', along with the opportunity to study one of Runeterra's most fascinating and chaotic cultures. And that would be unacceptable.
No pressure. Just wounded pride and lost opportunities at stake.
[Analysis: You have just wagered our passage to Bilgewater, a considerable amount of professional credibility, and your already inflated ego on the efficacy of a home-brewed infusion. Statistically, this is one of your top ten riskiest decisions of this incarnation. Congratulations. I'm so proud.]
[I always have suggestions. The first is: do not make promises that depend on Vastayan brain chemistry, which is notoriously idiosyncratic and poorly documented in the available medical literature. The second is: since you have completely ignored the first, at least use the right ingredients and don't accidentally kill our only transport to Ionia.]
[You're welcome. I'm here to serve. And to document every one of your spectacular failures for posterity.]
I opened my pack, or rather, 'accessed' the dimensional subspace disguised as a perfectly normal travel bag, and began to mentally catalogue what I had at my disposal. Most of the items had been stored since Piltover, some acquired from Ionian merchants who passed through the shop, others… well, others had histories it was best not to share with customs officials or with Morgana, depending on the item in question.
[Initiating inventory of psychoactive and sedative substances. Categories available: "Banned in Three Regions", "Questionable But Technically Legal", "Poison If Used Incorrectly But Tea If Used Correctly", and my personal favourite, "Morgana Is Going to Ask Uncomfortable Questions".]
[Sensible. Especially considering he can already breathe underwater, being a shark and all. It would make testing that particular side effect challenging.]
I began removing small, carefully labelled vials from the dimensional space, materialising them one by one on the dark wooden nightstand. Each vial held a botanical treasure, substances that had cost a small fortune, considerable favours, or in one memorable case, an entire evening of listening to a Zaunite alchemist explain his conspiracy theory about "sympathetic lunar chemistry controlled by interdimensional lizards" while I feigned polite interest and not a deep desire to plunge my head into a bucket of cold water.
The first vial contained Lunar Sleepwalker Petals, exceedingly rare flowers that grew only on the highest, most inhospitable slopes of the Targonian mountains, where the air was so thin that breathing felt like a violent contact sport and every step required negotiation with one's own lungs. The petals were a ghostly silver, almost translucent, and they glowed very softly with their own light in the darkness, as if they had hijacked a fragment of the moon itself and were holding it hostage within their cellular structure.
They had the unique and extremely convenient property of inducing a state of deep but, crucially, dreamless sleep, a quiet, merciful void, a true rest where the mind finally, gloriously, shut up. Perfect for the base of my infusion.
[Lunar Sleepwalker Petals. Recommended dosage according to Targonian medical literature: three petals for a human adult of average weight. Dosage for a seven-foot Vastayan with the muscle mass of a minor leviathan, likely superior bone density, and a metabolism altered by decades of sea-life and possibly extreme trauma: completely uncertain. I suggest starting with five petals and adding our own personal prayers of choice.]
[Six might induce a coma. Five is risky. Seven would just be you showing off.]
The second vial was considerably more… controversial. Tidewrack Root, a plant that grew only in the shadowy, perpetually misty bogs of the Shadow Isles, those cursed lands where the fog never fully lifted, the trees whispered secrets that shattered weak minds, and tourists were consistently discouraged by means of 'accidents' both inexplicable and quite fatal.
The root had the texture of old leather cured in despair and smelt of damp earth mixed with something vaguely putrid and existentially disturbing. Not exactly what one would call 'pleasant'. In fact, on a scale of one to ten of "scents that make you question your life choices", it was a solid nine. But its property was absolutely invaluable for my current purpose: it suppressed nightmares.
Not through some gentle, holistic, spiritually enlightened mechanism. No. It did so through a brutal, direct chemical assault on the parts of the brain responsible for processing traumatic memories during REM sleep. It was like using a war hammer to fix a delicate pocket watch, technically effective if you didn't care for subtlety or the concept of "minimal collateral damage".
[Tidewrack Root. Common and well-documented side effect: temporary suppression of short-term memory upon waking, lasting between fifteen minutes and two hours. Rare but technically documented side effect in questionable medical literature: user wakes up deeply convinced they are a chicken and attempts to lay eggs. Proceed with extreme caution.]
[Everything is statistically relevant when we are betting on not turning a respectable Vastayan captain into a confused fowl who tries to make nests in the ship's helm.]
[I have faith in your skills. I just don't have faith in the unpredictable interaction between Vastayan biochemistry and psychoactive substances from cursed swamps. There is a subtle but important difference.]
I placed the Tidewrack Root carefully beside the lunar petals, forming the two-part core of my infusion. But there was still something crucial missing. Those two ingredients could, in theory, induce deep sleep and suppress nightmares with the subtlety of a drunken ogre resolving diplomatic disputes. Yes, they would work. But the result would be a pharmacologically forced rest, an extinguishing of consciousness that was more like a medical knockout than sleep. He would wake up rested, perhaps, but also feeling as though he'd been run over by a hextech carriage.
I needed something that would guide the sleep, make it restorative and not just a chemical void. Something that would turn "drugged into unconsciousness" into "slept like an angelic babe".
It was then my fingers found the third vial, buried deeper in the inventory, and I smiled.
Serene Memory Moss, an extremely rare species of bioluminescent moss that grew only in the deepest, most inaccessible caves of Ionia, where subterranean rivers sang ancestral melodies that had existed since before the first civilisations decided agriculture was a good idea. The moss fed on the moisture and, in a way inexplicable to conventional botany but perfectly logical to Ionian magical botany, on the 'sonic vibrations' around it, growing in hypnotically complex fractal patterns that looked like maps of dimensions the human mind could not process without developing a philosophical headache.
Ionian monks used it in meditative teas, claiming with spiritual conviction that it "harmonised the spirit with the eternal flow of the world". I, being pragmatic and allergically averse to unquantifiable mysticism, mentally translated this as: "it regulates brainwave patterns to a state of deep and cognitively coherent relaxation via alkaloids I don't fully understand yet but which work consistently". Less poetic, considerably more accurate, infinitely more useful.
[Serene Memory Moss. Interesting choice. That should balance the indiscriminate chemical brutality of the Tidewrack Root with something more… elegant. More artistic. You're learning subtlety in your concoctions. I am genuinely impressed. This happens so rarely that I decided to comment.]
[Please don't. We like this ship. It floats admirably and is not on fire. Let's keep it that way.]
I was examining the three carefully arranged ingredients on the table, mentally calculating the ideal ratios, because yes, Eos could do the maths faster than I could blink, but I enjoyed doing the mental work, it kept the mind sharp and gave me the illusion of control over chaotic universes, when I heard a soft, polite knock at the cabin door.
"Azra'il?" Morgana's voice from the other side, carrying that tone of worried, motherly curiosity that meant she knew I was doing something potentially dangerous and wanted to supervise. "May I come in? Or are you in the middle of something that explodes if interrupted?"
"Unless you're a kraken in disguise practicing social engineering, you can come in," I replied, not taking my eyes off the precious vials. "And no, nothing in here is going to explode. Today. Probably."
The door opened with a gentle creak of well-oiled hinges, and Morgana entered, closing it softly behind her with the care of someone who had learned through painful, repeated experience that interrupting my experiments abruptly sometimes resulted in… incidents. She was wearing a simple travelling dress in dark grey tones, her black hair loose and falling over her shoulders like a curtain of night-silk, and her eyes, those ancient violet eyes that had witnessed empires rise like proud towers only to crumble like sandcastles immediately identified and catalogued what I was doing.
"You're preparing the tea for Mahr'Lokk," she observed, not a question but a statement made with the confidence of one who knew me far too well. She approached the table with silent steps, examining the arranged vials with the expert eye of someone who understood perfectly what each contained and what they could do if combined incorrectly. "Sleepwalker Petals. Tidewrack Root. And… Serene Memory Moss." She raised an eyebrow, impressed. "You're not just making a crude sedative. You're making a pharmacological symphony."
"I prefer to think of it as millimetre-perfect chemical surgery," I retorted, but I couldn't suppress a small smile of professional pride. It was genuinely pleasant to work with someone who actually understood the art and science behind what I was doing, instead of just seeing 'tea' and assuming it was as simple as throwing leaves into hot water. "His sleep doesn't just need brute depth. It needs quality. Absolute silence isn't enough if the mind is still on high alert, constantly searching for phantom threats that no longer exist."
Morgana nodded slowly, her fingers hovering over the Tidewrack Root vial with obvious interest but without touching it. She knew perfectly well that some rare ingredients were sensitive to touch, light, or sometimes just their own temperamental existences. "The Tidewrack Root will aggressively suppress the traumatic memories. The Sleepwalker Petals will induce deep, dreamless sleep. And the Moss will…" she hesitated, searching for the poetically precise word, "...guide the mind through the void. Like a silent lullaby that the brain can hear but not consciously process."
"Exactly," I agreed, taking up a small black volcanic-stone mortar and a white marble pestle traditional tools I had insisted on bringing physically, because some delicate alchemical processes simply could not be rushed by modern convenience or replaced by hextech equipment that thought efficiency was more important than artisanal precision. "But there is a considerable technical problem."
"Dosage," Morgana said at once, identifying the obvious obstacle.
"Dosage," I confirmed with a sigh. "Mahr'Lokk isn't human. He's Vastayan, specific Shimon lineage. That means fundamentally different physiology in crucial aspects, an altered metabolism in ways that medical literature vaguely describes as 'variable', and possibly natural resistances or unpredictable sensitivities I cannot predict with absolute accuracy because I don't have enough data."
[Correct. My data on Shimon Vastaya is embarrassingly incomplete and based on statistically insignificant samples. Most detailed physiological studies were performed on corpses, which presents certain… significant methodological limitations for extrapolation to living, functional organisms.]
Morgana frowned thoughtfully, her fingers drumming a soft rhythm on the wooden table. "You can't just increase the dose proportionally to his body weight. Vastaya metabolise magic and magical substances in a fundamentally different way to humans. If there's any residual arcane component in these ingredients and the Lunar Sleepwalker definitely has one, I can feel its signature from here, he could react in a completely unpredictable way."
"I know," I said, beginning to grind the silver petals in the mortar with careful, rhythmic circular motions. They gradually broke down into a very fine dust that glowed softly like captured stardust, releasing a delicate aroma of clean ozone and something that smelt curiously of freshly fallen snow under moonlight. "That's why I'm going to be conservative with the ratios. Better a moderate but safe effect that actually works than a strong and dramatic effect that leaves him drooling, catatonic, or worse, turns him into…"
[A chicken,] Eos whispered at the back of my mind with what could only be described as malicious glee.
"Into what?" Morgana asked with genuine curiosity, catching my hesitation.
"Nothing," I replied quickly, perhaps too quickly to be completely convincing. "Nothing important or relevant to the current case. Just an… isolated incident of an unexpected adverse reaction in another person, on another continent, under completely different circumstances involving criminally sub-par alcohol."
Morgana gave me a motherly look that clearly communicated 'I'm definitely going to ask you about this in detail later when you can't get away', but had the merciful decency not to press now, when I was in the middle of delicate work.
"Do you have Calm-blossom?" she asked suddenly, mercifully changing the subject.
I stopped grinding, looking at her in surprise. "The pale blue Ionian flower? The one that supposedly grows exclusively near temples and monasteries and 'absorbs the peaceful serenity of its environment'?"
"That's the one," Morgana confirmed, her eyes shining with that deep knowledge accumulated over centuries. "It doesn't have strong or dramatic sedative properties. But it has a… stabilising quality. Harmonising. It acts as a gentle anchor for the consciousness during induced sleep. It prevents the mind from panicking when it realises it's being chemically suppressed."
[The suggestion has scientific merit. Calm-blossom contains alkaloids that modulate the sympathetic nervous system's response. It could prevent him from waking up in a panic three hours later, convinced he's being attacked by ghostly Noxian legionaries.]
"That… is actually a brilliant suggestion," I admitted, already mentally scanning my inventory. "I have some. Bought them from an Ionian merchant who swore they were harvested at dawn by silent monks using only their left hands under a full moon, which was probably marketing hyperbole, but the quality was unquestionable."
I feigned rummaging inside the pack for a few seconds, the necessary theatre to keep up appearances, while mentally accessing the dimensional inventory and locating the correct vial. A moment later, I "found" what I was looking for and pulled it out with a small, triumphant sound.
The fourth vial was smaller than the others, containing petals of a blue so pale they almost looked white, delicate as rice paper. They exuded an extremely subtle scent of incense and something vaguely reminiscent of high-quality green tea.
"How many?" I asked, deferring to her expertise.
Morgana examined the petals carefully, then looked at the other ingredients, clearly doing complex mental calculations of pharmacological interactions. "Two petals. No more. They are surprisingly potent despite their delicate appearance. Any more than that and you run the risk of over-suppressing his peripheral consciousness."
"Two petals it is," I agreed, adding them to my growing pile of ingredients. "Four components. A pharmacological symphony in four movements."
[Five petals of Lunar Sleepwalker to induce deep, dreamless sleep. A thumb-sized knot of Tidewrack Root to suppress nightmares. A generous pinch of Serene Memory Moss to guide and harmonise. Two petals of Calm-blossom to stabilise. This combination is either genius or a disaster. Possibly both simultaneously.]
"You'll need a suitable infusion medium," Morgana observed, watching me begin to arrange the ingredients in the order of addition. "Plain water won't extract all the active compounds efficiently. And you definitely don't want to leave any important active compounds behind."
"I was thinking spring water," I began, but she shook her head.
"No. Spring water has too many minerals. They'll interfere with the Sleepwalker's delicate alkaloids." She paused thoughtfully. "Do you have distilled water?"
"I do," I confirmed. I kept a generous supply specifically for delicate preparations. "But distilled water alone won't break down the Tidewrack Root's cell walls efficiently. They are notoriously tough."
"Then add spirits," Morgana suggested. "A small amount. Ten parts distilled water to one part pure spirits. It will aid in the extraction without significantly altering the taste profile or adding unwanted intoxication."
I thought with genuine admiration.
[She has centuries of experience. You have… well, you technically have millennia, but distributed in a fragmented and inconsistent manner across multiple incarnations with varying levels of knowledge retention. There is a difference.]
I spent the next half-hour working in focused silence, with Morgana watching and occasionally offering valuable suggestions. I ground each ingredient to the exact required consistency. I prepared the mixture of distilled water and spirits in the correct proportions. I heated the liquid to the ideal temperature, not boiling, never boiling, because excessive heat would destroy the most delicate compounds, but hot enough to extract efficiently.
I added the ingredients in a precise order: first, the Lunar Sleepwalker Petals, which dissolved almost instantly, tinting the liquid a soft, opalescent silver. Then the finely chopped Tidewrack Root, which took longer, slowly releasing its compounds in vaguely threatening grey-green swirls. The Serene Memory Moss came next, adding a faint, hypnotic bioluminescent shimmer. And finally, the Calm-blossoms, which floated on the surface for a moment before sinking gracefully, releasing a pale blue mist that smelt of peace.
The final result was… surprisingly beautiful. An iridescent liquid that shifted in colour depending on the angle of the light silver, grey, pale blue with small threads of bioluminescent glow snaking through it like tiny, miniature galaxies. It looked more like a fairytale potion than trauma medicine.
"It's aesthetically pleasing," Morgana commented, tilting her head. "Almost a shame he'll drink it in seconds and not appreciate the artistry."
"Efficacy is more important than aesthetics," I replied, but secretly, I agreed with her. It had turned out beautifully. "Although I must admit, beauty is a bonus."
[Full chemical analysis. Composition appears stable. No adverse reactions detected between components. Probability of functioning as intended: 73%. Probability of mild side effects: 20%. Probability of him waking up thinking he's a chicken: 0.3%.]
I carefully poured the contents of the small pot into a simple but elegant ceramic mug, leaving the dregs behind. The liquid still shimmered gently, as if it had captured a fragment of liquid moonlight.
"It's ready," I announced, holding the mug as if it were the Holy Grail. Which, considering what was at stake, perhaps it was. "One single dose of merciful pharmacological oblivion."
"Are you confident?" Morgana asked gently.
"Reasonably," I answered honestly. "Eighty per cent confident. Maybe seventy-five. Seventy is a solid number."
"Seventy per cent is risky."
"Seventy per cent is the best I can do considering the unknown variables of Vastayan biology and the fact I am essentially performing experimental chemistry on a moving ship."
Morgana smiled, small but genuine. "Then let's find out if your pride was well-placed."
We left the cabin together, me carrying the mug of liquid dreams as if it were nitroglycerin (which, to be fair, was only marginally more explosive than some of the substances I had handled in past lives). The corridor was empty, most of the crew still busy with their nightly duties on deck.
We knocked on the captain's cabin door.
"Enter," the deep voice rumbled.
Mahr'Lokk was sat at his desk, examining nautical charts by lamplight. When he saw us, specifically when his intelligent black eyes focused on the shimmering mug I was carrying, he slowly straightened up.
"So," he said, his voice laden with something between hope and wary scepticism. "The promised miracle."
"Miracle is a strong word," I corrected, approaching and placing the mug carefully on the desk in front of him. "I prefer 'highly specialised pharmacological intervention based on rare botanical knowledge and precise dosage calculations'. But yes. This is the tea."
He looked at the shimmering, iridescent liquid with obvious fascination. "It looks… mystical."
"It looks it, but it isn't," I assured him. "It's just complex chemistry that most people don't understand. Magic is just poorly-explained science."
[That quote isn't yours. You nicked it from Arthur C. Clarke in a past life.]
"How does it work?" Mahr'Lokk asked, not yet touching the mug, demonstrating the natural caution of someone who had survived decades as a corsair.
"The simple version?" I sighed. "You drink it. Within fifteen to twenty minutes, you will feel sleepy. A deep sleep, deeper than any natural sleep. And during that sleep, the parts of your brain that normally process and reprocess traumatic memories will be… gently silenced. Not permanently," I added quickly, seeing his expression. "Just for tonight. You will have eight hours of absolute silence. Complete peace. And when you wake, you will feel properly rested for the first time in years."
"And the side effects?" he asked, because he was no fool.
"Possible mild confusion upon waking which should pass within minutes. Possible dry mouth. Possible light-headedness for an hour after you wake." I paused. "And a statistically insignificant chance of temporary short-term memory suppression, but that should resolve itself quickly."
I didn't mention the chicken. He didn't need that information.
Mahr'Lokk slowly took the mug in his huge, calloused hands. The mug looked tiny between his fingers. He sniffed the contents cautiously.
"It smells like… peace," he said, surprised. "If peace had a smell."
"Technically you're smelling complex alkaloids," I said. "But poetic interpretation is also valid."
He looked at me, then at Morgana, then back at the glowing liquid.
"If this works," he said slowly, "you will have your stop in Bilgewater. My word as captain."
"And if it doesn't," I replied, "you take us straight to Ionia, and I accept defeat with dignity."
He nodded. Then, without further hesitation, he brought the mug to his lips and drank.
I watched, mentally holding my breath, as he consumed the entire contents in long swallows. When he was done, he placed the empty mug back on the table.
"Bitter taste at first," he commented. "But it finishes sweet. Interesting."
"That is the Serene Memory Moss," Morgana explained gently. "It leaves a pleasant aftertaste."
"How long?" he asked, already sounding slightly more relaxed.
"Fifteen to twenty minutes," I repeated. "I would suggest you lie down. The sleep will come on fast and heavy."
He nodded, rising from his chair with movements that were already a little slower. Morgana and I took our leave discreetly, closing the door behind us.
In the corridor, standing outside the captain's cabin, I finally let out the breath I had been holding.
"Now," I said, "we wait."
"And hope," Morgana added.
"Hope," I agreed.
[And perhaps pray to whichever deities are still listening that he doesn't wake up thinking he's a chicken.]