(unnamed) (6/6/21)

Kazu'ran slipped through the entry of his home and resealed the open doorway with the familiar, bright-green fel barrier that served to keep his animals inside.. and everyone else out. Everyone except his mates, of course, one of which was already here waiting for him in bed. Ja'vyn, the sweet little monk. He watched him for a moment, the stress of events prior melting away at the sight of his friend and love, if only momentarily.

But it wasn't time to sleep yet. No.. his mind wouldn't let him. He'd let himself get into a state that was incredibly unprofessional and embarrassed the hell out of himself in front of strangers *and* people he respected. Neeb, Leileran, Dolle.. and Miss Winford. Surely Ja'vyn had also been a bit put-off by his drunken conduct.. laying himself on the stairs and yelling his distress like an offended Borean Husky was probably not a good look for him.

He made his way over to the table wedged between his bed and the entry pillar. Atop it, bottles and bits of various reagents sat scattered, alongside a small brewing stand with a controlled felflame keeping it warm. He popped a few bottles onto the stand and filled them with water, then got to work. However, he couldn't stop his mind from going in circles over the events of the past few hours, even as he busied himself with portioning and chopping up herbs meant for the newly-started elixirs.

Loa, he couldn't believe he'd really let himself go like that. He'd thought the trauma caused by Draz'teka and his friends hadn't been that bad. Surely there was no reason for him to be afraid anymore -- the Drakkari had presumably lost interest in him.. or hell, even better, maybe he'd finally been killed. And yet, the slightest *ounce* of threatening aura from Loira had turned him from his jovial, carefree self to a whimpering, fearful shell of a troll. He hated that he'd shown that side of himself to her, to Dolle, to the others.. ugh. Awful. Terrible. Do not recommend.

He pulled a vial of Nazmani blood from the void-storage portal he kept beneath the desk. A few drops in each heated potion, varied to see what would be the most efficient. He watched the blood boil away and dissolve into the mixtures, and then took a glass stirrer to each bottle to be sure everything was mixed correctly. It didn't take much troll blood to make a restorative potion, thankfully.. and the blood of the Nazmani ma'das was especially potent, for some reason. Better than using his own. That'd be... uncomfortable, in more ways than one. And a bit too personal. The bottles were labeled with scraps of tape in accordance with their potency.. and once they'd finished brewing, he gathered them up and disappeared back out of the house.

Down the hill he went, down the familiar path through the strange pink trees and further, further on. Out somewhere that nobody lived nor wandered through this time of night. And for good measure, he found a small cave to settle into. Once he'd found a nice rock to sit on and set the potions down, he took a nice, deep breath.

And screamed.

He screamed until he was hoarse, and screamed again for a bit of self-punishment, wincing when his throat stung. He kept his regeneration at bay as he took the first potion, uncapped it, and took a hefty swig. The pain in his throat subsided a little.. but not enough. Another scream, another potion. Still, not as fast as he'd like. The third, the most strongly-brewed, tasted much akin to rotted wood.. but it was the most potent, and gave him the healing response he desired. He rubbed at his throat with his palm, humming as a little test.. which turned to a soft, but delighted trill. Yes, this would work.