Her attention remained fixed on this chant, echoing in her mind even as she walked through the central hall, aware of the people surrounding her, but losing focus more and more with each step taken.

Makhus and Sigmund were present, although she couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, only the congratulatory tone and their expressions - a somewhat surprised smile for Makhus, and a calm look of approval for Sig. She could’ve sworn she heard him mention the uraganrána, but that was as much as she could make out before the two moved on.

Then, without even realizing she had somehow already made it into the mess hall and now stood in the middle of it, she managed to look up and focus her eyes on a new face. A bearded Kargarian in strange aproned garb, on his head a turban, in his hand a heavy leather bag, and on his shoulder some sort of lizard.

She wanted to speak, but the mere realization that she had reached her destination was enough, and her consciousness slipped.

“She’s…” began the bearded man, only for Arnys herself to enter immediately behind him, glance at Zef, then up at Zel.

The Matriarch - her top having already mended itself and her wounds seemingly having been plugged in the scant few minutes that had elapsed - stated the obvious:

“She’s out on her feet.”

Almost like a wild animal turning to face prey, Zelsys turned her head. Her eyes shone like those of a rabid beast, her face twisted into a constant grimace, yet emotionless. Then, a low groan, a crude vocalization that carried her voice, but sounded completely different. As if a creature more used to screaming and growling had suddenly gained the ability to speak.

“Every ounce of strength. Not a soldier un-acc-oun-ted for. Slee-eep now.“

Zel dropped into a squat, let the Lightning Butcher clatter onto the ground, then sat down, crossing her legs and leaning on them with her arms.

“Tired. Ten… Twenty minutes. Bring water. Ee-lec-tro-lytes. Pro-tein. To make more soldiers. Sharpen the…. Claw- blades. Sharpen the blades. Yes. A stronger army.”

Slowly, she raised her gaze to look at Arnys. A wide, sincere, and toothy smile spread over Zel’s face, lacking any of the everpresent smug levity or egoism of her smiles. Lacking any personality. It was nothing more than a purely emotional, instinctive expression.

“Next time we fight, I will not need to do this.”

Before anyone could respond, her head limply slumped forward. Out of all people, it was Ozmir’s voice that broke the tension as he walked out of the kitchen: “Well, we heard her. This is as good a time as any to earn my keep. You, medicine man with the turban. Are you able to gather Culca Leaves? Do you have the appropriate tools for it?”

“Hu- Er, yes,” the turbaned man nodded, much to Ozmir’s satisfaction.

“Good!” he smiled, waving over the living mummy of a groundskeeper who had been inconspicuously lingering around. “Nesgon, would you mind escorting our friend to the growhouse outside? The one on the same side as the gate. In the meanwhile, all those of you who don’t have pressing business with Ms. Newman, please vacate sect premises.”

Some time passed, Arnys taking a seat at one of the tables while Zefaris sat on the ground by Zel’s side. The sound of inhumanly rapid chopping could be heard from within the kitchen as they waited.

Zefaris let out a sigh, reaching for the box at her side to retrieve the fotoapparat.

“I would’ve been mortified if this had happened a month ago,” she uttered with resignation, and instead of worrying she used this opportunity to take a photo of her slumbering counterpart as she was.

The Matriarch pulled a long pipe from her sleeve, lighting it with a simple spark. She smiled melancholically as she took a long drag and exhaled.

“I had intended to make it clear that people able to outmatch her were not as rare as it might seem, in this gaping power vacuum… But it appears she was hoping for that to be the case. A fool I’ve made of myself, conflating bravado with conceitedness,” said the Matriarch, amused at the conflux of events. Zefaris felt no need to respond.

Several minutes later the man in the turban and Nesgon returned, with the former cautiously carrying four large, blue leaves covered in glittering oil droplets and pollen.

Slowly, the medicine man made his way towards the kitchen, Ozmir somehow having detected his arrival and already approaching him. Nesgon quietly hung around, until - with a voice best described as the remnants of an ashtray - he said to Ozmir: “It’s still a two-man job.”

“So it is,” nodded the chef with a sigh, gesturing for the turban-wearing man to follow and turning on a heel as they ambled into the kitchen once more. Nesgon, meanwhile, quietly walked off, curiously glancing in Zel’s direction as he passed. He was… Smiling? It looked somewhat like a smile, a very understated one on a face made of desiccated leather.

“...Huh. I didn’t think the Immortal Groundskeeper was real,” a thought crossed Arnys’s mind as she watched him leave.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen…

What an absolute fucking terror, this elf was.

Abdul had thought that baking using such textbook culca leaves with top of the line essentech equipment would’ve been a simple procedure, but Ozmir’s definition of “good enough” as far as organic chemistry went threatened to eclipse the absolute peak of what Abdul was capable of. It wasn’t helped by the fact that - eighty-year-old man that he was - Abdul was an alchemist and a doctor before he was a cook, while this centuries-old specialist had clearly dedicated himself solely to the culinary arts.

In order to keep his nerve, Abdul resorted to a well-worn mental exercise for keeping calm in stressful situations like this: Mentally reciting information pertinent to the situation.

Culca was one of several dominant offshoots of a plant that had been cultivated since before Ankhezia could be considered an empire, tangentially related to stinging nettles...