First, I placed the foundation of all potions before me: the cauldron. The word invoked the image of massive pots that witches stirred. In alchemical terms, the cauldron was a metal container above a fire. Size wasn’t a factor and, due to the size of the classroom, limited. The cauldron sat in a tripod, holding it up above a gas-fuelled flame. A nearby tap provided me with a stream of Alchymiet.

The fluid was of a verdant green and was slightly more viscous than water. I carefully measured it, before pouring every drop into my cauldron. Immediately, it started to bubble, but it did not boil. Alchymiet was a fundamental material of alchemy due its supernatural property of keeping ingredients in the cauldron from reacting with one another, until the mixture was cooled. It made alchemy a less volatile art.

I crushed the dried wings of Fairywood Butterflies into a fine powder and mixed it with oil. The resulting paste was scraped into the cauldron. Next, I filled a bowl with tap water and placed it on a level surface. It was to remain there for a full five minutes or more. Provided it was not moved, it could then be called stable. In the meantime, I grabbed the Redworm from the provided materials. It was a larva, still alive, and squirming between my fingers. Its red body was shorter than my pinkie.

‘Sorry little guy, but you are about to become lotion,’ I thought and dropped it into a second mortar. Peculiarly, the worm was grinded into a dry dust, rather than the pulpy mess I would have expected. That dust was sprinkled directly into the cauldron. Next, I took three closed flowers and placed them in a pot. I filled it halfway with water and sprinkled some Essence Salt into it. Not quite certain if that had been enough, I added some more. The instructions specifically said to intuit the measurement here. Then I stirred the pot for ten minutes, only stopping to add the stable water to the mixture.

Gradually, the mix I stirred turned pink, as the essence of rejuvenation was drawn from the closed flowers. Once I deemed that process complete, I filtered the contents of the pot. The blackened remains of the flowers were left on top of the iron mesh, to be swiftly discarded. Boiling the remaining pink fluid, I reduced it until the colour had reached a satisfying intensity. The penultimate step was to add the essence to the cauldron.

Afterwards, all I had to do was to put out the flame and stir the mixture. As the Alchymiet cooled, the colour of the brew shifted. First it went into a brackish brown, simply combining all the colours of the ingredients. Once it had cooled enough, the reactions took place, swiftly turning the entire mixture into a mild, flowery pink. Visibly, the amount of fluid reduced, until the cauldron was only half as full as it had been at the start of the reactions.

‘Nothing unusual here,’ I thought. I had seen my fair share of catalysation by now. The amount of material that went into the process was a poor measurement for how much came out by the end. Carefully, I poured the final result into a vial and labelled it ‘Guided’ with a removable marker. ‘Onto improvisation.’

There were a few materials provided beyond those used in the guide. Each of them was in its own segment of the wooden box, a label providing the name. I decided to look all of them up in the Alchemica Esoterica. Once I had checked on them, I also looked up the materials I had already used, just to see if they had any additional properties.

To achieve stable water, I ended up doing the same thing as the guide. I reckoned I could freeze it, but just having it stand on a level surface for five minutes was too easy not to go that route.

Whimsical oil I got done by grabbing a bottle of it and shaking it as I danced around in front of my work station like a fool. Several of my classmates giggled at the display, which worked fine for me. Notably, the teacher gave me an approving nod, so the method was likely to work.

Dashes of sanguine I acquired by using one of the other materials, rose petals, and reducing them to paste to get a nice red to throw into the brew.

Finally, rejuvenation essence, I managed to extract from the remaining Redworms. I made sure to kill them before I tossed them into the water with the Essence Salt. They were insects and lacked the necessary nervous system to be tormented. Ultimately their existence was insignificant. I didn’t want to draw out their end though. Even if it made no difference to them, it would have been bad for my soul to callously drown them.

After mixing it all, I got a second flask full of the Lotion Potion. Its colour was notably more intense, so pink that it almost overpowered the translucency. When Temerian came over to check on my work, he was thoroughly amused. “Figured that you would have libido-tinted brew,” he remarked.

“I guess the colour gives it away?”

“Exactly,” the teacher confirmed. “The Lotion Potion is one of the few where the tint is immediately obvious by the colour. For most others, you have to drink it to find out.”

I had a follow-up question, but Temerian let me know not to ask before he was back in his position at the head of his class. Once he was, he explained what I wondered about anyway. “You have probably all noticed that the potion you made through improvisation is more intense in its colour. This is because, working by your own intuition, emphasizes your personal investment on the product. Keep this in mind: if you want a brew to be as neutral as possible, stick to a recipe. Treat it as a mechanical process and don’t get invested emotionally. If you want it to have your personal touch, go at it in whatever way you want. That’s the lesson for today. You may now leave or go after your personal projects.”

For the remainder of the class I tried, and failed, to make any progress on the Ephrogaea Pill.

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“This is art.” A picture of a finely crafted vase appeared. “The swing of its narrow neck, the imagery of a sun rising on the blue pottery, the careful elements of white and purple blending to form the gradations of the sky and clouds, beauty in every thoughtfully realized detail.” The image switched to depict a metal cylinder. “This is trash,” the speaker sneered. “An object without aesthetic, only purpose. It holds what you put inside it and is bereft of soul. Hollow, empty, an object. Trash. Trash.” The image switched to the vase. “Art.” The metal box was on the screen again. “Trash.” Back to the vase. “Art.” Suddenly the image was that of a black-haired man with sleek glasses and androgynous looks. “Trash.” The next image was that of a chaotic individual in a bright, blue suit, with a blonde afro. “Art.”

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‘I should bring popcorn to these classes,’ I thought, laughing to myself. The last two images that had just been shown depicted the teacher of the Applied Arts and Aesthetic Arts classes respectively. I was currently in the latter of these two, watching the flamboyant teacher, one Ignatz von Wunderhaupt, propagandize against his ‘opposite’. Esther, who was currently in the class of the sleek teacher, Tom Jenkins, had told me that she was getting the same treatment.

We were told Tom taught his students that only angular shapes and simple materials were acceptable to use in projects. Over there, they were told Ignatz taught us that colour blotches were the peak of artistic expression.

The mystery of this rivalry’s beginning was one that I wished I could unravel. Neither here nor there was any answer for their seething hatred given. I had even asked some other teachers about this and they had just smiled. Perhaps all of this was a massive inside joke? It was certainly amusing.

The visual presentation ended, leaving behind what looked like a regular chalkboard. “Alright, now that we got that established again, we’ll be continuing your projects from last week,” Ignatz informed us and pointed at a table full of semi-finished clay projects.

Of course, the clay in question wasn’t normal, otherwise it would have dried to the point of uselessness over the past week. This particular kind was closer to putty in that it remained formable at all time – until it was baked. After that it turned into a kind of pottery that was weaker than what could be created by purely physical means. Not everything that was magical was better than science. Had bombs not been so cumbersome to carry around and use, they may have enjoyed higher popularity in the magical world.

I was pretty sure I would take a class regarding combat against firearms eventually, so I didn’t ponder that topic further at the moment. There was enough to listen to.

“Aesthetics are the bread of the soul,” Ignatz went on, pacing up and down before the chalkboard. “Sapient beings do not surround themselves with what is practical. If purpose, if application, was all that mattered, there would be no attraction to a kindred spirit on the basis of their looks. If it was all about procreation, men and women would be attracted to one another purely on the basis of fertility. A hammer is a tool, yet there is more to its appearance than its capability of driving nails into a wooden board. The colour of its grip, the shape of the head, the way these two are joined, all of this matters to the eye and the hand. Yet, the hammer must remain a hammer.”

I nodded along, which was actually kind of bad. All Ignatz said I instinctively agreed with. I had a great appreciation of beauty. Most specifically, I loved gorgeous women, but creation at large also had much to offer to please my eyes. The entire mythos of beauty that Ignatz presented - I already shared it. That made attending his classes pretty useless. Nothing new was being said to me, I was learning nothing of value.

There had been a segment where Ignatz explained to us various instinctive reactions the sapient mind had to distinct shapes. Interesting about that had been that these reactions were shared between all of the different humanoid species, with only minor cultural deviations applying. Otherwise, everything I could have just as well learned from a video tutorial. Even the clay that had been provided was something I could have gotten cheaply from the internet.

Fundamentally, my goal in coming to this class had been to expand my creative thinking. Turned out that that was impossible to be taught. The artistic practice that made up the majority of the class time did help somewhat, but not in such a way that I deemed it useful for my goal: to expand on the visualization required for my Artefact. Shaping clay and shaping Astral Capacity were only related insofar that they used the same mental muscles.

In order to train my Artefact ability, I was better advised actually using it, rather than crafting things the regular way. I needed to study the objects I wanted to make from Astral Capacity, not make them from a different material. That realization had been valuable in and of itself, so I didn’t think I had wasted my time by picking this module for this semester. I just wouldn’t attend the follow-up.

While I still had it, I decided to enjoy it. The clay was free and I had to be at university at this hour anyway. Besides my Queen giving me a hard time if I skipped classes, the timing just worked out that way. This module took place right after my shift at the Café Served and before my class on the basics of gravity magic. The train was driving through Welldark University anyway and sitting home for one hour only to go back out would have been bad for my motivation. Once my body was at rest, it wanted to stay at rest. Better to stay in motion.

Ignatz finished his philosophical preamble and allowed us to fetch our current projects. The idea had been something that we would like to have in our homes. A home was the physical extension of a person’s mind and the way it was kept reflected on the soul, or so they said. Certainly, having a room decorated in ways that one found mentally harmonious with their being served to have that relaxed feeling only one’s chosen dwelling could bring.

Therefore, my choice of what to craft had obviously been a figurine of Esther.

A wax cloth was spread out over the tables, to allow us all to work without minding the dirt we created in the process. In the first place, the tables of this room were considerably larger than in the standard lecture room. I sat down with my piece, while other students ran over to the various vitrines along the sides of the room, containing tools for all manners of carving and shaping. Since I could just materialize the tools I needed, I spared myself that particular effort. Ironically, that creation of utensils was better training for my Artefact than the crafting I had come to the class for.

I turned the figurine in my hands. Already I was committed to destroying it at the end of the semester. For a first-time clay-shaping, it was a masterpiece, to give myself that much credit. The proportions were accurate to a human, the little pose she struck close to lifelike, and even the balance of the entire object proper, the circular base at the bottom providing all the stability it needed.

I had a talent – no – a gift when it came to creation.

Regardless, this first attempt was a bust – in part because I had failed to capture my woman’s wonderful bust. What I had given her was the correct proportionate size, but the twin globes were too perfectly symmetrical and static in their roundness. They required a certain slope to communicate the true softness of the abundant flesh at display. For her butt, I was not entirely certain how to carve that fold between cheeks and thighs. Above all, I failed to give her facial features justice. Her fine nose, the way her unruly hair framed her stern expression, the exact shape of her eyebrows, and a myriad of other details.

There was only so much I could do with clay alone and the scope provided. Standing, the figurine was only as tall as my hand. The rest of the semester would give me the opportunity to paint the figurine. I would take the opportunity to learn, then destroy it before the lady of my love would ever have to lay eyes upon this crude representation of her. Experience gained during the endeavour would aid me in fashioning the second version.

It was a humble goal of mine, acquired after I had begun crafting this very figure, to create one worthy of each of my haremettes. Knowing Esther, she would likely object to something of her likeness being displayed in our shared spaces, so I would have to create a room for them elsewhere. In general, I would eventually require my own little corner of the house, dedicated to craftsmanship. I had a natural inclination to make things, be they figurines, potions or small artifacts.

‘Maybe I can get a garage or something,’ I thought in all seriousness. How stereotypical that was only dawned on me a few seconds later. Then I continued my work. I would enjoy doing this in self-study in the future.

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