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Some people use a house rule that potions of healing only take a bonus action to quaff. Don’t they know how painful it is to get healed by such drinks? It hurts like a mother as your body relives the injuries backwards and digs you up, yanks out the coffin nails, knits you up, stitches you up, burns you up like a modern swindler.
Brewing the potions from the petals of blood viola flowers is a time-consuming process, too, and expensive. You need twenty-five petals for a single small bottle. But then it glints like dawn gold over the red seas of a mothworld. A sickly-sweet taste of root celery, jasmine, cardamom-thrice-steeped, and above all a lingering red viola aftertaste that takes days to go away.
Echoes of the last slow beat of your heart reversing, picking up speed one by one by one. A bottle of hope for the fallen wanderer so far from the world of dew and sky and hearth and garden. It’s like being born, your hama’s wings flapping and beak pecking at your insides, begging to be released but the searing drink welds it back to the cage named you for one more round against those that rattle and crawl in the deep.
Six seconds well spent.