It was named “Daytime Dust” for the sunstreaks that its pure form left on damn-near anything it touched. The other name - “Yellow Snow” - was a low-brow term insinuating the Citrinitas used in its production was extracted from urine, even though urine contained only trace amounts of the aforementioned essentia. 

It was popular with scholars and alchemists in the North, but rarely issued to soldiers due to the fact doses beyond the functional minimum caused semi-euphoric effects that certain higher-ups feared would have soldiers abusing it for fun. Such things very much happened in parts of the country before, during, and after the war, even without the yellow powder. After all, those who wished to be intoxicated could easily do so with more mundane substances, like opium, coca leaves, or plain old alcohol. 

Makhus knew better than to even think of playing drug dealer - he would further refine the raw powder into tonics that he would fortify with mundane substances like fish oil and small concentrations of Viriditas. He would play the snake-oil salesman that delivers on what he advertises. However, formulating the product and coming up with a name was a job that he would leave for later. Perhaps let Sigmund handle some of it, seeing as the historian’s education in mundane matters was, frankly, well beyond Makhus’ own.

For now Makhus spiked his own tea with Daytime Dust and Viriditas, turning his reinforced mental fortitude towards getting the Philosopher’s Heart set up and ready for production. Digging up the former owner’s books, gathering the glassware, moving tables and things to make space for the assembly… Just the prep work ended up costing him a good hour of time, and another half-hour before he had the damn thing put together. It was rudimentary, it took up more space that it needed to, but it was robust and he would be able to simply swap out parts when he inevitably wanted to use the Heart for something other than Fivefold Philter.

The thought of refining the Necrobeast Infusion kept on gnawing at the back of his head, but he knew it would be foolish to try anything now. No, he would get the three doses of Fivefold Philter done, and then take his sweet time working out the impurities of his personal work. 

So it was that Makhus took a sip of his tea and removed the glass phials of salt-suspended essentia from their case.

Next came the brass scale with its myriad tiny weights, combined with an array of tiny phials to hold the measured-out portions. He began the mind-numbing process of measuring out the ingredients and grouping the portions together by which step of the process he would use them in. It made him slip into a stygian mental state wherein he needed to be just focused enough to feel the minutes crawling by, and by the time it was all measured he’d spent thirty-seven minutes as well as drunk another cup of spiked tea.

So many incremental additions, so many checks and balances… Only for him to toss them aside in the process itself.

Makhus knew to follow proper procedure, that much was true, but he also had an eye for these things. He knew when to add a little bit more here, a little less there, when to crank the heat or adjust a tube. It was a skill he’d cultivated throughout his career as a self-taught alchemist, an application of what he’d learned in his short time with the Sanger Family.

Much like a slight turn of the wrist could turn a whiffed slash into the killing stroke in a swordfight, a slight adjustment of the apparatus or ingredient portioning could vastly improve the quality of an elixir.

Or, perhaps, Makhus just couldn’t help himself, driven to experimentation even in spite of the fact he knew exactly how to make Fivefold Philter correctly. 

First, he had to dissolve a phial of the governor’s semi-congealed blood in a solution of ethanol, infused with but a single drop of liquid Aether. It was done in a simple reaction flask placed over an Ignis burner, the top plugged with a quartz stopper for most of the process. The sample dissolved into the faintly glowing solution quickly, becoming a vague, nearly translucent cloud of pale red. 

“Oh, he really is as fucked up as he looks…” Makhus muttered to himself, squinting at the anemic solution. This wasn’t supposed to, or rather, wasn't known to happen with any but the most thin-blooded or deficient patients. The sample was meant to fully incorporate and turn the solution completely blood-red. He hadn’t learned enough about the process to know what to do in this case, but his first instinct was to just add enough pure Rubedo to make up for the deficiency.

As his instincts told him, he did, retrieving the special seal-bottle and unsealing it. He filled a smaller flask halfway, plugging it with a very narrow dropper nozzle that was angled off to the side. He had raised the flask and almost undid the stopper, but… The change could occur instantly and suddenly, or it could be something small and subtle. 

He’d need to be able to see it happen, and he wasn’t going to burn his Rubedo reserves the way the Governor had done to himself. It made no difference that the governor had done it the way it usually happens to people whilst Makhus was outright burning his reserve to fuel a sensory enhancement technique.

So, Makhus just took a swig of liquid Rubedo right out of the seal-bottle, a much bigger one than he’d intended to. The smokey, bloody smell slammed his sinuses with all the force of an artillery cannon. Red Fog poured from his nose and it burned horrendously on the way down, not to mention the sudden flood of primal instinct balanced on the razor edge between absolute rage and absolute lust. For a moment, it felt like he was back in the trenches.

“Hnrgh… S-storage Glyph, come the fuck on!” he growled under his breath, forcefully corking the bottle whilst he fought for self-control.