100 Words a Day 403

He slowly came to. The last thing he remembered was the frantic cries of the gnomes and the terrible rending of the airship breaking apart in the sky, but he was definitely somewhere else. Turning his head to one side he saw a workbench dotted with curiously shaped jars filled with liquids of colors he had never seen. One was the color of the blue flowers his mother grew, but it sparkled like impure stone. Another, the color of the morning sun, bubbled over a small flame. Each bottle was labeled in an angular script that he did not recognize.