It's easy enough for Vlast to figure out the basics after watching Benedict with the pipe. Breath in, breathe out. And so he does. There is no sputtering or coughing, no choking or wheezing. There is a calm, deep inhale, and then a thoughtful expression, like a man tasting wine.

Then Vlast exhales a great plume from his nostrils – a tiny storm of golden sparks going off in the cloud of smoke before it dissipates in the air, leaving a lingering scent of burnt herbs and, strangely enough, the sharp smell of o-zone.

“Hm,” he says in that neutral tone he reserves for all the things he doesn't want to admit to enjoying, “peculiar. And people do this as a regular pastime...?”