The elders are not going to like this, Yosemite thought to himself as he coughed violently. Green-gray smoke filled the small workspace, one of the few fully-enclosed buildings in the entire village, which made it incredibly difficult to locate the door. Yosemite banged his broad shoulders on the doorframe, as he did even when the air was clear, as he fled what he hoped was completely benign oddly-colored smoke, and not poisonous as it was the last time. And the time before that.
 
Panting heavily, Yosemite removed his goggles and wiped his bald head with the cuff of his shirt. The smoke billowed out his front door, and puffed out the chimney with force, indicating to him that his dropped concoction was still producing a reaction as it pooled on the floor. He took stock of himself, and found that other than choked, he felt well enough. Perhaps, if he could reduce that effect or create some kind of mask, this potion could be used as a smokescreen. Or, maybe a deterrent to invaders the city guard could employ! Every accident is just a benefit not yet applied to the right situation, after all, as Yosemite's father and alchemical tutor had often said to him growing up. Yosemite's doubt turned to optimism, and he felt excited to return inside and review his notes once it was safe.
 
As if the world knew he had felt his heart raise in hope, a loud cracking sound returned it to its downtrodden standard. The roof of his workshop began to buckle inward, the ceiling joists corroded. With a mighty crash, Yosemite's entire roof caved inward, causing dust and debris to mix with the now-free cloud launching itself with force into the sky. Yosemite sighed aloud as he heard a mass of beating wings closing in on his location. He knew who they belonged to.
 
The elders are really not going to like this...