With only two bottles left, one of the two draws Daemion’s attention more than the other. He seems intrigued, almost confused, by whatever is inside of it. Instead of giving in to his curiosity, he chooses to drink the other one first. He saves the mystery for last, feeding the slight fear of the unknown growing inside of him.
“It doesn’t really smell like anything.”
His mumbling is almost inaudible for his spectators. He takes a second whiff to see if he can figure out a subtle fragrance, but to no success. He takes a rather extensive sip to discover if his tongue can make sense out of it.
“It’s bland”, he says, louder this time. “It’s balanced well, but it’s done so that no distinct flavour stands out. The most predominant aspect is its oily texture. Even though nothing really interests me about this drink, it does invite to drink more.”
He sips it again. He drinks less this time and moves his tongue across his cheeks and over his teeth.
“Dry… Full body… It’s almost like eating meat. I like my wolf or stycha a bit more bloody and rare. The taste is like meat cooked too far, at least for my taste. You should try stycha when you can. Those blood vultures have a really distinct taste, a true delicacy, but I digress…”
He closes his eyes and focuses. He smacks with his mouth open. With him closer to them than during the previous drink fests, they can clearly see his deep purple forked tongue.
“Now a clear taste is present, it becomes sour shortly after swallowing. It’s an honest drink. It doesn’t pretend to be more than it actually is, but I feel it could be more, it could be better. Does that ring any bells?”
His gaze is fixed on the half-elf, who calmly waits until he is finished preaching. He knows himself well enough to guess what manifestation is coming for him. Or at least, he thinks so.
“It leaves my tongue a bit rough. The sourness takes away all previous experienced flavours. Well, to call it ‘flavours’ may be a bit too enthusiastic from my side.” He tries to scrape off any remaining drops of his tongue. “Every flavour just ran away, Oslando, just like you did.”
The half-elf looks closely as he comes near the priest. They both look at the arm with Bruq’s marking on it. Just below the twig wrapped around his wrist appears a new white band. It’s a shackle with a thin chain running down the inside of his lower arm.
“Failures in the past”, the demon says and he stares Oslando deep in his stoic eyes. “They haunt you, don’t they? They do leave a mark on people, literally and figuratively.”
He directs his grin to his new piece of body art and runs his finger across it. His sharp nail doesn’t notice any edges, any unevenness. It’s perfect.
“Which of these many drawings is yours, if I might ask? And does it mean?”
The half-elf’s calmness surprises Daemion. Even if his current state of mind is only a play to look untroubled, he’s doing a good job. All other participants usually can’t seem to be bothered by anything but the thing they fear or come to claim.
“I would rather keep that information to myself”, he says calmly. “At least for now. I don’t want to trouble your thoughts during your test. We’ll have time when you and your dragon-like friend have passed.”
Oslando looks past his shoulder and meets Dargothoth’s gaze. Displeased, the sivak loudly blows air throughout his nose. Calling them friends would almost make him laugh. Almost.
“Understood”, he replies. “I look forward to it. Please, continue.”
Daemion nods politely, lips thin and eyes closed, and turns towards the frightful bust of Gor-Thar. The pulsating glow of its purple crystals aligns with his breathing. The symbol of the shackle shines and joins the rhythmical gleaming. With every brighter pulse the Father’s head brings forth more of the clouding vapour. The blackness crawls rapidly across the floor and covers it like a cold and menacing blanket.
Within that blackness rises the sound of breaking wood. Even though it’s not mentioned for Bruq, he has a short flashback to his trial with the undead treant.
What walks out of the fog towards Oslando is also tree-like, but very different. An unnatural looking humanoid made of grey and dark brown wood takes slow steps. It looks like someone cut a tree to look slightly like a human or elf, but instead of taking the effort of carving a face, a thick branch forms its neck and dark green leaves shape its featureless head. Its broad chest is covered with the same frond, but something is ruffling inside of it. The leaves are pushed aside by two pale hands. They’re also made of wood and are connected to a body of the same colour. An entire upper half of a body pushes itself out of the tree. It looks like a man. With rigid movements he moves away the thin white roots that form his long straight hair. In front of them, still connected to the walking arboreal humanoid, is an exact copy of Oslando.
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