There was a certain tingle in the air as the patrons mingled at the bar. A note of excitement in their hushed chatter.
His curiosity too was piqued and he lent an unsolicited ear.
Until he caught wind of the cause of their excitement.
Liquid gold.
And in the same breadth, stamped out.
How long had it been since he'd heard of it? The simple phrase itself brought a bad taste to his mouth.
But the company of the tavern thought otherwise.
A drop of pure light, they whispered. The essence of the Sun and the warmth of Love itself. A panacea, they prattled on, rumored to banish any illness or ailment. Others believed it to purify and restore the body, mending wounds and granted temporary, but miraculous, regeneration. Still more said it was the source of Life itself, drawn from the fountain of youth, and was so potent it could return one from the brink of death, to walk the land of the living once more.
Desperation brewed foolishness, and people were wont to believe what those right of mind never would. But reluctant though he may be, Zeal intended to investigate the lead with due diligence. On the small chance that there was veracity in such rumors, he would be there to claim it.
The Seeker leered through the gloom of the inn's pub, wondering if Sacré had caught wind of this yet.
The shrewd owner of the establishment, and acquaintance of his, had the foresight and funding to construct the tavern as a joint venture. The thought of a deal with a warm, quality supper and bed was quite clever a notion, one that served to bring all sorts of winds his way. Be they wayfarers, merchants, or Sanctum Vigils.
Though, the man was not always one of coin. There was a Time past when he once worked within the Inner Sanctums. Hailing from the Vales far to the South, and born to an influential family, he was once an upstanding member of the Court. A lead Researcher and Contributor.
The occasional snippet reached him over the din of the other patrons, but none of it worthy of note.
Misinformed, all of them. Liquid gold, as it was known in colloquial terms, was nothing as phantasmal as solar light given fluid form. The notion of a sip granting eternal Life were unfounded--likely the fabrication of some merchant of eld eager to weigh in a heavier purse from the unlearned. Certainly it did seem to bestow youth, given that it returned vigor to the body, but that was all there was to it. While potent in its healing properties, it was no "Kiss of Life", moreover the efficacy had been greatly embellished in the passing years.
He took another swig. It was thin. The steak they plated him wasn't much better either, and certainly not befitting of this fine establishment. A tiny sole of rubber, less than half the size of his fist. The sad and dry bit of gristle sat by itself on a wooden plate, no dressings. But he drowned it in sauce and chewed anyway, maw set sternly and with open disdain. He would have a few choice words of the same choice cut, for the Inn Keeper later.
But Zeal swirled his drink and continued listening to a group of men in a poorly lit corner by the empty stage drone on, buzzing about with a nigh religious fervor and reverence in their hearsay. The air tingled with the excited din as the other patrons too spoke rapidly in hushed tones. It was almost comical how conspicuous they were, shushing one, uneasy eyes darting around.
All this talk seemed to have stemmed from a recent circulation of what some proclaimed to be authentic liquid gold. It seemed there was a new merchant about, dressed in strange cloth, and whom seemed to have appeared overnight.
Here in this remote town?
The blight had been particularly harsh this year, worse than the last.
As it always seems to be.
Zeal sifted through the conversations, gathering scant bits of information.
An outlandish merchant of unknown origins appearing overnight in some nameless and unmemorable stop. The circumstances alone were nothing short of suspicious.
That a strange man has passed through, Zeal could believe. The rest?
Hokum most likely.
But something was afoot.
He downed the last of his ale and leaned back against the cushioned back of the corner booth, languidly draping himself out over the lumpy surface as he let the meal settle in his belly. His mouth was still dry. Not parched, but just enough that he wished to chase the meal down with something strong. Zeal flagged the bar master who nodded and sent the busboy his way. It was a new face tending the bar today, and the man had a burly frame that further compressed his oddly thin features. Thin was the black hair he slicked back, and equally so were mustache and sharp eyes set in his face. He had the same shrewd look to him that reminded Zeal of the Owner himself.
The busboy got to his table, a grimy pad of paper ready in his hands. There's a smudge of dirt by his nose and he's yet to grow into his clothes.
"Ale."
Another diner hollered for him and the boy jolted, tossing a "Be right with you!" over his shoulder before jotting it down with shaky, unpracticed, penmanship and scampering off.
Zeal nodded and tasted the aftertaste of the sauce, his tongue lolling against teeth as he wiped himself clean.
But in the quiet reverie of his own mind did he grudgingly acknowledge that Times have indeed moved on. It had been a well over a century since the last specimen had been found, and harvested.
What a venture that had been.
He couldn't fault them for their ignorance.
Not much of the past persisted, and few that he knew then were around still.
The remnants of Times before were few and far between. Too long to remember, and too short to forget.
Enough so that fact had long since passed into fiction.
There were at Times when he'd awoken, still bleary with sleep, and reached for the familiar, only to find it missing.
He flicked a coin at the boy even before he got to his table, and the child near fumbled his drink in surprised as the metal chip sailed through the air, landing square in his front pocket.
The boy gaped before grinning ear to ear, "Nice trick mister, can you do it again?"
Zeal droned back. "I wasn't born yesterday."
"Thank you muchly, mister!"
Zeal grunted as the boy set the drink down in front of him, but before the busboy could turn, the gravelly voice called him back, "Boy."
"Yessir?" though his hands were rough, his eyes were yet bright with youth. Time had yet to touch this one.
"Ale. Not water."
"That should be your order thou--" The boy started, but one look from the Seeker and he nods quickly, "--b-but I must be mistaken. I'll go check right away sir."
He nodded.
The boy didn't bother scribbling it down this Time, scurrying back to the counter. Zeal eyes the youth as he reaches the counter, exchanging a few words with the Keep. The burly man barks something and squints in Zeal's direction before swiping the mug off the boy's tray.
"And ale's what your gett'n."
"Your ale runs like water."
"No one's forcing you to drink, mate." he replied gruffly.
Zeal beckons. Warily, the bar leans in.
"Wet my cup with the ale I paid for." The harsh monotony of voice is oddly soft, no more than the whisper of a passing Zephyr, yet steady and unyielding as the grand oak before the howling gales.
"Now see here!" The man pulls away, jaw set. But before he can speak, his beady eyes spot an ashen blade learning against the wall on the inside of the booth, resting with deceptive calm.
"The Nighthawk." Eyes widening, he sputters, "Then you're--"
Ah. So the tavern keep knew his blade by name. How troublesome. Perhaps it would've been better if he hadn't bestowed a name upon his familiar, for a name carried with it fame and recognition. Though he soon banished the thought. There was no better familiar, though pride itself was a poison.
"My company is shy." Zeal leans closer and passes the man a coin. "Doesn't like the attention. You understand, aye?"
"Of course sir." The burly man straightens up, and clears his throat, "A thousand pardons. We're honored to have such an esteemed Seeker as a patron to our humble establishment."
His barking voice, however low, has Zeal furtively surveying the tavern. "Many clients favor confidentiality, and there is no establishment more reliable in such details of discretion and privacy than The Grapevine."
The barkeep nods his head, the bouncing briefly bringing to mind the memory of a booth at the autumnal carnival, a popular activity with the children where one would bob for the ripe and traditionally red fruits so favored by the season.
"We'll bring out a new glass right away."
Zeal grunts his thanks, turning to face the din of the evening rush. He scans the pub again, but most of the bar goers are wrapped up in their own conversation, and as it were, still busy passing news of the resurfacing of Liquid Gold. Most, not all, and he sits back to wait.
The barkeep returns with his glass, and this Time it's proper ale.
"Much obliged."
He takes a gulp. Better than the watered down swill.
Satisfactory, but still wanting.
The bar master lingers a moment longer and when Zeal voices no complaints, dips his head once and returns to his station.
The Seeker stares into his cup, "How long are you going to make me wait."
Soft leather soles barely scuff the floor as their owner shifts, and the wood creaks.
There is a gradual stiffening of the shared cushioning but nothing more, as it accommodates and settles with the added weight of the establishment's owner who takes his place across from him in the horseshoe booth.
With an entrance as soft as his person and such gentle grace as to displace naught, Sacré Ciel at last makes an appearance.
And for a moment, Zeal basks in the comfort of familiarity that came with the other's presence. His aether flowed as a tranquil stream, not unlike the burbling creek of a lush forest.
Though the man had a strong presence it was in the same breath subtle.
Not the glaring of Summer Sun with the piercing sting of its radiance and overwhelming heat, but subtle like the encroaching Wintry chill, seeping so very slowly to pool in the very marrow of one's bones. The froren winds.
"It's rude to interrupt a man who has yet to sup." Sacré smiles sweetly. Almost daintily so.
"Ruder still to serve off-the-menu rubbish, wouldn't you agree?" Zeal sits back, arms crossed as he takes in the other man's illusory charm.
Tonight's woven illusion gives him the appearance of short black hair, loosely slicked back and well groomed. Though the innkeeper seemed to have foregone his brows, and silky white lashes framed the brilliant hue of his eyes. Sacré is dressed simply in a murky green waist-length coat and black undershirt. His pants are of black cloth, and by the straight creases, freshly pressed. Around his neck is a milky shimmer of white cloth and he idly notes the embroidery. Hand stitching. Lingering in the air is a soft fragrance of oriental wood musk, not too strong, and subtle.
"And supper would imply that this filth was edible."
That steak had been all gristle, and the cheap swill of an ale watered down. Both of which the Keeper likely bought just for this little jest. He swabs his mouth with his own cloth, "That was your doing, no?"
His mouth curled up, the rough points of his teeth peeking out from behind chapped lips, "Should I order you the same?"
Sacré promptly declines, and they share a look before the Inn Keeper abruptly falls into laughter and a smile crosses Zeal's face.
It's a pleasant laugh. One Zeal welcomes from the wear and tear of his travels.
"You and your jests." Zeal shook his head, voice gruff. "You haven't changed." But the exasperation was fond if anything.
"It made you smile."
"And lost me coin."
Sacré just grins and pats the soft leather of the coin purse resting on his waist sash. The owner nods to the master of the bar, and they sign back.
"A new face, but a loyal one." It is with lazy interest that Zeal takes in their exchange, "He kept to your instructions up until the end, even after recognizing me. Takes gall."
"That he is." Sacré regards them with a warm smile, waving back when the burly man signed an 'okay' and that all was well. "When I told him to 'serve this and naught else' for your order, I only meant for him to serve my jest. I can see where the misunderstanding came from--I'll have to apologize to him later."
Not long after, the table is bedecked with a proper meal. A flagon of golden clover mead, a marbled slab of steak cooked to rare perfection, seasoned with a dash of salt and pepper, a whole roasted juvenile trout, a mound of potatoes overflowing with gravy, and sauteed vegetables boasting of the seasonal harvest.
The enticing scent has him salivating.
"I would never leave an old friend wanting. Well? Dig in!"
And the Seeker tears into the steaming plates with the ravenous hunger one could expect of a man who had spent a week knowing nothing but the meager nourishment of the wilds.
Sacré, having already supped for the evening, orders for himself a simple house favorite of mulled wine. But Zeal carves up a quarter of his steak and plates it for the other. "It pairs well with it."
At first Sacré declines, as was only polite, but the Seeker insistently pushes the plate towards him again, adding in shortly afterwards, "You've gotten thinner."
And the Inn Keeper at last relents, clearing his throat softly.
Sacré eats slowly, taking his Time to slice the marbled slab into manageable pieces.
A dignity that, for the few exceptional and delicate circumstances of utmost propriety, Zeal would forego in favor of familiar company and the tantalizing feast before him. But he did observe.
The Inn Keeper was of high station by birth, exuded by his posture and the way the man carried himself. Yet it was not with such grace that his hands were poised.
The pungent stench of antiseptics and disinfectants distasteful even in mere memories.
"Zeal."
At the sound of his name, he looks up from his plate. Sacré has abandoned both his wineglass and the sincerity of his smile, leaning over the table on his elbows with brow knitted and fingers laced.
"You're doing that... thing again." he says softly, and Zeal notes the slight wrinkle of his nose amidst the distinct and very real laboratory odor. There's an odd whiteness in their surroundings despite the dim lighting.
He grunts and crams another bloody bite of steak into his mouth, and slowly, the static fades, though the smell persists and lingers around them, clinging to them, heavy and thick like Death.
The Inn Keeper takes it in a stride, chuckling as he watches the Seeker scarf down his plate. "Can you even taste the dish like that? I'll have you know this isn't the usual fare."
He grunts again in a noncommittal answer and slows his pace, chewing properly.
The man sitting across from him tries again, "Perhaps it'd be best if you took a hiatus? At least to recuperate. You've been on nonstop ventures these past few ."
"Soon."
And they leave it at that. The Inn Keeper sits back to mull over his glass while his companion sates himself.
Sacré knew well enough that what most took for granted in a warm and nourishing meal, was a luxury the Seeker didn't oft see in his occupation. Despite the fortunes of his dealings, it was a tough Life to live.
Seekers were, of course, oft hired for a myriad of work. There were different branches, each with their own intricacies, and if he so chose, Zeal could've taken less daunting assignments. Ones that posed much less in the way of peril.
He was neither beholden nor bound to any, and neither did he have to answer to the varying factions of the Sanctum.
All the different branches--both of the Seeker's Union and otherwise--were eager to lay claim to the elusive phantom of a Seeker, of whom few, even those of other paths, could boast even nearing the achievements and accomplishments of.
And the Communions had certainly noted how the Seeker had, on his own, put the many Divisions to shame. He was oft hired for work in other jurisdictions. Many Hiemal Case Assignments from within the Hybernacularium had been taken on by the Seeker--and completed within a moon.
Yet impressive as the extensive list of Hiemal Case completions that Zeal had under his belt were--amidst a massive archive of other completed ventures--a large part of the clamor and circulation of his recognition stemmed from his status of operating as a standalone Seeker.
While there were many groups and individuals that operated independently without affiliation, of which comes with its own benefits and vices, few achieved more than the minor brown or grey card.
Zeal was different.
Many a Times the Seeker's Union had extended an invitation, if only for esteem, each contract with an offer far more ludicrous than the last.
And every Time Sacré passed Zeal a missive, he would accept it with nary a glance, and with the same levity, would the landlord would find it the next day, having been put through it paces with the shredder and resting inconspicuously in the rubbish heap with the rest of the refuse.
But Sacré for one, harbored no envy for Zeal's success, if anything it was for the man's apathy.
It wasn't the Seeker who was plagued by difficult nights or idle moments afflicted with concern. The dangers and tribulations of such assignments were a risk he wouldn't take. Zeal could take care of himself, and without a doubt there were few better suited for whatever the task may be. Yet Life conspires, and none were infallible to circumstance.
Those who thought themselves so, were mere fools.
A momentary lapse in attentiveness or judgement, or by coincidence or misfortune, was all it took.
But he voiced none of them. There was naught he could do, and sharing such burdens simply shackled others to the same unyielding weight.
Zeal had more than earned his reputation as a Seeker of great renown. But for all the recognition he had garnered, none of it seemed of import to the man h imself.
And neither was Zeal searching for adventure, nor looking for a challenge to banish the monotony of Life.
As impassive as the man was, it wasn't due to a lack of thrill.
It was... weary.
... He could retire if he so desired. Settle down.
And many a Times Sacré had inquired, only to find it a practice in futility.
It had been more than a decade ago when they first met, and still the Seeker seemed restless. Always wandering, always searching. In a way, Sacré thought, perhaps these assignments that he took were simply a part of his search. To bring him across to some far flung corner of the realm. It certainly wasn't the coin, Sacré knew at least this much.
Zeal was immovable when it came to coin and compensation, though seemed to have a great penchant for collecting all sorts of oddities. Regardless, one way or another, the Seeker would take what was due. This much was true, but if anything, dealing with payment of any sort, be it into his own pocket or out, he treated as one would a hassle or inconvenience. It was work.
A mild irritation--if irritation was something Zeal felt.
Capable as the Seeker is, expression of self was not one of them.
But... perhaps unsurprising given his languid indifference, whatever it was the Seeker sought, he'd never taken him into confidence.
There was much Zeal chose not to disclose, as he himself likewise did.
And Sacré had no desire to pry.
They were both content with such arrangements, free of inconvenience.
But things had changed, loathe though he was to admit it. And Sacré was aware enough to recognize his own displeasure at the needless self-endangerment. Particularly so as it brought neither benefits nor joy to the either of them, and if anything seemed to rest as a heavier, and growing, weight upon the Seeker. No words were exchanged, as per the norm, and to anyone else Zeal would appear no different, but he could sense the weariness in his actions. The dark pools whose gaze, though alert, seemed almost vacant. As if merely going through the paces.
Sacré reasoned that perhaps it was for the same reason he himself refrained from voicing his worries for the other. Perhaps Zeal had deemed it beyond the help of his expertise. It was pointless to do so, and an unnecessary expenditure of Time and effort that inconvenienced and brought the needless involvement of others.
Doubtlessly Zeal had already acquainted himself with the pub talk. He would ask about the liquid gold, and depart on yet another venture.
But as innocent and well-meaning as such a motive as the others well-being, there was more to it.
The weight in his inner pocket rests heavy, and the heat that tinges him almost unbearable in its tender warmth.
It would mean confirming their existence.
Heavy cloth hooded and draped around their form, shrouding all but the large red eyes studying him silently as he clutched the odd vial tight in his hand. Yet for all the ominous mystique, the atmosphere was somehow curious, and benign.
Whispering zephyrs, just quiet enough as to be indistinguishable, tickled at his ears.
And an overwhelming desire overtook him to keep the little one, safe. Similar, he supposed, to the instinctive desire a creature may have in being protective of their young.
But it was a moment that wouldn't last, and which Sacré could only assume had been one-sided. For he reached out and abruptly, the small ragamuffin turned tail and in the blink of an eye, disappeared into the alley.
But what shook him was the utter lack of prelude. Only the weaving of the most powerful known illusion coupled with several other enchantments--and he could only attribute the happening to the involvement of the aetherical arts--could drag one so seamlessly into the world of waking dreams, and Sacré had suffered no small amount of training in the branch of such aetherical arts and their countermeasure.
And it had bypassed all of it.
One moment he had been minding his own business, the next he was being led down a side street, chasing the small shade. It was as if he'd been caught up in a dream. Surreal, and to which all else had nonexistent.
There was only the ragamuffin, somehow charismatic and endearing in that heavy, overly large cloak.
It had been such a terribly powerful pull, an emotion so raw, so primitive that he found his mind all but absent, second to reflexive response with not even a suspicious thought to cross his mind.
Such powerful magic required vast stores of aether and preparation beforehand to perform, yet having scoured the alley in the aftermath of the encounter Sacré found no evidence of such preparations. No traces of aether, ritual remnant, or conduit by which such powerful magic could've been anchored and drawn. Which meant that whatever the ragamuffin had done, had been instantaneous.
Worse still it persisted, an uncomfortable and moreover unnatural tickle.
He could scry no enchantment nor charms, and several Times in the past week he had observed his own aether which proved intact and unaffected, though that in itself meant little. There were all manners of ways in which one could keep their influence undetected.
But for such a lengthy period?
Furthermore, the aetherical drain of such a feat should've left them with the Undertaker. Even harnessing the very essence of their Life wouldn't have been enough for such advanced aetherical manipulation. It took the efforts of an entire covenant to weave such intricate spells, and complicated besides.
Nothing was adding up.
That the likely objective of their search could so easily do so was admittedly alarming. And that it had slipped by his vigilance, unsettling.
Unless... but that was preposterous. For a specimen to survive the Harvest Moon and coincidentally appear here of all places? Absurd. That the fates would conspire for such an impossibility.
There was something more afoot.
Regardless, there were more pressing matters of current. Was he truly free of the puppeteer's strings?
This fond protectiveness he felt that seemed to belong to another, so foreign was it to him.
Was he protecting his friend? Or by the will of another, the discretion of a stranger?
Learned though he may be, Sacré did not oft travel, and it was Zeal who knew not horizons, but the skies of a different land. Maybe they could explain this... predicament.
Perhaps it do to consult the Seeker. At length of course.
Admittedly, should Zeal learn of the rumor's source, there would be no doubt as to the relentless pursuit that was sure to follow. And the Seeker could be rather unforgiving and draconic in his approach.
And the little thing was oh so very skittish.
If such thoughts were indeed his own, it would be remiss to dismiss of them so easily.
Before all of this though, there was something he needed the Seeker's appraisal for. After all, it was the objective.
The Inn Keeper realizes then that his glass is empty, and he's drained the last of the dredges in his cup. Likewise had the conversation fallen too long. Normally, Sacré would apprise Zeal of the happenstance in his absence. He looks up to find the Seeker regarding him, and he offers a benign smile.
If it had struck Zeal as odd, he said nothing of it as Sacré poured himself a new glass from the heated flagon. Sacré took another slow sip, ignoring the sharp eyes following his every movement, far too accustomed to the relentless scrutiny by now.
It isn't until after they've worked through half the meal that Zeal speaks again, "What news have you?"
"You presume there is news." the landlord replies smoothly, helping himself to another glass of the fragrant wine.
The Seeker bites into the roasted trout with a delightful crunch, the light, crispy skin giving way to tender and fat flesh that is overflowing with a sweet flavorful juice.
Silver Trout parrs were especially tender, and caught young, yielded edible and soft bones. This he savors fully, before swallowing, "The pub talks."
"When does it ever not?"
"Diligence where it is due."
"You would believe them?" Skeptical eyes bore into his own.
"No."
"Then..."
"A strange wind stirs the town. I would fill my sails before it passes." Zeal gestures impatiently, "Enough. You have news, do you not?"
The man he shares a booth leans forward to rest his chin on interwoven fingers, "And what will you do after I've told you?"
There's a certain edge that slips into the measured cadence of Sacré's voice that gives him pause. Something had been off with Sacré the entire evening, one which he had chosen to ignore.
"Depends. What are you going to tell me?"
Despite his thin frame, Sacré was more than capable of taking care of himself. Whatever troubled him, he had made no mention of, and be it whether the other was not yet ready to speak, or whether Sacré simply didn't want his involvement, Zeal wouldn't meddle in his affairs.
That being said, if it had anything to do with a lead to the origin of the rumors, he wouldn't stand idly by.
Unfortunately, Zeal had a hunch that it did. Correlation does not equate to causation, but circumstances oft proved far too convenient to be mere coincidence.
And Sacré seemed to realize this too, for he sighs, sinking into the cushioned backrest. He speaks slowly, and with great care, measuring his words. "It is as you've guessed, I've already done a preliminary search. There's a correlation to their appearance, and it seems the most frequent of sightings have been dawn or dusk, and-"
The Seeker raised a hand, gesturing for the Landlord to stop, "Not 'dawn until dusk'?"
"Aye." the Owner waved a hand flippantly, to any other the dismissive gesture would perhaps give offense. But Zeal was not any other.
"Hn."
There was no malice behind the gesture, and he had come to recognize it as one of Sacré's idiosyncrasies for what they were. This particular gesticulation was something the other man oft did in his excitement, particularly so when there was something of import to share and he wished to communicate it immediately and without disruption.
"-and it seems they only ever show up in the purlieu. If rumors are to be believed they've been seen as far north of Kudhall's Pass. That's also where the first alleged sighting was."
Silently, Zeal mapped out the information he'd just received. It had been a long Time since he'd visited the vales up north. There wasn't much there. Lots of wilderness, and much like the city he was in now, a nigh perpetual rain and mist that clung dense like the marine layer creeping in from the seas.
"That's not all." Sacré reaches over the table, tugging a napkin loose.
Odd considering that the man favored personal items much like Zeal, though it was more for his strict standards of cleanliness than anything else.
The Owner reaches into their pocket, and slips something into the flimsy folds. A glint of glass. Interest piqued, he leans in.
This, Sacré rests on the table, and after a moment's hesitation, pushes it towards him. "I've already taken standard procedures and scried it, nothing showed up. Or at least, nothing of the sort that I can detect. Maybe you can give better insight into this matter."
It's in his palm before Zeal realizes he's taken the napkin, and the Seeker glances at it. It rests light, a familiar warmth, one that tinged the flesh not with heat but something else altogether.
There's an inexplicable tug. Like a nostalgic scent or flavor.
The aether flowed free, unwoven. Yet it collected so very dense.
His Heart thumped. A hard, solid pulse. He had an inkling of what lay within the flimsy folds, but he didn't dare hope.
Keeping the covered object subtly below the table, the Seeker carefully parts the tissue to reveal a small vial of viscous golden fluid.
And immediately recognizes it for what it is.
"Can you confirm it? Do the winds blow north?"
With the hand grasping the vial, Zeal glances up at the Inn Keeper who nods his consent, and pops the seal. Nigh immediately are they met with a gentle fragrance that tickles at his mind. One that is both delicate and nostalgic.
With the other hand, he swipes a tea spoon off the table.
Carefully, he swirls the vial, noting its pristine quality. The consistency was thick, but not so that it was congealed, and the crystalline fluid pools into a fat droplet on the silver.
This he brings to his mouth, and again it tickles at his mind. The same warmth floods his body, almost too much to bear. His Heart gave a lurch, stronger this Time, and despite having sated himself with a veritable feast already, a strange hunger fills him.
He takes it in, sparing nothing.
A thick viscous sweetness that dissolves in his mouth and that pulse comes again a third Time.
Something primal cries out for more, but he corks the vial.
"Aye." Zeal looked up, "True north."
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