Nexum : the Demi-Urge Stratagem

Unknown Her hands wrap around the onyx cylinder. These she’s seen before, but never held-her mother had always said they were for the soft gods, the weak. That nothing but the most natural and horrific means of ascension were true. Only those who had experienced the pain and fear were actually stronger, actually more powerful. “It’s not a shortcut,” whispers her sister, who sits across from her. They’re mirrors of one another, from the tilt of their eyes to the curl of their hair. Together, they’ve survived atrocities, some they committed in the name of peace. “You say that, but it’s not easy to really accept it. Conditioning is kind of a bitch.” She replies with a lopsided smile. “Are we actually going to do this?” “Conditioning is a bitch.” Her sister agrees, hands folding on her lap. The general feel of the room is as if the air itself has stilled. Lungs caught in the motion of taking a breath without anything escaping or entering. Being caught between two heartbeats, with fingers reaching for the delicate muscle to squeeze it. “We can’t afford to sit idle,” the solemn sister says. “We’ve already sat idle too long, let them get away with too much. If it goes on much longer…” “It’s dire,” chimes in a new voice, deeper, sinking into her soul and soothing the disquiet. “More so than any of us realized. Walls are breaking down.” “Drink it.” The solemn sister urges, leaning forward in her seat. “Drink it, so we end this, so we can build something new. So that our pasts are truly laid to rest.” “All right,” she whispers, dread curling around her stomach. The hand that lifts away from the body of the cylinder shakes as she untwists the cap. To the naked human eye, the piece looked seamless. But a slow twist reveals part of its secret. The second twist begins to reveal the rest. A sweet scent slips from the opening. There’s no good way to describe the smell accurately. One could say it smelled of honeysuckle and acacia honey, sweet with no end, a light inviting floral note to draw a drinker in. Some would likely describe it as perfect, the drink that smelled the way you wanted it too, tasted the way you thought the perfect drink would taste. As she lifts it to her mouth, the aroma blooms. It’s sharp now, the sugary part of it taking a back seat to the tea and citrus that make the body of it. It flows heavily onto her tongue, not pleasantly cool like a milkshake would be. Not hot, like a soup. It is nothing and everything all at once. Sweet spices, nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice, sugar, peppers of all kinds. It shouldn’t taste good. It should be rather nauseating. It tastes divine.