“Have you ever tasted the soup?” asks Old Ajralan.
Fassn stirs. His eyes blink open, the lids fighting the dark room’s inertia. He looks about, but of course sees nothing. “Yes,” he shakily replies. For a moment, he thinks the voice must be one of the standard gods, finally addressing him after his long seclusion, but he cannot remember any of their names.
“Have you, though?” asks the voice again.
Fassn considers the mush. He’s eaten it most days for years. But has he tasted it?
After some minutes of quiet contemplation, Fassn says, “Tell me how.”