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Summary
There must be a reckoning in Revendreth – but first, Denathrius himself knows he must kneel and be cleansed.
Denathrius blows gently over the surface of the goblet of anima, dispersing the malingering mist, and drinks deeply. The first signs of suffering from the drought have already lent a milder texture to recent offerings, a wintry vintage of aching despair underpinned by notes of fluting sorrow. He finds he does not prefer it to the usual untenable rage and bright pain flavoring the harvested anima of those undergoing redemption, but needs must.