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Cavier and crème fraîche vol au vents, lemon juice drizzled on smoked salmon with cream cheese and gougères served as the amuse-bouche, with beef tartare, calamari tempura with smoked peppers and almond romesco and prosciutto-wrapped figs for the appetiser. The main course was the extravagant breast-side up roasted turkey seasoned with extra virgin oil and truffle risotto, finished with a rack of lamb, seasoned with rosemary, thyme, cayenne peppers and cumin. And at last for dessert- profiteroles drizzled with chocolate syrup, paired with buttermilk panna cotta, lychee, raspberry and rose.
The beverage of choice was a three-hundred year old wine from Clementine, famed for its winter sun fruit that Dongfang Qixing and Louis Fleming had once used to make a point about setting prices. Ever since then, Clementine had entered the IPC's shares and made a modest yet reputable name for itself selling fantastic delicacies. The wine in question had a flavor profile of licorice, paired with coffee and mineral notes, and dark fruit scents, a gift from Clementine, better marked as tribute.
Sugilite takes a sip of it, exhaling out deeply once he lets the taste rest on his tongue. It's heavy, intoxicating, and exactly what he required.
Purple flames flicker almost tauntingly on the candles set across the table, and Sugilite can only sigh at the sight- there was nothing he could do. They never were an antidote, and had only cursed him further, with appetites that were not his own, at the cost of everything he had once held dear.
Now...if everything was to be subsumed- even voracity itself, then what was the point of pretending that the hell that was merely an extra level of unnecessary suffering, an unnecessary indulgence, was any better than the inevitable void?
Once upon a time- food had meant something to him. It had meant loud gatherings, rife with laughter and merriment, it had meant savouring food made for him, by the ones he had dearly loved, it had meant making, procuring food, to watch them break out in smiles in return, at what he had dared so hopefully proffer them, if only so they might be just that bit happier.
But those were tales of a bygone life now, to a boy with a different name.
Now? Food was merely a symbol of status, of power, of control. To own all the delicacies others could only dream of procuring, to own the most power at the table- that was it meant to consume, to devour. Ever so slowly, ever so inevitably.
Sugilite takes another sip of the wine.
Cursed with voracity- and cursed with solitude. Opal seemed to find it darkly amusing, and Diamond found it convenient, for his war among the Aeons, something Sugilite couldn't care less about.
He had worshipped different gods in the past- gods whose names were lost to ravaged annals of history, scattered by name, but still lingered in Sugilite's memory as if they were taught to him yesterday. They were merciful, unlike Aeons. Merciful in the sense they never considered humans in their worship or in their existence. Merciful in the sense they never even thought to use humans as pawns.
Aeons only seemed to care about humans when they could use them.
Sugilite exhales- feeling as if the insignia of Qlipoth on his coat burned a hole onto his skin, as if a brand. How ironic, that Aventurine, Number 35, should exchange a brand on his skin for yet another one on his very soul. Pointless.
No wonder he sought death so desperately, so foolishly. Death was all the indulgence he could afford himself despite the wealth he had now obtained, likely a miracle in his eyes, but also simultaneously, pointless- for all the wealth Aventurine owned could never return what he truly desired.
Much as Sugilite himself couldn't ever regain what he had lost, what Diamond promised him ever so arrogantly.
Still. Sugilite will watch the events of the cosmos play out- and gorge himself on his own needless extravagance, because what else is there for him to do?
He does not believe Diamond can ever grant them, any of the Ten Stonehearts, what they truly desire- but what other choice does Sugilite have?
Ah. The wine had soured.
Perhaps that was also the taste of Sugilite realizing- that perhaps, disgustingly so, he was no different from his tiresome colleagues, after all.