The room's air fell into despair. The terrible crackles of the hearth reverberated in the silent room as if it was the only sonance to ever exist. Hearing the name Khamend-hur sewed their mouth with a wicked thread. The Wish-Giver is a terrible god who grants desires of the malign. If not baleful, wishes with a terrible price: life, sanity, body, and peace. But both knew the only way to summon the Great Chalice is phasing through insanity. Even so, they cannot stop their journey. Darion would give all to have his revenge, and Dismas would give his life for his companion.
"Just... do it, use me as the sacrifice. This is my fate..." he stammered. To him, this is the only way to rebel against Darion's dismal fate.
"You are an anomaly, both of you. A tear in the bowels of time itself. To the unjust demiurge, you breathe baneful air, for your blood changes what should be," the mage babbled while grabbing the void-like orb.
"You need not sacrifice the lad. Sacrifice your tongue, your palate. I only need an archfiend's veins to concoct an elixir of phasing."
A faint macabre malodourous stench crammed the air; as miasmic appendages writhed out of the distorted shadows of the room. The decadent sputters of ember embed woods of the hearth turned into a cacophony of malign wails of many. Emerged from the orb-esque bowels of the compacting vapor was the penetrative light of an ivory chalice wreathed in brilliance. It was the avatar of Khamend-hur, The Sacred Chalice of Wishes. And it spoke only to Darion. For his deceptive resolve to meet those who made him suffer was the only thing that is more powerful than the paallein's waning sanity.
"You seek Xydas, The Dreamer, The Nightwalker, The Harbinger of Dreams and Nightmares. You seek answers. I give you those... for a price better than your palate. You know what I ask for, Ashen One."
"Aye, that is the easiest way. But no, take my tastebuds. Create a beast," Darion looked at the ivory chalice. The irresistible invites of Khamend-hur have not seduced his will. The magus looked upon Darion, amazed. A sanguine torch gleamed in his spectating orbs. In the recorded history and legends of Minathal, none has ever withstood the chalice's lies.
"Very well."
A loud snap deafened their ears as the chalice blinked out. Suddenly, the bane's choking taste was rid of on Darion's tongue. And a different beast emerged from the fires. A tongue-headed humanoid; smashing every ware around the room. Each surface it touched mingled with its slimy, odorous saliva excretion. The terrible roughness of its pale leathery coarse skin scuffed the floorboards, forming microscopic splinter-inducing spikes. Darion rushed towards the fiend, slightly slicing through the tendons and ligaments of its knee. A rancid smelling ichor gushed out of its wounded flesh; then the femurs and tibias popped out, causing it to dislocate. The monster tumbled down and crawled as it screamed like a dying dog or canines of some sort. This legless creature continued to spread its rancid saliva as it writhed around the ground. Darion walked towards the fiend and stepped on its back, putting pressure upon its grotesque nude body before plunging his blade towards its heart. Twisting the hilt to properly pop and sever every arteries and vein that stems from its defiled core.
"Gather everything you can; I will handle its corpse," the arch-paallein walked towards the dead fiend as he spoke.
An hour or so passed, the preparations were complete. The mage had finished making the elixir at a stupefying pace. This wasn't normal, Dismas knew. The only one skilled enough to do this was the head of Thanesavinon — The Pharagos. And no one has ever seen or faced the Pharagos before. No one even knew what the Pharagos looked like, except for a select few. Though he wanted to ask, he would rather keep the mystery for himself; whether this mage before them was the first human to wield sorcery, to control vyrtumis.
"Before we go, I want to at least know the name of the stranger who helped us," said Dismas while looking at the magus, curious-bound towards this mysterious figure's identity.
"Drink first," the magus handed them the ichor-filled vials. And so, they both drank the liquid without hesitation. Equilibrium and balance sapped away from their body as the world became one big spiral.
"My name is Varafarunir Hirain." Those words echoed while the terrible lullabies of the elixir cradled them to sleep. These are the last word they heard before arriving in the realm of Xydas, The Nightwalker.