Tulip gaped as Surzl’s charred holy symbol struck the ground, bounced once, and came to rest next to the swirling cloud of ash where the flame acolyte had stood. At the foot of the dais, Mags let out an anguished keen that seemed to go on and on.
The man in front of Levi lowered his palm to the flame, then lower still. Less than an inch from the candle wick, flame lapping at his flesh. Slowly, as if it were the most impressive thing in the world, the man extinguished the flame with his palm.
Duma held the spoon as close to his lips as his stomach would allow, on the spoon the slightest string of crab meat glistening with broth. His lower abdomen heaved upwards, resulting in a tightly closed-mouthed grunt. Pushing the chowder away, he cleared his throat, then chased the bile down with the remaining bottle of beer. He belched, followed by asking Quillton, “What do you mean by defeated?”