You remember a room, close and claustrophobic with heat. Voices, some high, some low, calling and singing across each other in a twisting intermeshing cacophony as you are brought forward. The atmosphere is both celebratory and funeral. You are elated and frightened.
Colour and darkness. Flickering light. Four great fires lit in the name of Zorir, the god’s name spoken by a hundred mouths and each speaker dressed in finery, robes and cloaks of shimmering fungal colour. Before them all, on top of the three stone steps before her throne, is Saradis, the Skua-Rai, in her bearded mask, and she sings in a high discordant voice that hurts your ears. You should be enjoying this, this should be a momentous moment, a waystick on your path to greatness. All you feel is fear.
All you feel is fear.
They have put all they are into you, and all you feel is fear.
The singing and drumming and cymbal crashing reaches a peak, the monks holding your arms grip you tight because no matter how brave you say you are, they know the truth, they recognise the weakness, the fear in you. They know that you may run at any moment. That here, before Zorir-Who-Walks-in-Fire, before a god whose voice you have heard echo round the throne room, you are all too aware of your betrayal. Surely, here and now is when you are revealed, that your utter and complete unsuitability ignites you, that your doubt and your lies will doom you in the eyes of a creature that burns those who disappoint it in fiery walking pyres.