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I picked up the green clock and turned the knob on the back, making it read about 5:30-something. Much to my disappointment, nothing happened. Except now the green clock was probably wrong.
"Archmage Fooruman," I sighed, and continued, "I can't believe I'm actually asking this... but what do these rocks taste of?"
He lifted one - the larger of the two - to his face. He examined it, slowly rotating it in his hands as though it were a jewel, and then inhaled deeply, pausing to assess its odor. Most carefully, he extended his tongue and slowly and, as though savoring it, dragged it across the rock's rough surface. He closed his eyes, thinking deeply, moved his cheeks around as though swishing something through his mouth, then proceeded to spit off to the side. "This rock... it most definitely tastes of STONE, my good sir."
I was about to ask about the other but he swiftly raised a finger, signaling for my silence. He raised the smaller rock up to his ear, tapping it softly with a flaky old fingernail. He quickly changed his stance, hunching over the counter top. He dragged the stone across the surface, his keen old eyes watching the trail of brownish-gray residue it left behind. He meticulously swept this into a small pile and exhaled softly on it, watching its particles flutter away like butterflies in the dim red light.
The old man reached into the sleeve of his robe and, in four swift movements, withdrew two thin champaign glasses, a bottle, a jar of marmalade, and a butter knife. He whispered a few arcane words under his breath - words of a language long forgotten, a magic lost to time - and rays of light emanated from the bottle as its cork burned away. He slowly filled the two glasses, keeping the first on the counter and handing the second to me. He raised the knife and delicately spread the glistening orange marmalade over the surface of the rock, each stroke seeming as planned as calligraphy, as precise as math. He raised the rock, he looked me in the eye, he mouthed the words "it is time"...
And shoved the whole thing in his mouth. And started chewing vigorously, backed by the sounds of snaps and cracks that I could only assume were his teeth. He gnashed away with a dark glare of determination in his eye, accentuated by the CRUNCH CRAAKK SNAAP.
"Fooru-"
He raised his hand again, and I was silent. He ceased his chewing, leaned his head back, and then threw it forward, spitting directly down in front of him. Before him, webbed in orange-tinted saliva, lay some shards of wood, a bent piece of plastic, and a single, rusted key.
"It tastes of deception. Of secrets. Of hidden panels, false appearances, concealed answers. Shuriken Amanda Darkblade -" he took the glass of champagne off the counter with one hand, bent down, and took the key with his other. He held it out to me with two fingers. "- It tastes of destiny."
He clinked his glass against mine and then swigged it in one gulp.
My middle name was not Amanda.
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