The Holder of Immolare

In any city, in any country, go to any restaurant or bistro you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, a waiter will approach you, his arrogance and disinterest in you should be quite obvious. If it is not, then you have not been seen as worthy just yet. If it is, tell him in a tone that is somewhat debonair, that you wish to have a table at the back of the room and that you do not want to be disturbed. The waiter will look you up and down and walk off; his disrespect will be infuriating, but just stand still and watch him. Eventually, he will turn and click his fingers and point to a table. He will walk past you and you should thank him politely before you sit down. He will not reply, but not thanking him will incite within him great wrath.

After a few minutes, the waiter will approach your table, this time looking very anxious; beads of sweat will be just noticeable on his brow and his eyes will keep looking toward the door. Follow his eyes and glance toward the door as well, where you will see two plump men blocking the door, their arms folded. They will be staring at the waiter.

The waiter will look at you and ask, "What would you like to eat?", all his previous haughtiness gone from his voice.

Only reply with, "I want to dine with the Holder of Immolare." The waiter will visibly flinch, and try to persuade you otherwise with tempting descriptions of each menu item, but you must be persistent! The waiter will plead with you to order a meal, but do not. When he is whispering his pleas to you, demand your meal loudly and forcefully. This will catch the attention of the two men, who will walk over and each put a hand upon the waiter's shoulders before dragging him away, toward the kitchen door.

Moments later, a man, dressed in suit trousers and a disgustingly dirty string vest, holding a plate of food, will emerge from the kitchen door and sit himself next to you.

"Tell me of Immolare," he will command - but do not answer unless you wish to be the next meal. Eventually, he will set the plate down upon the table and give you permission to eat. On this plate will be the leg of a baby, almost burned. Eat with haste: you are the star of the show and everyone is watching. The slightest sign of repulsion will drive the crowd into a murderous frenzy before your task is complete.

As you finish your meal, the man will take your plate and ask you to follow him; you must. You will be taken to the center of the room where a single chair will be waiting for you. Sit down and wait. A crowd will have gathered around you now, all eyes eagerly trained on you. At that moment the kitchen doors will fly open, the doormen will wheel out an ornate trolley, causing expressions of childlike glee to spread across the others. On that trolley will be the waiter; naked, tied down, with fresh, dismembered carcasses of babies and fetuses in every orifice. His eyes will be sewn shut, his pathetic struggling all that remains of his sanity.

If you were to look around, you would notice that the restaurant has continued to fill up since your appetizer, the crowd now fills the building wall-to-wall, and is growing yet larger, every being clambering for a better view. Small scuffles will break out as the fight for a good view becomes literal.

The doorman will remove a small leather pouch from his trousers, undo the pouch, and take a large pinch of a coarsely ground mixture. The crowd will fall silent at this action, and he will sprinkle the mix onto the waiter. The helpless waiter will thrash about, while the blend burns deep into the flesh, causing plumes of smoke to rise, his screams nothing compared to the thunderous applause and rapturous shouts of joy from the crowd. In short order, fighting will break out again, but this time the crowd will be clambering not to see, but to eat - rushing toward the helpless waiter to devour his still-living flesh. His screams and anguish will never rise above the lustful roar of the crowd as they tear him asunder, gorging themselves on the offering. The feast will turn into an orgy: a writhing mass of naked bodies will plaster the floor, dripping in blood, the waiter's and their own.

An instant later the crowd will fall silent as a deep slumber envelops them. You will be asked by the doorman, "Was that to your liking?"

"I want the Immolare," is all that you can say.

If you want the Immolare, you must take it: The moment you declare your desire, the man will run at you. Do your best to avoid his teeth, for they are razor-sharp, and all that has decayed and rotted among them will surely cause quite the infection. Finish him off in any way you can, or you will share the same fate as the other Seekers, who you have witnessed devour the waiter, trapped and caring for naught but your next meal.

Once you have defeated him, take the pouch and hold it above your head. The sleeping horde will stir; empty the contents over yourself. The blend will burn you to your very soul, searing pain will run through your body as the crowd will reach fever pitch, the excessive quantity of the mixture will send them into a rage, and they will tear each other apart to dine on you.

You will wake up in your room with the pouch in your hands, covered in teeth marks and burns, a small amount of mixture left in the pouch.

The mola salsa is Object 295 of 2538. No matter how many times They are fed, Their hunger can never be satisfied.