(fallen london stamps by an incomplete compendium of soul tasting notes for the system
yours truly: one moment, you stand on the shore of a sea like a molten sunset, resplendent with tones of orange and red; blink, and it's gone, save for a wineglass gleaming in your hand. sip carefully: it burns as it goes down. your bones will remember the warmth.
Lark: you stumble upon a pond in the deep of night, the stars above glimmering upon its still, dark waters. you skim a silver dipper along the surface, and raise it to your lips. as you expected, it's cool, crisp, clear - but there, on the edge, is the hint of a devotion deep enough to drown in.
Bast: you're unable to get close enough for a taste. the way is barred by a thicket - vines like iron, with thorns like claws. not even he can command them to move. sometimes, though, they part just enough - just enough. the taste is indescribable, save for the tears glistening on your cheeks.