Victor raised his head slowly, gaze fixed on the bartender. His eyes were bloodshot, not only from drink, but from days of unrest, pain, and perhaps—hope.
"How do you know?"
His voice came out as a strained whisper.
"Do you have any experience in voodoo?"
"...No,"
The man replied, wiping a glass with a threadbare cloth.
"But my grandmother was once a countryside shaman—before we converted to the Church of Embercreed."
The silence stretched long and uneasy. Victor stared hard at the wooden grain of the bar, as if trying to decipher a hidden script.
Then, just as suddenly, he collapsed face-first onto the counter with a groan.
"Resurrection, my foot,"
He mumbled into the wood.
"It's all a fucking scam. I won't fall for it. Not me..."
Moments later, the quiet room filled with the guttural, rhythmic sounds of snoring.
