Mushroomancer's Mixture

A drink as the shadowed roots of the groves it was born from, sings with quiet potency. Its scent alone conjures visions: soil that remembers, spores that dream.

Upon drinking, the transformation is not abrupt, but deep — as though the self dissolves slowly into something ancient and buried. The body stills. The breath slows. And then, sensation arrives.

You are elsewhere.

You feel the breathing of the earth — not metaphor, but the real, patient exhale of something vast and living beneath.

You perceive unknowable structures, their geometry sharp and wrong, swallowed in shadows that offer no reflection, only absorption. Their silence does not comfort. It listens.

The humid air is heavy, but not oppressive. It shifts with purpose, curling around limbs and thought, almost… communicating. A presence more than a place.

Here, light fails — not for lack of source, but because the darkness drinks it. Shapes are guessed, not seen. And yet, fear does not rise. Instead, there is understanding.

The smell of mushrooms is ever-present — not the market scent of foraged fare, but the deep, wild musk of sporing life, of rot that heals, of decay with intent.

And then, a moment of reckoning. As though this otherworld, this realm of spore and shade, weighs your spirit. Not to judge, but to restore. The indulgences of the world — sweet lights, effortless warmth, abundance of nourishment — are drawn out of you like sickness.

There is no ceremony. No goodbye.

You return — to Orin’Dral

Empty cup.

Lingering warmth.

The mind is clear, though quiet. You are not changed, but you are enveloped — by something older than memory and greater than you can comprehend.

You feel the darkness and the light, and you see the balance.