Salamandrian wine can only truly be described in the fiery tongue of the native Salamandrian, but this glossary entry, found in the Epochs of Ephyre: Scribe of Pthalos, gives passible account of its origins and merit:
Though the potent quaff be not obtainable to those outside of the venerable monastic order of Charegmeiogn (Shar-Egg-May-On) Scalars, one of three casks absconded with during the Battle of Eight Dimensions was brought here to Mars and set before my Lord and Master one particularly warm evening by an honorable ex-communicate of the Order of B'Shaar. Knowing not to trust the B'Shaarian (but of course lauding him with great praises for this esteemed gift) he did order the barrel carted to my storehouse for thorough examination and testing.
Knowing not the temperament of the legendary vintage, but being able to calculate and recreate the atmospheric conditions rumored to exist within the Scalar's impenetrable Monastery high in the peaks of Salamandria's incredible equatorial ranges, I set about separating the volume into 16 equal portions. Six of these portions I bottled and set aside to maintain their present state of being. Five of the portions I laid up in crystal flasks and upon them applied varied vacuums and cooling, each being in it's turn lower in temperature than the original volume. To the remaining five, I exercised increasing pressures and heatings which I deemed might attain an atmosphere closest to that supposed region of the Charegmeiogn.
In the tasting of the latter group I cannot speak, for who dares to even think of drinking of such a distillation but those of the Salamadrians themselves. The former, cooled group, though still a trying experience for even the mightiest of us fleshy beings, may be described only with euphoric and electric prose, and the like of which may never be again tasted by Solar palettes after this small allotment is depleted!
As soon as the glass approaches one's face, the mists arising from it's rim are scented as the most profound Terran cinnamons and nutmegs. These heady vapours engulf the tasters head as the cup draws yet closer, tickling the eyes and the hairs of the nose and ears with a static charge. The moment that the liquid touches the lips a sharp shock is felt, and the first drop enters the mouth almost magnetically. The first flash of flavor is that of sulfur and coffee, followed suddenly by a wave of Martian mint and cannabis. This wave crests with the spice of hot peppers and sweet onions, and washes over the tongue, where it trickles languidly down the throat with a singing anesthetic of anise and arnica.
Here, however the Terran analogues end and the flame-tastes of Salamandria arise. A vacuous numbness overtakes the taster, and a burning flush upon the ears and cheeks is felt, like a wasp has kissed one on the mouth. If the taster is not seated and prepared, one may expect to crash to the floor as the numbness overtakes the remainder of the body. It is as if one has swallowed glowing embers of sage, but is somehow impervious to the searing pain. A psychic heat swells in the head and amongst the organs, and courses out to the fingertips, distributing the fiery glow throughout all of the aural pathways and capillaries.
Suddenly a great clarity of vision emerges out from the smokey cloud, and one is left at the last with an overwhelming sense of calm, peace, understanding and acceptance. One remembers fond memories of youth, and feels reconciliation and forgiveness for old enemies long passed. The finish is as fine as purest honey and cardamom. Best taken on an empty stomach.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
The Wings of St. Dolor
