Black-hooded men stand in a circle, their arms in the voluminous sleeves of their robes, shivering slightly. In the moonlight, one can just make out the angled roof of a marble sepulcher looming behind them.
A low-voiced chanting begins, the rumble of syllables that might or might not be words of a human language. One hooded figure steps into the center of the circle, lifting a gleaming chalice and turning slowly so that all of the eyes can see. Another hooded figure steps forward with a ewer and slowly pours clear liquid into the chalice, which billows with fog.
The chanting grows louder and faster, the language changes. Words can be heard:
"Imbibo quod prodeo!"
"Imbibo quod prodeo!"
"Imbibo!"
"Prodeo!"
A third figure steps forward, bows, and takes the cup, drinking quickly as the fog wreathes his head.
Thunder! Lightning!
He disappears. The cup drops to the ground, spilling a trickle of cloudy green liquid into the trampled grass.
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