Truthful Soup

Welcome to Truthful Soup, a choose your own adventure quiz. Navigate the questions to discover the secret of the truthful soup, or become violently sick, or skinless... The choice is yours! 

 

At last, you've just arrived by broomstick upon the perimeter of what you can only hope is the ancient cottage for which you've searched these last nine years. In front of you is a small garden, populated by wild flowers and cat grass, and beyond that, the cottage stands solemnly with a vacant porch. The rain, which has chased you all throughout your long and arduous flight, finally breaks into a relentless downpour.

You grasp the heavy iron latch and find it unable to move. Of course, it is locked. Why else would you have paid for such a powerful lock picking scroll?

 

Suddenly, you find the temperature abnormally hot. You peel your hand away from the latch and see a tiny rune where you rested your thumb. You grow faint, and nausea overtakes you. You fight to keep your lunch under control, but it is to no avail; you up-chuck a smooth creamy slag onto the porch.

You leap through the window, not caring to notice a palm-sized rune at the sill, which grazes your slightly dampened cloak, and sets it ablaze.

 

The fire leaps across your body in tendrils that dig in through the fabric of your clothes, turning the cloth to liquid as it is touched. Soon, your flesh begins to melt in clumps of beige, until you are left skinless, but rather refreshed.

You see a palm-sized rune on the sill of the window sporting a strange variety of triangles, the alchemical symbol for fire. You sweep the spell away with the straw end of your broom, which catches flame, of course, and which you turn into the rain to extinguish. The sizzle marks your grand ingenuity with success, though the ride home will be uncomfortable now.

 

You slip through the window unharmed and find yourself inside the ancient cottage.

You peer into the cauldron and see at the very bottom, a cool, black liquid, shimmering with an unknown light. You see glimmers of what you think might be faces, and your eyes begin to trace along the features of wisps and shadows. Your head begins to bend forward, and your balance tips; you fall into the cauldron, shrinking smaller and smaller as you do, until you splash into the murkiness of the true soup. The world is silent.

You peer into the cauldron and see at the very bottom, a cool, black liquid, shimmering with an unknown light. You see glimmers of what you think might be faces, and your eyes begin to trace along the features of wisps and shadows. Your head begins to bend forward, and your balance tips; you fall into the cauldron, shrinking smaller and smaller as you do, until you splash into the murkiness of the true soup. The world is silent.

The rain seeps into your boots as you scan the area. You make your way cautiously towards the cottage, and spot a peculiar looking flower on your way through the garden; where the other plants bow beneath the weight of the downpour, this flower stands completely upright.

 

You work your gloved hands into the earth around the roots, and place the entire specimen into a glass jar, which you seal with a lid. You then make your way slowly up the steps of the cottage porch, and find yourself at the front door, completely soaked.

You can hardly contain yourself as you spot a black cauldron in the long abandoned fire pit, and a mortar and pestle on the counter near by. You can barely think straight, as there is a real possibility the cauldron is the one you seek; the one true cauldron, by which all truthful soups can be had, ever replenishing of the truest of all soups.

 

Strangely, outside the door where you had just entered from, the word "folly" rests on the porch, made from what appears to be some sort of viscous white cream. It had not been there before. 

You peer into the cauldron and see at the very bottom, a cool, black liquid, shimmering with an unknown light. You see glimmers of what you think might be faces, and your eyes begin to trace along the features of wisps and shadows. Your head begins to bend forward, and your balance tips; you fall into the cauldron, shrinking smaller and smaller as you do, until you splash into the murkiness of the true soup. The world is now silent.

 

You surface for air, and breathe nothing. A moment ago, you thought you had shrunk, but you find your form to be intact, as the confines of the cauldron remain close to claustrophobia. The black liquid pools in your eyes and laps at the corners of your mouth, and you gasp in languid form as you break above and beneath the surface of the soup. Other faces turn against you and you slip into soup together.

You shake the flower loose from the dirt and place it in the mortar, where you begin to pulverize it whole until it has turned into a strange, fibrous paste. You empty the glass jar and scoop the paste inside of it. 

You peer into the cauldron and see at the very bottom, a cool, black liquid, shimmering with an unknown light. You see glimmers of what you think might be faces, and your eyes begin to trace along the features of wisps and shadows. Your head begins to bend forward, and your balance tips; you fall into the cauldron, shrinking smaller and smaller as you do, until you splash into the murkiness of the true soup. The world is now silent.

 

You surface for air, and breathe nothing. A moment ago, you thought you had shrunk, but you find your form to be intact, as the confines of the cauldron remain close to claustrophobia. The black liquid pools in your eyes and laps at the corners of your mouth, and you gasp in languid form as you break above and beneath the surface of the soup. Other faces turn against you and you slip into soup together.

As you empty the contents of the glass jar into the cauldron, a hissing and burbling sound begin to grow at it's base. Slowly, black sludge like boils begin to form and take human shape.

 

At first it's only faces, swelling at the brim of the cauldron, turning over one another, until one grows so large in mass it spills over the edge. The trailing portions of ooze begin to coagulate into a torso, arms and legs, until the creature stands upright, a fully formed human. 

 

The black ooze melts away and skin is left in its wake. The eyes flutter into consciousness and stare into your own.

 

"Oh good golly! I'm utterly nude!" The person cries out, trying to cover their best parts. A sheepish blush overcomes them before they bolt out of the cottage and into the wilderness. 

 

More follow thereafter; what seems like an army of people spill out from the brim of the cauldron, naked as sin, and clamoring for cover. One walks out smartly, and simply dances through the rain. Another remarks how long it seems to have been. 

 

The parade eventually finishes, leaving only a little bit of thin, watery soup left at the bottom of the cauldron. You collect it in your jar.

You see a palm-sized rune on the sill of the window sporting a strange variety of triangles, the alchemical symbol for fire. You sweep the spell away with the straw end of your broom, which catches flame, of course, and which you turn into the rain to extinguish. The sizzle marks your grand ingenuity with success, though the ride home will be uncomfortable now. You slip through the window unharmed and find yourself inside the ancient cottage. 

You leap through the window, not caring to notice a palm-sized rune at the sill, which grazes your soaking wet clothes, and fizzles slightly. The sound catches your notice, and you turn to see the inscription. 

 

You notice that it's made with a variety of triangles, often used to describe the alchemical transformations for fire. Luckily, your clothes were too wet to catch light. 

 

It seems at one time it was used to grind down ingredients. There are remnants of a strange, fibrous material, which stands completely upright where it should otherwise lay flat. They appear almost magnetic .