You have serious reservations about this drink, but your sworn duty is to taste everything offered to the king. In moments like these, you regret not following in your father’s footsteps as a horse dung shoveler.
You sniff the bubbling brew. Floral, fruity, notes of mulch. The royals watch as you spin the wine in King Dankmore’s goblet, then take a sip. Immediately, you detect the bitter and alarming taste of witch acid.
“This is poi–,” you start to speak, but then begin coughing. Not on the poison itself – you’ve ingested so much poison, you’re functionally immune – but because a bit went down the wrong pipe.
“This is poised to quench my thirst?” the king assumes, stupidly. He tries to grab his goblet back, but you hold onto it tightly. The two of you play tug-of-war for a bit, and the king threatens to chop off your appendages and turn them into a stew for the next banquet, until you’re finally able to squeak out a “poison!”
Unfortunately, by the time King Dankmore understands what you’re saying, Nigel has slipped out of the room. At least you saved the king’s life, and as a reward, the king offers to give you a once-in-a-lifetime tour of his fingernail collection. A tear of joy runs down your cheek. There is no greater honor in the kingdom.