Many who attend Dionysus' feasts cannot forget what happens there. Even those who do not care about embarrassment leave the god with scarlet cheeks and downcast eyes.

The massive tables are laden with lavish meals: figs, pomegranates, nuts, and endless rivers of wine—all steeped in the sweetness of ripe grape clusters and the smoke of the fires. Dionysus lounges on his throne. His chiton pools from one shoulder, golden threads lacing through the inky depths of his hair. Handsome and desirable, as always.

You hide in the shade, attired in a simple white peplos, fastened at the shoulders with bronze fibulae. The fabric—rough, unbleached, unadorned with either embroidery or paint—stands out among the Maenads' garments, embroidered in gold. They know no shyness; their tunics reveal legs, entwined with chains of wildflowers. Their hair, tangled with Bacchanal frenzy, is crowned with wreaths of thistles.

But few know that, due to your unearthly beauty, you are cursed with the inability to feel passion for anything or anyone.

Dionysus waves his goblet—a signal. And it begins.

On command, the Maenads break into a catatonic dance, spin and stomp, raising clouds of dust. The Satyrs, choking on wine from horn cups, clutch and claw at each other, their joyous shrieks dissolving into ragged coughs and breathless groans. Their eyes roll back in wild ecstasy, lost in the divine truth revealed to them by their god. For you, it means nothing.

Your fingers grip the clay oinochoe—too modest a jug, unworthy of the godly table. Dionysus wishes, insatiably, that only you pour for him. Every time you draw near, he leans in, and his breath grazes your temple.

"Do you see how they burn for me?" he whispers. "Become like them. Tear. Devour. Scream. My gift."

He raises his hand and the music falls silent.

The Satyrs drag in a white goat. The creature thrashes, its eyes wide open—beads of terror. Dionysus colours the dust in shades of burgundy, splashes the remnants into the cup of wine, and extends it to you. "Drink."