The demon gave him very little golden ichor, only one bottle full. And just as he predicted, a surge of memories from the demon. He saw that the pathetic demon was once an equally unimpressive and weak bandit, robbing people in the valley with a group and cowering behind his shield whenever they were attacked. All it took was one drink from the river to turn him into the physically weak demon and permanently graft him to his hideous shield. Said shield was also lying on the ground... It was no doubt heavy but it's defence would be unparalleled should he decide to take it.

"Aye." Bronwick briefly lifted his helmet to drink from his own flask of ichor, shuddering briefly from the taste.