Something like a greyish porridge flecked thickly with umber. Jansen was about to think, “That’s not right,” when his observation was preemptively justified by a large and wet explosion.
When it got in his eyes he grimaced—and it got in his mouth. It had quite the sour sting. He hastily purged his face with a menthol scented handkerchief (already bearing many other smears and smells from that day), and blearily looked to assure himself that the West Satyr candle was still alight; it had taken him three attempts and several hours to make it burn. There seemed to be a blot of the miscarried goop which had landed on the very wick of the candle; however, it sizzled and popped away, the flame remained bright, and Jansen stopped sweating.