I drew my mana from within myself, gathering it before my edifice. It shone, a bright silvered green, the last of my gifted mana mingled with my own. I kept the working slow, a sustainable stream. This was to be my first minion and I intended to tailor it carefully. The cost was far above the norm, I could create a score of goblins for the same price, but this premier would be special. First I guided its conception, growing the foetus within a womb of mana. I chose a matron-line for one ancestor, a ruling variant longer lived and stronger than average. Most importantly however they were smart, vicious and cunning from generations of schemes and plots. For the other I chose a lesser line, one that tasted of pride and battle, a soldier's line. I did not wish to create the tribe's ruler as my first minion, to dilute its loyalties and duties between serving me and leading the tribe. The tribal Matriarch I would create later.

As it formed, I fed it carefully, imbuing the embryonic soul with logic, passion, a thirst for knowledge, to best suit my geas. I instilled it with courage, a profound sense of justice, and a clarity of thought, to best check my impulses. I gave it my memories of the dwarf's experience, of anvil and hammer, of battle and war, of a job done well and a craftsman's quiet pride. Last I gave it a Muse, so that I might guide and inspire its creations. I stoked its life with mana, setting a tiny heart into a steady rhythm, choosing her sex and cultivating her nervous system. From foetus she grew to an infant, able to survive unaided. Olive skin darkened, the babe maturing to a child, to an adolescent. I moved young limbs through all the motions I had learned, training muscle and mind with impulses sent through her own fledgling systems. Adolescence flourished to adulthood, her skin viridian, her form lithe and supple, muscles toned, tall for her species at a hundred and thirty five centimetres. Behind closed lids I blessed her with eyes as emerald as my core. In my light they would seem to glow, so all would know she was indisputably my favoured right hand.

I garbed her in robes of fine pig tail cloth, undyed, clad her feet with cave spider silk socks and shoes of elk bird leather. At her waist I fastened an aluminium chain, gifting her with a sporran filled with chosen tools, fastened her with cloth pouches with stylus, ink, sheaves of parchment, with nuts and bolts, nails and screws, hammers, wrenches, pliers and tongs. Last I fit her with a seax of polished steel, recovered from the heap on which I had been born. I wasn't certain, but I believed it to have been used by the dwarf I had absorbed. Its handle I had to remake, for it had rotted away long ago. Around the tang I formed a plain hilt of nether cap, bound it with copper wire. Its bronze ring guard I cleaned and polished, and capped its pommel with a small emerald.

I lowered her gently to the ground, standing upright with her head dipped and arms dangling by her sides. Even with my magic withdrawn I could feel the magic within her and knew her to be a mage. This was the greatest drain of my mana, creating a thaumaturge from scratch but I did not regret it. My first and foremost servant would have no limitations to her artifice. All told, I had spent almost twice my total capacity creating her over almost a full hour. I sent a last impulse and she awoke, eyes glowing with reflected light.

Her posture tensed, her mind for the first time asserting control of her body to hold it upright without aid. Neurons fired, her lungs inflated with her first independent breath, fingers flexed slightly and green eyes darted about to take in her surroundings. It is difficult to explain the splendour of observing a sapient experiencing life for the very first time, it is a spectacle without parallel. To see nerves fire, sensations turned to bioelectrical signal, received and interpreted by the brain, thoughts crackling into being to thunder across that wrinkled mass. She knelt, bowing her head and resting her hands on her right knee, right over left.

"Dungeon." She swore, voice high and clear.

Argent of the Emerald Fountain

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[ Lvl 1 Calernian Goblin Castellan ]

Trait: Dungeon Scion - This creature was birthed from a dungeon with great care and significant purpose. It gains a fraction of its parent's powers.

Trait: Muse - This creature has been gifted a Muse by its master, it is drawn to invention and discovery.

Trait: Mage - This creature may learn and use arcane arts.

I basked in that moment, a need I never knew I had suddenly fulfilled. A Dungeon without minions is like a vertebrate without a spine, it is a requirement unmet. At last, I was complete. I had my Archetype, my Name, and my first minion. I was also quietly pleased with her name, Argent. A fitting outcome from the last of Leshalinod's gifted mana.

"Rise, Argent." My words rippled across the surface of my fountain, reflecting from dwarf-carved basalt walls, echoing like a stone dropped into the depths of a deep cavern lake. My mana reserve dipped only slightly, each syllable costing only 0.1 mana. My new castellan stood, turning - my first order unneeded it seemed. She crossed my Core Chamber, kneeling to reverentially lift the largest piece of the shattered guide. We worked, silently in harmony. I raised simple plinths upon which Argent placed the four largest stones, conjured vellum squabs for the smaller fragments. Argent studied my actions, glowing emerald irises following each squab as it was floated to its resting place. Soon her eyes closed, her breath slowing, right hand raising palm up. Her first working lifted even the finest dust of the broken Guide, a thin film rising from the floor, spinning, coalescing to a small orb of loosely orbiting powder. Her left hand lifted then, palm towards the gathered ball, fingers hooked and rotated as though to cover it. A small glass jar trembled into life - too fragile, unstable. Her grasp on the substance was weak, her mana pool too small to support raw matter creation as a mortal - even a Dungeon Scion it would seem. I reached out, stabilising the work, thickening the jar, balancing its shape. Argent opened her eyes, nodding gratefully to my Core as she released the working to me. I capped the jar with a silvered hinge on the lid, to show her I was proud of what she had worked. Her back seemed to straighten when she noticed, I think.

Together we cleared the surrounding chambers. Shattered stone I healed, angled ground I righted. Broken furniture she mended, lost salvage she catalogued. Where her mana allowed, she copied my workings, honing her skills. Where it did not, Argent used the tools at her waist and the experience gifted to her subconscious, refining her instincts and adding to her conscious repertoire. At her urging I sank the nine rooms, including my fountain chamber, to my lowest level. The smallest of my floors, most rooms here had simply collapsed entirely beneath the falling weight of the hold above them. This gave me access to unworked stone, to aquifers and room to expand.

I birthed a matron, Croaker of the Sundered Hold Tribe, and a dozen attendants. I homed them above me on the fourth level, following discussions between Argent and Croaker to create a mushroom farm for sustenance, a simple dormitory, making available resources and tools to stock a storeroom for when the Tribe began establishing workshops. Two warriors were duly volunteered, finding stout dwarven spears and ill-fitting mail in a toppled armoury. Argent was perpetually on the move, seeming to know my every thought - one minute instructing the warriors on how to scour their mail clean of rust, the next scratching ideas on parchment, then debating initial tribal numbers with Croaker. The feeling was at once wonderful and somehow...uncomfortable.

I put it down at first to the adaptation to being filled with bustling life, sapient creatures taking stock, forming a society and personal relationships. I could not help but split my attention between them all, observing their actions and thoughts. It was a heady brew but still the feeling of discomfort continued. I wondered perhaps if it was that establishing the tribe was not a clear enough pursuit of my Geas. Perhaps I would be better to construct Tasglann Nilavarai, house the History and then turn my attention back to minions and defence. Soon after Argent hurried to me, together we began to plot a suitable blueprint for the Vault. Argent tempered my ideas of grand design and monumental edifice with the current minute nature of the History of Dungeons and the necessity for conservators to be able to traverse the Vault and have access to books. We marked where we would place traps, monuments, trapped monuments, where my fountain would reside -

I felt blood splatter across the floor and two walls of a room on my fourth floor.