High Priestess Yaska Za'Darmondiel.

1st Daughter of the High Matron's 1st Daughter, High Priestess Nadra Za'Darmondiel.

10th of Quartutus, 1492.

01:39.

***

I must admit my reaction was a bit over the top when Ryda came down from Nydorden Halls to approach me, chattering about some human monk's weapon. I cared little for monks. I cared not for humans. The weapons they used were no different, even if they were crafted by Elg-Horr. A sentient weapon, on the other hand, was entirely different. They were exceptionally rare. Often only uncovered as relics from times long forgotten. Yet, Elg-Horr not only created one before his ascension. He gave it away; to a human.

Now that he had evolved and ascended, Elg-Horr's divine work could be seen everywhere. Reports came slowly, initially. First, it was houses and estates floating high above the mainland. Next came tales of carriages and wagons that could cross the country in mere hours, followed by colossal machines that could do the work of a hundred slaves while being handled by one. Then, he was made to walk. Then, he lived true to the title we gave him. Cities fell by his hand. Refugees were left to fend for themselves in the wilds while the dead occupied their former homes, wherein they too delved into the act of creation. More weapons. More machines. More carriages and wagons. More roads, houses, and estates.

More cities, populated by his undead.

Perhaps that was his master plan all along. To give such a display and depart to gather his Troupe, leaving us with nothing but those industrious undead to gaze on as we waited in frustration, anticipating the day he returned so we could come to an understanding about what we heard and saw; only to have our attention stolen by this eccentric troupe. Therein lay an opportunity, however, for if his undead were so industrious, his troupe would be as well.

So much was already determined to be true. Iris, the adopted daughter, went to each city to emplace arcane teleportation points disguised as road posts around the lands before she infected every city with her blue essence. Blude and her quite impressive organization of rogues relocated to Shujen Bay, reportedly to construct a submerged city. Yet, with everything going on above, Nydorden Halls was the most lively place of all.

This… Elven Devil's Troupe was treating the place like their home. Geri was nowhere to be seen. Yet her wolves could be seen scouring every nook and cranny of the Halls. Her brute of a brother raised a tent a few ways away from the chambers. After going inside, he hasn't been seen since. Yet many strange sounds could be heard from within. Laughing, fighting, talking; and none of those things in his voice.

The fiends, however, took it to another extreme. The only one to not be found was the elven girl, for she took Nym, Sid, and Shaenya to some place where any of them would not be missed. But even then, the abilities she showed them became the height of discussion among the House's clergy, for the House would benefit much from the forsaken Mala and her children being sacrificed to the… Flesh Kitchen. Likewise, the strange goblin went around collecting bones to bring next to the brute's tent. Wherein he showcased a level of prowess never before seen in goblin-kin. He made a finely built abode for himself, complete with a fence and balcony, and proceeded to test the lingering monastic undead raised by his god while the goblin slaves of Nydorden crowded him. The young human male, on the other hand, walked on the wall as if he was blessed by the spider to spread a large carpet. On which he organized tables and alchemical equipment pulled from some type of dimensional storage in his sleeves and tinkered away silently without end.

Despite the range of skill displayed among them, none of those named were the object of my interest. That belonged to the smallest member in stature and the largest member in poise. Elg-Horr's Bard. Bards loved talking almost as much as devils. Whether about themselves or something else was up to the individual. But that was an undebatable truth.

For the first few days, I had the 1st and 2nd sons follow her and her sourceless music while she followed Elg-Horr, eating every mushroom and root that met her eyes. It took them a while to learn the sound came from her very body. Assumedly an enchantment, but I knew otherwise. There was more to her than mere enchantments, curses, or even divine blessings. Thus, a test was required.

The opportunity came soon after, when she pitched her tent in front of the chamber containing the monk and his sentient weapon. I sent something after her to test her strength. Something her size but formidable. A gray dwarf. Unarmed but dangerous to her kind all the same. Doubly so when it used its innate powers to double his size to that of a human.

Despite that, the little halfling knelt to grab a stone larger than her head, effortlessly prying it from the ground to hurl it at the gray dwarf's leg. It launched with a crack and whistled through the air to smash the side of his knee with a resounding echo, sending him reeling down to clutch at his wound. Close enough for his ear to be snatched and pulled to the grinning visage of Rickley Ravenbrook.

With her inhaling, I thought she would scream. However, a metal funnel appeared between her lips while she paused and when she exhaled, a great blazing fluid poured into the gray dwarf's mouth. Red hot like magma, it seemed to force its way down his gullet like a burrowing serpent to char his insides, leaving him gurgling and clutching at his smoldering neck as he fell to the ground.

As he fell, the little halfling bent low to grab the dwarf by the ankle, then easily dragged him back to her little encampment, singing. "I can't wait to hear your secrets."

While much smaller than the bestial man's tent, Rickley's was fenced and lined on the inside with all manner of exotic items. Caskets, coffins, urns, and small obelisks were arranged around a massive ceremonial bowl standing atop an open chamber- none of which we knew the purpose of until she heaved the charred dwarf into the bowl.

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A violet conflagration ignited the moment the dwarf found his rest, abnormally burning his remains into ash and charred bone that crept its way to the bowl's brim. As it went, Rickley's attention turned to the items scattered about until she settled on an urn that she promptly covered in a field of mana. Materials were fed into the field, where the artificer's perks remolded them into etchings, carvings, inlays, and painted motifs; spurred along by the delightfully dreadful tune echoing around us. The music seemed to affect more than just her work speed, however, as the eldritch fires seemed to burn hotter with each note. It screamed when the small bard placed the urn in the chamber beneath the bowl. Squealed and howled with the ferocious futility born of a dying beast before puttering out in a baleful hiss.

When that hiss was spent, a violet arcane light glowed from the bow's sigils, increasing in intensity until the very ashes adopted the same hue. Then it died. Then the ashes fell, funneled through a small hole in the basin to settle into the urn.

As Rickley went to retrieve it, a voice echoed, seemingly from all directions. "Well, don't just stand there. Come, take a look."

I motioned to my lessors. Sorn took the lead, approaching the strange urn with unbounded curiosity to state the obvious. "It reeks of necromancy."

"Yeah, it's an undead urn." She said proudly, setting the piece down at her feet before infusing power into her voice to incant, "Sing!"

Before my brow could raise, the urn began disintegrating before my eyes. Upon dispersing into a cloud of dust, however, the grains began to shift and reform on the ground. Forming first feet, then legs, and eventually a charred dwarven body with veins of magma spread across his skin.

"How did you speak to us just now?" I asked.

"How? Because I'm Rickley fuckin' Ravenbrook." She elegantly bowed. "Soul Celebrity. Undying Fiend. Among other things."

"You... spoke to our souls?" I asked, hoping my shock was expertly hidden by my apparent interest in this undead creature. To so easily be able to touch what was owned by our Goddess, Most High, was... "I take it then this dwarf is now a sentient urn?"

"No. He's an Ashen Urn." Rickley corrected, gesturing to the creature. In turn, he closed his eyes and disintegrated once again. This time reforming into an otherwise ordinary urn of black stone. "Ashen. See." She grinned, then bent low to pick it up and show us the scalding ash filling the inside. "His ash was imbued with necromancy, while his soul was sealed in the urn's clay. Then I used my song to fuse them. The urn is his spirit and soul. The ash, his mind and body.

"I'm thinking of making him a drummer, I dunno."

"You told him to sing. Have him sing," I told her. "Any dwarf can chant and sing far better than they thrum and drum, after all."

"Thanks for the tip." She smiled at me after setting the jar down. Then suddenly looked toward the chamber behind her and laughed. "I wouldn't be bothering you if you'd hurry up."

"You speak to the sentient weapon." I pointed out.

She nodded. "I do."

"Have you seen it?"

"No, but I've been talking to him. Ma'Kruael. He's a gray soul. Amun took one soul he used to rage and merged it with another soul that was used as a mortal shield. Once it was put inside a weapon, it chose that human as its master."

"Rage?" Sorn, being a senior monk, laughed incredulously. "Amun? Raging?"

"He is not without anger. He just... contains it. Unhealthily so." She answered, not looking away from the distant chambers in a way that detracted from her words. But I noticed it. The warning in her tone. The threat that had not been stated.

"I see you trust him entirely." Rickley continued. "Yet you are unfair to him."

"Who are you-" Ryda started, yet the halfling continued.

"How? I can see what you gain from those who receive your 'mercy.' You return nothing to him. You don't even use the breadth of your power. Yet he gives all to you."

The fools, Sorn and Nijal, exchanged incredulous looks with each other. The imbeciles most likely thought her mad despite their knowledge of her ability and the weapon of the one inside the chamber. But I could see clearly the web she was weaving.

"Hah!" she laughed again a moment later. "He is not ready? If he was not ready, he would not be your master. He is on the precipice. Unable to pass because his other half holds him back. That's why you're talking to me and not focusing on him. Because he is worthy, and you are not."

A gust of air pulled our attention to the chamber just as it exploded, pulling all nearby crimson eyes to the broken doors behind us. Within was a human with skin like light leather and a long braid of black hair trailing around him as he floated in a meditative position before his coveted weapon. Yet, it was different. Once a pair of sticks connected by a phantom chain, one stick had condensed to form a ball and chain, and a moment later, elongated into a chain and sickle before reverting to its regular form. Only to shorten the phantom chain until the two rods connected to form a staff and break apart moments later to return to its usual form.

Reaching out, Rua took the weapon in hand, eliciting a pulse of gray ethereal fire that saw the weapon dissipate and reform as a beaded bracelet. Upon emerging, Rua turned to Rickley. In turn, she began tapping at the strange box hanging from her neck, causing a creeping crawl of strings to resound to the tune of her taps, rising in tempo until the monk stood before her and halted the dramatic sound.

"You have my thanks." He bowed, clasping his hands over his chest before rising with a smile. "I have never seen him angry before. It was quite amusing."

"Just doing my job. Although, I've been wanting to meet him." Rickley waved off his bow. "Never would've thought he'd be such a little prick, though."

The monk let out a boisterous laugh until I ribbed Nijal to probe him into moving things along. Then I moved to his chamber to catch a glimpse of it before it cascaded into his tower. It was a mundane pond that would suddenly erupt in chaotic bursts, splashing me with unnaturally tepid water every so often. I knew not how that was supposed to represent mercy or how one was supposed to meditate in there, nor did I care. I was beyond ready for this period of waiting and meditation to be over and done with.

Thankfully, as I turned, I saw the other chambers had opened some time ago. And while they had since been assimilated into towers, their proctors had documented them well enough.

The cat's chamber was filled with magical darkness, yet limned in a golden light. Around him was a domain of glowing motes, shining in all manner of reds, purples, and golds. Impressive, no doubt, but it was the last human who had a far more interesting chamber. Peter's chamber held totems for each element that were reported to have multiplied and mixed, first becoming dust, mud, and lava before totems for combustion, mist, and steam formed. Earth ki then fused with itself to make a mass of crystal and metal. Likewise, air fused with itself to form a crackling sphere of lighting and what appeared to be fire, yet I could not believe it so, for fire ki combined with itself to form a pinpoint so bright it nearly made every drow present scream in enraged anguish.

None did, however, for the monks and clerics were acclimatized to the light, and the rest were shielded by the fusion of water ki with itself. A pearl of liquid so dark it seemed to be darkness itself.

"Oh! Come on, Durn!"

I turned in time to see Rickley running toward Amun's chamber, her strange dwarven undead wobbling behind her.

'At last.' I and probably everyone else thought. Only to have our mirth immediately stolen once Rickley, the goblin, the young human male, and the elf trailed after the countless monastic undead racing to seal themselves inside Amun's chamber, leaving those 'undying fiends' sitting before it as if to stand guard.