It was well and truly evening in the village, and the exuberant festivities of Ankhara's celebration showed nary a sign of abating. The denizens of Kephri's Rest, nestled in the bosom of beauty directly between ‘quaint’ and ‘charming,’ embraced the spirit of the moment with arms flung wide and hearts aglow. The air thrummed with the intoxicating rhythm of the revelry, as the village square became a riot of vibrant hues and lively sounds.

Zeni was overjoyed and overwhelmed as, despite the fact that she’d found herself transported to this wondrous realm scant months ago, she was now a part of its living, breathing richness. She’d been swept along by the tide of excitement that ebbed and flowed throughout the day, even considering adversity had cast its shadow upon her earlier in the afternoon. However, the majority of her time had been filled with the kind of joy that resonated deep within her soul. Now, as twilight cast its cloak upon the land, she found herself drawn towards the pulsating heart of the village square, where the sights, sounds, and scents of the celebration danced and twirled like wild dervishes.

The air was laden with the rich, tantalizing aromas of succulent meats roasted upon open flames, mingling with the sweet and heady fragrance of exotic fruits and spices. The scent of sun-kissed grains baking in earthen ovens tickled Zeni's nostrils, beckoning her to sample the delights that awaited. Oil lanterns swayed gently from the branches of trees, their soft, golden light casting a warm and inviting glow upon the faces of villagers lost in the rapture of the moment.

Amidst the laughter and music, the rhythmic pounding of feet, and the swish of vibrant, silken garments, a group of adults had gathered around the blazing heart of a roaring fire, their hands cradling vessels of warming, amber alcohol. The flames leaped and danced like the spirits of fire elementals, their flickering light casting a mesmerizing spell upon the faces of those who encircled them.

As Zeni approached this assembly of villagers, a man of advanced years and a bushy beard that cascaded like a waterfall of silver and ebony leaned forward. His eyes, a pair of twin stars that twinkled with the same effervescent energy as the firelight, gazed upon her with curiosity and warmth. This was Knut, one of the esteemed village builders, a man whose hands had shaped the very stones and timbers that gave life to Kephri's Rest.

His voice, deep and resonant like the rumble of distant thunder, called out to Zeni, inviting her to join their circle. As she stepped into the warm embrace of the firelight, the villagers greeted her with the familiarity born of shared joy and merriment, and the Festival of Ankhara continued to unfurl its plaited weave of magical delight upon the humble village of Kephri's Rest.

"You know, I think I’ll have my hands full soon,” Knut said, taking another sip of wheaty henqet. “Aken’s been hassling me about expanding his workshop. It's about time, don't you think? The village could use a proper smithy."

"That would be wonderful, Knut!” Basa, who Zeni knew was the owner of the local watering hole, said. “The inn's walls have grown somewhat lonesome, their whispers hushed by the stillness of late. Well…the festival notwithstanding."

And so, the conversation flowed like the gentle meanderings of the Hapi itself, each voice contributing to the richness of dreams and aspirations. Zeni, her eyes wide with wonder and curiosity, drank in their words as if they were the sweet nectar of life, captivated by the resilient spirit that illuminated their stories like the first rays of the morning sun.

As the firelight flickered and capered, casting its ephemeral dance of light and shadow upon the faces of those gathered, the mood shifted like the sands of a desert dune, and the conversation took a more somber turn. A tall, slender figure, draped in the shroud of introspection, rose from the embrace of the fire's glow. This was Ayuska, a man whose countenance bore the weight of a thousand contemplations. His voice, laden with the heavy fog of inebriation, wove a somber thread through the tapestry of their discourse.

"And what of the dungeons, dear friends?" he slurred, his words stained by the bittersweet tang of beer. "These shadowed catacombs have whispered their song to us for countless years, luring us ever deeper into their depths with the promise of untold riches and knowledge. Yet I cannot help but wonder, at what cost?"

As the words spilled forth from Ayuska's lips like a mournful dirge, the gathered assembly fell silent, their eyes locked upon the fire's hypnotic dance as they contemplated—what Zeni did not know—was the enigmatic riddle of the dungeons that had haunted their dreams and whispered their secrets to the winds of Kephri's Rest for time immemorial.

A hushed murmur, akin to the susurrus of leaves rustling in the gentle embrace of the wind, rippled through the circle of villagers. Yastara, a woman whose face bore the intricate etchings of time and wisdom, heaved a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of countless memories. Her head was adorned with a simple yet elegant headscarf that bore witness to the years gone by. Her voice, tinged with the bittersweet hues of sorrow, weaved a tale that resonated within the hearts of those gathered.

"The dungeons, those enigmatic vaults of mystery, have exacted a heavy toll from us, their insatiable maw swallowing the hopes and dreams of our people. And yet, one cannot deny the gilded fruits they have bestowed upon our land, the riches they have offered in exchange for the sacrifices made," she lamented.

Madu, the venerable water invoker whose mastery of the aqueous arts was unrivaled within the village, nodded his agreement with a solemnity that spoke of the wisdom of ages. His back, stooped and bowed by the relentless march of time, stood as an ode to ancient stoicism, his visage a living portrait of fortitude.

"Aye, 'tis true. The dungeons have claimed the lives of so many of our stalwart and able-bodied kin, their dark, treacherous depths beckoning the unwary and the brave alike. And yet, there lies an irresistible allure, a whisper that winds its way through the silent nights, tugging at the very threads of my soul even now, when the years have worn me thin. I hear it calling some nights stronger than others, even at my age. Tempting me to explore its inky innards.”

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Zeni, her heart swelling, found herself ensnared by the words of those who had known both the exhilaration of discovery and the bitter sting of loss. As the conversation meandered through the corridors of reflection, the villagers bared their souls and their stories.

To Zeni’s surprise, it was Menna who spoke up then.

"My brother, Gelo—you remember, from o’er near Sapsut Temple—went to a dungeon a few years ago, seeking that damn fortune and adventure so many are promised. He was strong, and capable, and full of life. But…he never returned. We searched for him, but there was no trace. The dungeons took him, just like they always do. They take and we mourn."

Knut nodded.

"Yes, my cousin was one of them who ventured into a dungeon and never came back, too. It's a heavy burden on the heart, knowing they're likely out there and so far out of reach."

"But not everyone who enters a dungeon is lost forever,” said Shet, a young man who Zeni knew ranged with Yasmine.

Knut spoke up again.

“Aye, that’s true,” he said carefully. “Some find their way out, yes. Changed but alive. Seen things we can't imagine, and the lure of the dungeons is too strong for them to resist. But they can't go back to their old lives, not after experiencing what lies within."

As quick and elusive as a misplaced thought, Neith appeared among them with all the subtlety of an exceptionally talented sand grain. Zeni, completely absorbed by the conversational chorus that had taken on a life of its own, was caught off guard by Neith's unannounced arrival. It was as if the air itself had donned a cloak of mischievous invisibility and decided to play a little trick on them all, concealing Neith until the very moment she decided to make her presence known, much to the delight of the firelight, which chuckled in its flickering dance.

"Indeed, the dungeons have a strange pull on some,” she said sagely. “They may have taken many of our loved ones, but they've also given us incredible tales of bravery, wonder, and even sorrow. It's a bittersweet relationship we share with those unknown places."

“You would say that, Neith,” said Hebat, a man known for being a bit surly—especially when he was in his cups, and he was always in his cups. “On account of your duty, shepherding them what were arrived fresh and sending them off into them dungeons!”

Neith did something that Zeni did not often see: she frowned.

“I do not drive a newcomer to be whisked to the dungeons, Hebat,” she said tersely. “As you well know, and as your daughter well knows, I act as a guide. I do not force a hand, I merely offer assistance with a chosen path.”

Now it was Zeni’s turn to frown. What was all this about forcing people into dungeons? She hadn’t seemed to be doing that to her. Neith had only been supremely kind and understanding with her, and Hebat’s comments angered her a little. She couldn’t stop herself from interjecting.

"Are dungeons really so bad?” She asked, probably a bit harsher than she should have. “I mean, surely they can't all be as terrible as you're making them out to be?"

The villagers traded looks, their eyes momentarily narrowing with the sort of mild offense one reserves for finding a fly in one's soup. However, they quickly remembered that Zeni was as naive as a kitten in a room full of rocking chairs when it came to the local dungeon lore. So, rather than reprimanding her for her innocent blunder, they took pity on the poor girl and decided to enlighten her about the many pitfalls, snares, and assorted life-threatening hazards that lay within the dungeons, in a manner befitting a kindly, yet slightly overbearing, aunt.

Knut spoke up.

"You may not understand, Zeni. It’s not that they’re bad per se—trust me, I’ve seen enough riches come down from those mountains on other men’s backs enough times to want to throw my own lot in. But dungeons can change people, sometimes for the worse. It fills folk with a mighty desire to act, to spelunk their depths. It’s a fire that doesn’t ebb as it should. Take Omar, for example."

The mention of Omar brought a collective sigh of pity from the gathered villagers, their faces etched with sympathy, sadness for something Zeni wasn’t sure of.

"What happened to Omar?" Zeni asked cautiously.

Neith, smiling sadly, was the one who answered.

"Omar was once a vibrant, outgoing member of our community,” she began. “He followed the pull we all feel, let it lead him, shape his choice. He’s not to blame for that, we all want what we most deeply desire. Omar went to a dungeon—not the one nearest here, but another—seeking wealth and fame, he said, though I’m of the opinion he merely wanted to get the nagging sensation out of his mind. When he returned, he was... different. The dungeon had shaped him, broken him in ways we couldn't comprehend."

Knut picked up the thread from there.

"He became a recluse, hardly ever leaving his home. Eventually, unable to take even the minor inconveniences of bustling village life, he moved to a small…well, there’s nothing to call it except a hovel, out in the mountains. Not far from here, no. But far enough. Just so he could be alone. A tragic tale, that. Ground all too well-traveled for those who brave the dungeons."

Zeni's curiosity was far from sated, and she pressed on with her questions.

"Wait, wait, wait, though. What exactly happened to Omar in the dungeon? Did he say?"

The villagers exchanged uneasy glances before Knut replied.

"Never shared the details with us, no. Not something he seemed willing to talk about. But the pain in his eyes was clear—the haunt in ‘em. The way mentioning a dungeon would make him flinch. Whatever happened within…it’s something he can’t bring himself to share."

Zeni furrowed her brow, deep in thought.

"So there’s, what? No way to help him? You know, bring him back from whatever darkness he's found himself in?"

Neith answered, her voice heavy with sorrow.

"We've tried, Zeni. We've tried to help him heal, to convince him to rejoin our community—his village. But he's stubborn, and the pain he carries runs deep. It's something he'll have to face on his own, if he ever decides to."

Well, that just seemed like bootstraps chatter to her. It was ridiculous. Obviously there was some kind of PTSD happening inside the brain of…whoever Omar was. She knew she needed to meet this man and learn what he knew about the dungeons, especially in light of the cryptic message she had received upon her arrival in this world.

And most nights as I go to bed, she thought.

Perhaps, however, he held the key to understanding not only the dangers of dungeons but also the secrets of her own purpose here.

As the villagers' tales wove a fantastical web, Zeni found herself quietly smitten by the sort of determination usually reserved for dogs pursuing a particularly elusive chicken bone. She made up her mind to seek out Omar in the foreseeable future, while fully aware that the path she was about to wander down might just land her in a pickle, or perhaps something even more perilous than pickles, if that were possible. Yet, with every yarn spun by the villagers, her resolve blossomed like a sunflower defiantly turning its face to the sun, fueled by a magnetic urge to untangle the mystery of dungeons and discover just where she fit in the grand design of the cryptic subterranean labyrinths.

It just so happened that she’d get her chance soon, though she could not have possibly prepared for the method she’d have to manage