Our lovely goddess’ hair regains the sunny hue, “First you learn to shape your domain. For practice, sculpt the stone in this chamber. A few pillars along the walls should suffice. The breath you feel is your magic, soak it into the stone and exert your will.”

Arthur exhales as instructed but when the breath hits the wall it reminds him of trying to breath through a dented helmet. Not impossible but requiring effort.

Ever the student of Merlin, it takes but an hour to finish. Eight roman pillars ring the room, both top and bottom end in arches that border perfect domes. What is reflected on the water’s surface is truly what lies below. A visitor might think they were in a flooded cathedral.

Yet now the golden core’s magic is like a shuddering, shallow gasp, “I take it with practice comes ease and stamina?”

The Lady of the Lake nods, “Certainly, now while you recover, extend your sight above this pool. It will cost you nothing and it is only a few feet of dirt.”

Her watery form levitates up to the domed ceiling, “You can only do this just outside your territory which we’ll be expanding as the day goes on.”

Arthur’s senses rise like a ghost towards the ceiling and yet he remains aware of everything in the core room. Passing the first layer of rock he expects a boring journey through dirt.

Or not, instead he finds a silt covered lakebed, the water murky. A pike chases a juvenile perch across the path of a trout, meandering along the weeds. He had previously expected they were buried deep with a mountain.

Returning below, “Well I can see the local fisherman won't bed down on an empty stomach.”

The rasping sensation from earlier passes, “I’m feeling spry enough to continue so what's next?”

Viv drifts towards between two pillars, “Mark this wall as North, and the other four accordingly. Then we shall continue our lovely afternoon of architecture.”

While doing so he chances, “Are you able to offer anything substantial in assistance. I’ll not get my hopes up based on you being locked in here with me and your narrative of the situation earlier.”

She waves her hand, “There are endless rules, but first, pull some stone out here on the east wall, like an empty basin we’ve yet to fill. One such arbitrary rule is that we cannot be completely sealed from the surface for long. Attempting to do so will strain your being against the will of this world. Fair competition and such nonsense.”

A civilized person would recognise a deep sink forming as Viv continues, “I’ll inform you as I am allowed, for now I may give you one small boon per floor of the dungeon or bank them up for a larger one. For this first floor, rules state my gift cannot be capable of direct harm.”

The sculpting completes and she moves on, “Well done, now make a small hole in the wall and tunnel down, your basin here will keep the water out for now. We must first reach the shore before any truly grand achievements can begin.”

It’s precision work, “Really Arthur you could have been the best plumber of Camelot. Twenty feet down we’re going to move east starting with a room housing a fountain this water will pour into.”

He pauses, “Surely you won’t be nitpicking like this till the second end of my days? What sort of room, and you said harmless creature?”

Like a curious child she sticks her head in the sink to look down the hole, “Of Course not, now I’m feeling a little gazebo, or a chapel, maybe a mausoleum if you're feeling morbid, a barn trough if ya want to be a stubborn mule. Yes we’ll get to the creatures shortly, landscaping first.”

If a core had eyes to roll, instead it does a small spin in the air, “I’ll do the chapel, if I’m to be known by my craft I’d prefer to have a measure of solemn grandeur. This water isn’t already blessed is it?”

Viv pokes the core, “No, but clean water is it’s own rarity.”

While the conversation moves along, the interior of an ancient yet small chapel forms. The sort you might find in a small town or wealthy village. Large stone tiles across the floor. Early gothic accents on the walls and ceiling are menacingly sharp. The whole room can be intimidating to those who feel unclean at heart. The lack of any light annoys Arthur, empty stone candelabras, glassless windows to naught but dirt.

The back of the room is elevated, simple stone tiles begin to form a fountain. Once a minor water deity, Viviane gets excited, “Make a statue of me in the fountain! Like I’m pouring the water for it!”

With a quiver, “Sacrilege surely.”

A goddess pouts, “I won't hold it against you, promis.”

“Har, Har,” yet he does as asked, taking time to capture every facet of her features. The figure is gracefully kneeling, pouring water from a jug with a serine contentment. One would think she was singing while she tended the font.

Viviane actually blushes at the care shown towards her likeness. Arthur can’t help but imagine how it would be to have been awake for so many years and all alone.

She turns away from the statue, “Leave room for a stairwell down, off to the side. When we start adding floors we’ll lower the core room. We’ll enchant the altar to keep cycling water. This will be a place of rest or you can make it bigger to house the keeper of the floor. That's called a boss in dungeon terms.”

While slowly getting used to balancing magic use and regen. Arthur finishes the interior complete with room for some pews should he find the wood. “Perhaps it's best to wait till we pick this boss? You mentioned enchanting however?”

Her excitement for the current subject is plain in the way she giddily hops up to the statue, “Now focus on the jug, imagine it to forever keep the font just full. Take in the whole of the fountain and push with intent, flowing as water should, as nature and the world expects.”

The moment lingers as if waiting for the world to respond. Then it does, something just snaps into place and the enchantment holds. The jug keeps pouring yet the font never overflows.

Arthur has learned magic before but this wasn’t the same, “That moment it took hold, what happened?”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Viv gently smiles, “Earlier, an eel died above us, its soul yet lingered. Now a newborn water spirit resides in that jug. Dungeons traffic souls with gods and the weave of this world. Congratulations on your first creature. They’re young but should support a few small water spells near your chapel.”

Cautious of such magic, “This spirit is now bound to me and my will?”

“Yes and no,” she drifts into the chapel and places her hand in the font. A small tendril of water dances up her arm as the stone jug continues to pour.

Gently she returns the spirit to the font, “The spirit isn’t entirely self aware, much like the eel. It knows you created it and as such is inclined to obey. Such methods are certainly not the most powerful or long lasting but it will work until we’ve the means for more stable spellcraft.”

After a full day there is a few feet of space around the exterior of a small gothic chapel. The window frames remain empty as does the doorway. It’s roof is but stone with no shingles to lay.

The lady claps for Arthur's attention, “That’s well enough for now, you have a cavern to hollow and it must stretch till the eastern lake shore. I expect it to be three fields in size and distance. I’ll teach you some math a tad more up to date as we go.”

She points from the chapel door arch towards one side, “I’d like you to also carve out a pond over there. Right up against the chapel walls and make a small drain from the lake above. Farming a few fish will boost your magic.”

Arthur wonders at this, “Fishing will? On that note, How do I go about filling this soon to be vast cave if you are so limited?”

“Souls are your magic,” there's an ominous undertone in her words, “remember you are a soul given form. Think of your core room as a well of souls. Consuming others along with natural spirits will grant you more power. Of Course even just floating there, spirit energy from the lake above gathers, but it is not nearly enough.”

“So we’ll lure them in.” She smirks as if looking down on other methods, “Other dungeons have their own means, all work with their patron and location. I was the Lady of The Lake, most famous of many such sirens.”

Time ticks by as Arthur comes to grips with such a predatory existence. However even dragons must eat their fill in order to reign.

_____________________

A week later, a large cavern with vaulted ceilings holds the small chapel on the shore of a tranquil pond. A small waterfall occasionally sucks down whatever drifts by in the lake above. The rest of the cavern stretches another 300 yards east where an arch in the wall is the exit to a spiral staircase.

Up on the surface at the lake’s eastern shore, a stone building is just being finished. It’s appearance is somewhere between a gazebo and mausoleum. Fitting as it will lead to both nature and death. The final touch being a twelve foot arch for an entryway.

The Lady of the Lake holds a globe of water in her hands, through it, she scrys upon Arthur’s work.

He anticipates her imminent snark, “We’ll have time to add frescos and stained glass later. What’s next?”

She drops the spell with a scoff, “Such a grump today. I see we were lucky to have even a roof on our entrance. You know first impressions are very important. Folks may take one look at your crypt and run for the local militia.”

Arthur’s attention is drawn towards a bubble of water floating above the cave pond. Within swims a silvery perch. “I’ll work on my artistry later, I think our water spirit is fond of your magic tricks.”

Viv giggles, “They grow with each passing creature in our little pond ecosystem. It's a spirit eat spirit world. Remind me to teach you ecology this next week.”

The word bears no meaning to a man from the dark ages, “If you must. Come now, the fields between the entrance and the chapel are but bare stone and dirt blanketed in darkness. A haunting afternoon’s walk I’m sure but nothing of what we spoke.”

Once more in lecture mode, she levitates before Arthur’s golden core, “You’ve carved, molded, and used spirit summons for enchanting, now you learn to alter that which you already know. Observe carefully, this is my boon for your first floor.”

In a cascade of water she disappears, reforming at the cave pond. Like the spirit did before, she captures a young pike in a bubble of water before returning to the core.

Hand clenching, the bubble shrinks until it and the young predator fish pop. Yet instead of fish gore there is a dim blue glow. Arthur can tell it’s another spirit.

Presenting it for inspection, “Another newborn spirit, this one retaining that clever hunter nature. Use your magic to observe as I make it evolve, develop or adapt for our purpose.”

Magic in the air takes on her projected emotions and intent, wonder, mischief, purpose to lead and mislead.

The spirit is released, it’s spectral form shifts among fish until it settles on a harmless goldfish.

Viv’s grin is wide as the previous pike, “A clever form to lure the unsuspecting and I’m sure she’ll grow to know more. Shall we name our first daughter of the dungeon?”

A pulse of confusion radiates from the core, “First daughter you say? What of the water spirit? I take it you want me to do more of such in the future? Use magic to change a creature and bind it to my core.”

She claps, “Exactly before long you’ll be pulling at the very weave of this world to craft our defenders. Now the water spirit will sadly take years and trials before it may become truly sentient. This miss however, just needs a name. How about Sibyl?”

Arthur sighs remembering a trickster of a noble girl who was set to wed Lancelot only to be left waiting at the altar, “Very well, hopefully the name serves this creature well.”

The entire room shudders, ripples play across the pool and dust shakes loose within the chapel below. Arthur feels something tear into the core room and merge with the little spectral fish.

Whatever it was took its pound of flesh from his own magic reserves, “What the hell was that Viviane?!”

A small girl’s whisper, “Lord Arthur? What is goin on, where are we?!”

Viv claps gaining his and the spirit’s attention, “Cause for celebration! A small bend of the rules and another old friend joins us in our new existence. Welcome back to life Sibyl! You once more ...float before your king.”

She waves towards the golden core.

Spirit fish Sibyl’s eyes go wide in shock, “This orb? What even am I”

Our patron goddess continues, “You are a Will-o-wisp, a spirit to lure in creatures and travelers. Perform well, and you may yet grow into something more as the world and your Lord Arthur wills it. Liege Arthur is now the soul and core of a fairy plane, you must aid him in growing stronger.”

The fish bows, “I shall perform my duties of course, where shall I begin?”

Whilst Arthur comes to terms with the truth behind what has just happened, Viv gives the first instruction, “Nothing too difficult to start, squirrels. The lord’s fields need tree seeds to plant and no better creature to gather them.”

As the spirit takes off, somehow knowing the way out, Arthur ponders, “Does she not remember taking her own life? It’s as if she never met that traitor. What of him?”

Viviane pulls up another water scry, “She may as her new form becomes stronger, and we’ve more of your subjects yet to restore.”

The spell shows our wisp already approaching a curious critter with a red bushy tail.

A ripple goes across the spell when Viv taps it, “As for Lancelot, observe.”

Our view takes flight as a bird might, faster it races over a forest in spring. Round a mountain alongside a river from our lake and down a waterfall into hills. Next they see plowed fields along irrigation canals, mills with their slow water wheels. Finally the river joins a larger one that flows towards castle walls.

Wrought iron grates bar the sewers from saboteurs and fairy magic apparently, Viv let's a single snort. Panning the view finds a spout pouring muck a bit higher up however. Neither comment as the spell exits a toilet of the guard barracks. Fresh rains lead the spell to the castle proper and down to its lower levels.

A red haired woman in a noble lady’s dress stands outside a circle of blood, her back to the scry, her chanting of a forign tongue. She stops after a crescendo, however naught but flicking candles happens. Her anger bursts as a banshee wail, the scry spell is shattered.