“He shall become known as Spinebreaker, and he shall shake the planes.”
----------------------------------------
Monus Stormshroud paced the polished obsidian floors of his personal sanctum, robes of midnight blue swirling around him like thunderclouds. It was an old habit of his since his days as a fledging mage, one that had annoyed many of his fellow students, comrades in adventuring, and later colleagues across the stages of his varied career. He found that it helped him clear his thoughts, the movement a strange comfort from the phantom shackles that chained his mind whenever a particularly vexing problem plagued him with inaction.
Though that particular tic of his was old, the thoughts accompanying the movement had changed over the years. As a bright-eyed adept, those thoughts had revolved around the many unsolved arcane conundrums that whispered promises of immortal glory and accolades for the one to finally crack them. When he’d turned to more practical aspirations as an adventurer, it had been the crackling of the bonfire and the occasional snoring of his companions that had accompanied him late into the night as he drafted battle plans and deliberated over how best to optimally sculpt his spellscape for the next day’s selection of spells.
Now — older still, and having achieved the vaunted title of archmage and the accompanying mage name of Stormshroud — his concerns were primarily directed toward the fate of his beloved academy and the fragile state of the Starhaven Accord. He spent most of his time these days outside of the academy, attending the courts of kings and council hearings to offer his counsel.
He sighed, pausing in his steps, thumbing tiredly at his temple. Seriously, how was it so difficult to get it across just how terrible another Aether War would be?
Monus’ gaze fell upon the keepsakes upon his study table, and the creased lines upon his face loosened. He stepped closer to the table, picking up one of the miniature sculptures with a fond smile. It was a simple construction, nothing more than a stone carving made by a craftsman from a small village after their first successful foray into the adventuring business. Yet, the memento held far more value than the statues of polished marble and gold that had since been erected in honour of their party.
Harold Rhogard, his old leader and one of his closest friends, looked back at him, the craftsman having perfectly captured the charismatic charm of the young warrior. Who could ever have foreseen his ascension to king?
His fond smile turned forlorn at that thought. Five years was far too short a time to mend the scars that King Harold’s passing had brought.
He shut his eyes, forcing out a long, tired breath. Though Queen Edith tried her best to take over her husband’s duties as regent, with Alendra still attending Aethergarde and Edgar still as young as he was, the rats in her council were ever scurrying to snatch whatever scraps of power they could manage for themselves. Oh, sure, they made a grand showing of offering due subservience and flattering him with empty compliments each time he ventured to the royal capital to remind them that he wouldn’t sit idly by if they attempted tainting his dear friend’s legacy, but even as archmage and headmaster of Aethergarde Academy he couldn’t be everywhere at once.
He put down the quaint little figurine, staring at the younger visage of himself instead. He’d been captured in a fierce scowl at the time, and Monus snorted with amusement. Even now, a full forty years since he’d embarked on those first days of adventure fresh out of the academy, the memory of those days remained fresh as ever. He always made sure to position that pair of figurines well, the target of his stony doppelgänger’s ire caught staring with utter befuddlement at the spellbook in his oversized hands.
Gorth Skullthumper. Barbarian from the Elk tribe of the Thousand Spines. Monus snickered to himself, remembering the ‘explosive’ argument between them after Gorth had snatched away his spellbook declaring that he would ‘free the great primal spirits trapped within their foul prison’. When he’d explained just how arcane magic worked, and that none of his ancestral spirits were sealed within the parchment to be unleashed as spells as the barbarian had believed, Gorth had instead thumped his chest and declared that he would intimidate the spellbook to reveal more of its hidden secrets so that Monus could better wield their powers in glorious battle.
Indeed, back in those days, not a day would pass without Gorth testing Monus’ patience and the poor barbarian never understanding just why it was that the wizard had been so vexed. He shivered. Even now, he could hear that booming voice of that muscle-clad freak of nature who never once was anything less than enthusiastic and jovial.
Gods, strange as it sounded, those had truly been the days he missed most. It frankly amazed Monus just how it was they were able to function as an effective team in combat at all, and yet many a great beast had been felled beneath their combined might.
He shook his head, eyeing the other sculptures of his friends. Felix, whose life had been cut short far too early into their adventure. Deidre and Dariel, happily retired from the dangers of adventuring long before the rest of them. Sylene, who’d rejoined her people in the Oathsong Woods; Gonville, who now headed the excavation efforts of the Royal Reliquary. Nina, Rashid, Layla. Then there were others, either temporary companions to their core group, or those who had simply joined at a later stage of their adventuring careers.
Alas, reminiscence over the past could provide only temporary relief from the burdens of the present. The communication stone at the corner of his study table rattled against the sturdy staroak, and he paused for a moment, feeling the subtleties in the shape of the sender’s magic.
Monus smiled faintly to himself. And here he was just moments before, thinking about her father and the rest of their party. He pulsed a wave of his own magic into the arcane device, accepting the artifact’s Sending.
“Alendra,” he greeted. “This is a pleasant surprise.” He paused, thinking about the possible reasons for her unscheduled correspondence, then cursed aloud. “By the Myriad Planes, please tell me that we weren’t scheduled for instruction this morning…”
“What?” Within the orb, the princess’ hazy features solidified momentarily, revealing her bewilderment. “No, Uncle Monus. There’s just, uh… well, I’m not sure how to describe it — but uh, there’s someone arguing with the golem by the Moonrise Gates?”
He frowned, rising from his seat to move toward the scrying orb attuned to Aethergarde’s many wards to have a look for himself. It didn’t sound like an emergency — if anything, she sounded more confused than alarmed.
“I’ve temporarily cordoned off the area just in case, since I wasn’t sure about what was going on at the time — but to be honest…”
As he sculpted the arcane magics of his Scry, something in the background noise coming from the sending stone on his study table irked him. He strained his ears, tuning the artifact’s enchantments to try and augment the sounds being transmitted —
“- accursed abomination! Abyssal fiend! I shall warn you only once more! Send for your foul master, for I shall bathe my axe in its guts!”
Oh no. That diction. That manner of speech.
And — oh, Exiled Gods — the way that he was now surely shouting —
“DO YOU HEAR ME, SPINELESS CUR? DO YOU HEAR ME, LORD OF AETHERGARDE? I SPEAK TO YOU NOW, CREATURE OF SHADOW! SPAWN OF DARKNESS! YOUR FOUL SORCERY AND ACCURSED TRICKS SHALL NOT AVAIL YOU! COME FORTH, COWARD, AND FACE THE AXE OF KORG, SON OF GORTH!”
Monus’ face paled.
“…Uncle Monus?”
He threw open the windows, and even though the Moonrise Gates were a fair distance away from the Sage’s Spire, the next words were still heard loud and clear as they echoed — somehow — for all of Aethergarde to hear.
“BY MOK’GARUM!”
It was heartwarming that his dear old rival and friend’s son was here to visit, but…
… why in the hells was he issuing the Crimson Challenge to Monus?
-x-x-x-
Dawn bled across the skies of a foreign land, painting the distant mountains in the bloodied palette of a warrior’s farewell. Korg, fingers thick with ash-bone paste, stared at the obsidian spires that rose up from the heart of the fortress, each an imposing giant of stone and arcane might. Each inhalation was a ragged prayer, each exhalation a white plume whispering farewell to a world he might leave behind.
Korg, son of Gorth, knew that this dawn was borrowed. Though he had endured the endless challenges of the Thousand Spines and emerged the victor in countless hunts, the bonfire stories of his father had ever spoken of the horrors of the southern lands. Though Korg had braved the draugrs and revenants of the forgotten cairns, those undead creatures could barely compare to the terrifying tales of the great Lich that his father had challenged alongside his former comrades. Wyverns, greatshells, and other manner of monstrous beasts that roamed the Wilds he may have slain, but none of them could compare to the greatwyrm once known as the Dread Scourge that his father had claimed for his rite of mok’garum.
It was a tradition of the Elk Tribe. Anyone wishing a warrior’s glory had to prove their worth to the clan by demonstrating their strength, tenacity, agility, wisdom, and cunning by felling a mighty beast. It had been for that purpose that Gorth Skullthumper had roamed the southern lands for over a dozen years in search of a worthy foe, and it was for that same purpose that Korg, son of Gorth, now followed in his father’s footsteps.
For countless nights over the many years he’d debated as to what manner of creature would suffice for the Crimson Challenge. Historically, others had demonstrated their worth through slaying lesser foes — wyverns, chimaeras, wight-lords and the like — but that would not suffice. He was Korg, son of Gorth, and pride and honour alike demanded that he fell a greater creature than even a greatwyrm as his father had done.
‘Don’t be a fool, Korg,’ his kin had warned him when he’d discussed the matter with them. ‘How can such a creature possibly exist?’
But Korg, son of Gorth, was no fool. He was a quick learner with a keen memory — indeed, his father and mother often praised him for it — and he remembered the southern tales spoken by his father. For all his strength and pride, Gorth Skullthumper, Chieftain of the Elk Tribe, had always considered his formidable strength beneath that of his close companion and sworn brother, Monus Stormshroud.
It was simple, then. To prove his worth as beyond that of his father’s, he simply needed to fell a beast that even the great shaman and master of the spirits Monus Stormshroud had failed to beat.
There weren’t many of them, for great Monus was powerful indeed, but with the aid of the clan’s wisest shamans and the assistance of the great spirits his father had recalled from the deepest dregs of his memory one such creature that Monus Stormshroud had once confided to him.
It had been a night by the tavern’s hearth, and wise Stormshroud was once again pondering his orb for the secrets of the spirits and penning his thoughts down upon parchment. His father had asked what it was that so plagued him, eager to lend his assistance to combat whatever evil it was that burdened his sworn kin.
A great beast was eluding him, so the great wizard-shaman had said. A creature that generations of the southern shamans had failed to defeat. Eternal glory was promised to the one who could bring it to heel, and Monus Stormshroud had ever dreamed of defeating it in glorious battle. It veiled itself in riddles and lies and poisoned truths, and all who had risen to challenge it had suffered humiliating defeats.
Now, staring at the lair of the foul creature, its name escaped his lips in a ragged whisper.
“The Conjecture of Aethergarde…”
It was strangely easy to track the creature down to its lair, all things considered. He’d travelled from village to village and town to town, making the long journey south from the Thousand Spines to the kingdom of Werland, and the southerners he’d encountered had helpfully provided directions to this Aethergarde.
Aethergarde Academy was its True Name, as one wise person had informed him. He knew little of what an ‘academy’ was, but he likened it to the lairs of monsters he had hunted across the many seasons. It was vast – far larger than any drake’s feeding ground or manticore’s roost – but Korg was undeterred. War drums pounded in his chest, and though he knew there was a good chance that the upcoming battle might just be his last, the thrill of battle coursing through his blood chased away all notion of fear.
Whatever the outcome, the upcoming battle would be a tale worthy of the skalds’ sagas.
Kneeling, he grasped Blood Howl firmly in his hands, carefully inspecting every familiar contour of the axe. Each chipped edge and weathered inscription bore silent witness to battles past. Ancestors willing, its bite would shatter whatever darkness shielded the twisted abomination he would soon face. He closed his eyes, whispering a prayer to the great spirits for their strength in the battle ahead. He inhaled the frigid air, a final taste of the world he might soon leave behind.
Then, with a warrior’s focus, he marched toward the abomination’s lair.
Toward glory.
Toward destiny.
-x-x-x-
Just as it was in his father’s tales, the cravenly southern beasts did not fight their own battles. Instead, they relied on their minions to deal with would-be challengers while they hid and cowered in the depths of their lairs.
His heart burned with righteous fury. What manner of twisted magic did the master of this place call upon? What sort of foul sorcery could encase a man in stone and enthrall his every movement?
The stone-man stood unnaturally still, staring beyond Korg with lifeless gemstone eyes. All of his challenges and demands had been ignored thus far, and though Korg was wise and trained enough to know that he needed to save his strength for the true battle to come, he was beginning to get a little annoyed with the minion before him.
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“Do you hear me, creature?” He swung Blood Howl in a sweeping arc, holding the greataxe before him in challenge. “I am Korg, son of Gorth, and I have issued mok’garum! Send for your master to face me in honourable combat, or the world shall know of the accursed Conjecture’s cowardice!”
He growled, fury growing within him as he was ignored once again. He did not know whether the man within the stone was still alive, or this was merely some twisted mockery of life just as it was the undeath of the draugrs and wights of his homeland. He did not wish harm upon the man — there were good chances that he was being enthralled to do the bidding of his dark master — but there was a fine line between restraint and inaction.
He took another step forward, brandishing Blood Howl before him.
The guardian of the creature’s lair moved.
Then, as a sure sign of the foul magics empowering the beast, a gnarled voice emerged without it even opening its mouth.
“WARNING: Intruder alert. Cease and desist at once, or this unit will respond with lethal force.”
Korg’s heart ached at the clipped voice of the man within, distorted by what had to be unimaginable agony. What manner of coward was this foul Conjecture, that it would so trample upon the dregs of its own honour and engage in such twisted magic? For a moment, indecision weighed heavily in him, for he knew that this was not the desire of the beast’s enthralled guardian.
Then, he steeled his warrior’s heart, and fell into a battle stance.
“Forgive me,” he said, the beginnings of his rage now roughening his voice. “If it is any consolation at all, I shall ensure that your vile master shall suffer a thousand-fold what has been done to you before it meets its end.”
“WARNING! WARNING! Cease and desist, cease and desist, cease and —“
“GORUK-MODAM!”
Korg, son of Gorth, charged forward with a warrior’s rage. He’d fought earth elementals that had been driven mad several times back in the Thousand Spines, and as such was confident in his own strength. A maul or greatclub would be a better weapon against this stone-cursed man, but he trusted in the shaman-blessed edge of Blood Howl.
He swung with rage-fueled strength, a mighty roar tearing itself free from his throat. Alas, for all that the creature appeared slow and cumbersome, it suddenly moved with an unnatural speed, twisting in an impossible movement at the last moment. Where the blow would surely have cleaved the creature’s head from torso, it now instead dug deep into the unnatural carapace of the cursed creature.
A debilitating blow — but not a crippling one.
And in an instant, every sinew of Korg’s being knew he had to dodge.
He trusted in his warrior’s instincts, letting go of his weapon to tumble and roll aside, and it had only been the reflexes honed from over a decade of training alongside the clan’s best warriors that saved him from what would surely have been a painful injury. The stone custodian’s strike missed, sending cracks across the ground where it had instead impacted.
Unnatural strength, Korg noted. Even lesser earth elementals couldn’t do that.
He adjusted his estimation of his adversary’s power. Clearly, its master’s magic was not simply limited to enthralling the poor man. As chunks of stone tore itself free from the creature’s side where Blood Howl had struck, Korg could now see that it wasn’t a man encased in stone at all.
Instead, the warlock of this lair must have transformed the man into stone.
“Conjecture of Aethergarde,” he spat, cursing the creature’s very name. “Your vile sorcery shall torture this man no longer! I, Korg, son of Gorth, swear this upon my honour!
The chorus of righteous indignation accompanied the rhythmic thump of his rage, and he could feel the very spirits of the land rising up in support of him and his cause. He grasped at those invisible motes of primeval power, feeding them his rage, his fury, mustering them to join him in his fight.
“Lo-tharoak!”
Tumbling once more to the ground, he snatched the fallen axe from amidst the rubble, deftly passing it from one hand to another behind his back as he rolled and leapt to his feet. More and more of the spirits coalesced before him in the Ancestral Realm, thickened and engorged with his warrior’s fury, and with one final roar he unleashed them.
The manifestation of a warrior’s rage was always different, but Korg was different even by that standard. Where his father had bonded himself with Ko’gash, the Spirit of the Wyvern, and had learned to harness the various aspects of the great spirit through long years of training, Korg instead still had little command over the spirits drawn to his rage. Though he’d sought the guidance of the tribe’s shamans and been taught the tribe’s most sacred rituals to commune with the spirits, he was ashamed to admit that he only had managed the barest grasp over mustering the spirits and communing with them while deep within the warrior’s rage.
Wild flames flared all around him, and his foe was caught squarely by the thick blaze that now spread outward from him at the very centre. Caught by the shockwave of power, though its lifeless carapace did not turn ablaze as mortal flesh would, it still stumbled backward as the sudden wave of force pounded against its lumbering form. The spirits receded from Korg, their power depleted in an instant — but that instant was enough.
From amidst the still-fading embers emerged a full-fledged warrior of the Thousand Spines, and with the creature still reeling from the spirits’ assault, this second strike landed just as Korg intended.
From the apex of his leap, Korg didn’t so much swing as he did hurl his axe in a full overhead strike. The wild screech of metal upon stone was matched only by the frenzied tempo of battle echoing in his ears, and the blinding sparks dancing in his vision seemed almost an afterimage of the still-flickering embers he’d unleashed through his channeling of the nameless spirits.
The creature fell in two halves, bisected neatly in the middle. Korg gritted his teeth, digging his foot firmly in the dirt, and then with a forceful tug yanked his weapon free from where it was now embedded in the stone beneath.
“May you find peace alongside your ancestors,” he whispered a prayer for the stone-cursed man, hoping that the southerner’s spirits were listening. “Rest easy, and know that your suffering shall be avenged.”
A wave of exhaustion slammed into him, the aftermath of a warrior’s rage. Still, he knelt down, holding one of the fallen stones in one hand and raised it in challenge before the glyph-adorned gates that barred his way into the creature’s lair.
“Your champion has been defeated, foul warlock!” he cried out. “Hear me now, Conjecture of Aethergarde! You have plagued these lands for long enough! You, who have once made a mockery of the wise shaman Monus Stormshroud, one declared kin and kith to the Elk Tribe! Know this: I am Korg, son of Gorth, and I am here to avenge my sworn kin from the sting of defeat! By the rite of mok’garum! By the Crimson Challenge!”
The spirits of the wind echoed his words.
“By the Crimson Challenge!”
They bounced across the stones, and the thousands of formless spirits within, too, added their own support to his cause in their myriad voices.
“By the Crimson Challenge!”
“-the Crimson Challenge!”
“Crimson Challenge!”
“-imson Challenge!”
Korg chuckled to himself, amused despite the gravity of the situation. Yes, the spirits of stone were such excitable little creatures, dull though they may be.
Surely, surely now the humiliated master of this lair would respond to his challenge.
He was not disappointed.
The spirits howled in warning, and the glyph that hung in mid-air in the entranceway flared with power. Korg deftly vaulted backward, body held low to the ground as he slid back, his axe screeching against the ground where he readied himself to strike.
The strange shadows that hid the innards of the creature’s lair vanished alongside the purple glyph that pulsed with magical light. A momentary flash blinded him, but even past the flare of violet light he could see the silhouette of a robed figure emerge from within.
Ah. So his suspicions were true. The Conjecture was not a beast at all, but rather a man. A warlock.
“The Aethergarde Conjecture, I presume,” he spat, adjusting his stance, speaking with a deadly calm. “We meet at last. Know this, O’ Terror Incarnate: I am Korg, son of Gorth, and I shall be your end.”
The warlock stared at him. Wordlessly. Menacingly.
Mockingly.
The once-simmering embers of his rage erupted once more.
“Conjecture! You are a blight upon this world! Upon my honour, I hereby vow that you shall rue this day! The great shaman Monus Stormshroud shall suffer the humiliation of defeat no longer!”
With that final word, he charged.
And abruptly, he froze.
Literally.
A block of solid ice appeared from nothingness, so fast and deceptive that even the spirits failed to call out their usual warnings. It was so deceptive, in fact, that Korg didn’t even feel the slightest chill.
So deceptive indeed, that he was able to hear every word that the warlock next spoke.
“Oh, for Planes’ sakes,” the warlock cursed, rubbing at his eyes. “It is too gods-damned early in the morning for this.”
Was he to unleash foul ocular magics, the sort of the basilisks and gorgons that his father had warned him about? Was that… was that how he’d enthralled the stone-cursed guardian of his lair?
NO! Even defeated, I will not be his thrall!
Even encased in ice, Korg tensed every muscle of his being, struggling furiously against the shackles binding him from all around. Rage burned bright in him, pouring forth as a boundless tide that engorged every fibre of his being with its strength —
The prison of ice shattered with a thunderous crash, and without a moment’s pause, Korg continued in his charge.
“Begone, creature!”
He’d barely made a few steps before the warlock disappeared. Korg’s mind raced, thinking of the many tales that his father had told him —
“Aha! Blink! You cannot fool me, warlock, for I am Korg, son of Gorth, and I —“
Arcing chains the colour of storms abruptly manifested all around him, tightening as a cord. Korg growled, willing for them to snap and break, but to his horror, he found his own strength being sapped from him.
“Treachery! By mok’garum, I demand that you face me in —“
“Oh will you please shut up for just one moment!”
The spirits howled a warning — and then, Korg was Silenced.
He glared with undisguised hate at the warlock, who now once again returned to staring at him. The warlock’s eyes flickered toward the bone-white sigils of the Crimson Challenge inscribed upon his bare chest — the rite of mok’garum demanded it — and then fell upon the handle of Blood Howl, engraved with the markings and storied histories of his tribe. He stared Korg in the eye, and he met the sorcerer’s gaze unflinchingly.
Even in defeat, I shall not be humiliated, Korg spoke wordlessly, willing his words through his gaze alone. Finish me, then. Grant me at least an honourable death, coward!
“Exiled Gods,” the warlock spoke, the first to break eye contact in this battle of wills. “You really do resemble your father.”
…this foul warlock knew his father? Had they… had they met in battle before?
Had his father suffered such a humiliating defeat that he’d never once told his son of the encounter?
It agonized him that he could not avenge this slight to both Monus Stormshroud and his father, but he would find satisfaction in the knowledge that the Aethergarde Conjecture would one day be defeated. He looked forward unblinkingly, awaiting the moment he would rejoin his ancestors.
“You can speak now, by the way.”
“Foul —“
And then he couldn’t.
“Whoops. Wait. Sorry. Should probably have mentioned this first. I’ve got no bloody idea just why in all the Planes of Existence you’re declaring mok’garum against the Aethergarde Conjecture” — he shook his head, and Korg gave a wordless snarl —“ but I am most definitely not the Conjecture.” He paused. “Oh, Exiled Gods, that was definitely the first time such a statement has ever been said.”
This…
This wasn’t the Aethergarde Conjecture?
But then… ah, another minion! But if so — the true strength of his dark master surely had to be —
“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s definitely not it.” The warlock sighed. “Look, kid. Korg, right? Son of Gorth? Gorth Skullthumper of the Elk Tribe? Formerly of the Stalwart Companions?”
He nodded, letting none of his resolve break. The warlock took another step closer.
“I knew your father. Name’s Monus. Monus Stormshroud.”
For a moment, it didn’t click.
Monus? This was the great shaman, the one that was his blood-kin through proxy of his father? But if so…
His face paled, abject terror gripping at his heart.
“No… it can’t be…” His grip over Blood Howl slackened, the axe tumbling lifelessly to the floor. “The Aethergarde Conjecture… that great beast that once defeated you… it got you in the end… claimed you as its thrall…”
The warlock — no, Monus Stormshroud, his kin, his brother — stared at him.
“You know what? I’m not even sure how to begin to unpack that statement.” He sighed once more. “Look, Korg. I can call you Korg, right? The Aethergarde Conjecture isn’t here. This is an academy — an institution of learning — and I serve as headmaster here.”
Korg perked up at that. He was still confused about just where in all the hells the Conjecture was, so that he could go and slay it — but still he was impressed. If this indeed was Monus Stormshroud, then he’d certainly deserved the title of master of headhunters, for his fathers tales had painted him as a powerful shaman and a skilled hunter of beasts.
Now that he thought about it, if he went by his father’s descriptions of his closest friend, turned him bald, and had half the physique that his father claimed he had…
Then yes, the person before him did seem like a Monus Stormshroud.
“G-Great shaman!” he greeted hastily, eyes wide. “I always dreamt — but I never thought I would ever have the honour of — this is — my father always spoke of the powerful master of spirits he travelled with, and I —“
Then he gathered his wits about him. It was a joyous occasion, but he was not here to feast and revel.
“Great shaman, I must beseech you for your wisdom. By rite of mok’garum, I am charged with the duty of felling a great beast and proving myself to the tribe. My father has regaled me with the lore you bestowed upon him of the Aethergarde Conjecture, the monstrous beast that you once failed to defeat and was forced to flee in shame from. I have declared it my quarry, and have travelled to the southern lands in search of this beast that I may both avenge you and prove my worth. Pray, where might this cowardly creature be hiding, that I may do battle against it?”
With that, Korg waited, eager for any shred of wisdom or knowledge that the wise shaman might bestow upon him. Monus Stormshroud gaped at him, and Korg stood a little straighter, proud that he had chosen true and challenged a beast that so unsettled even one as powerful as this commander of spirits.
“Gods damn it, Gorth,” Monus Stormshroud muttered, looking skyward. “What have you done?”