The memory of her last meeting with her patron kept revisiting her. Every night, in her dreams, Ersleth would relive that day. The day she left the Marble City, alone. Normally, memories of events age. Details wither, words scramble and timelines jumble. But not this one. Each night it grew stronger. She noticed things she hadn’t before- and the words that were exchanged resonated more within her.

She was waiting out on a white balcony, overlooking the city far below her. It was a clear day, with a hushed breeze. It was a quiet within the city, she heard only the occasional bell echoing from a distant cathedral. She remembers how her nose itched, irritated and not knowing why. She knew from later reliving the memory in a dream, that there was a pot of blue roses resting in the corner of the balcony. The spring always brought her a hay fever.

Then came the warm voice from behind her, beckoning with her name, “Ersleth,”

She remembers turning to face the voice behind her. It was a familiar sight. A tall and broad figure, hidden behind a purple cloak that dragged across the marble floor. Peering out from the cloak was a mask of gold, shaped with a single horn raised high above the head and punctured with eye sockets that always appeared vacant. Though she had served her patron, the Seventy-Seventh God all her life- there was something different about him when they met. Perhaps it was his posture, he did seem to raise himself straighter that day. Not like how he would lean down when she was but a child. Or maybe it was his cloak. It seemed brighter, more vibrant in each reliving of the memory.

Ersleth immediately knelt on both knees and bowed her head, “Holy Seventy-Seventh, I await your command.”

“I command you to rise to your feet and be at ease.”

She did so without hesitation, standing up straight, resting both her hands behind her back and looking into the mask of the Seventy-Seventh.

The gods were all hollowed out masks, expressionless. Yet, within their presence one could always feel their mood. In that moment, she felt a pride coming from her patron. A feeling that she wasn’t expecting.

“How does it feel to finally be my Oratir?” He asked.

“Holy Master,” Ersleth began, “I feel nothing but the desire to perform your will.”

“Hm,” the god sounded as he dragged over towards the balcony next to her, “the same response that your mother gave me when I asked her the question.”

Ersleth remembered feeling uncomfortable in that moment. The casualness of the conversation was something she wasn’t trained for.

Then, as if replying to her thoughts, the god turned out to the view of the city and said, “Your mother has taught you well. But she is honed by her experiences with the other gods. You do not need to be so formal around me. Speak as we once did when you were a child. How does it feel to be my Oratir?”

“Holy Master… it feels… right. I feel relieved that my- I mean, our work has finally led to this moment.”

The Seventy-Seventh faced her once more, “You are not an Oratir because of me.”

“Holy Master I can’t-”

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“No, truly, let those words stay. We give Oratir’s their rank because they are exemplary individuals. The greatest among mortals. Only our most faithful, strong and determined may earn that title. Those are traits that cannot be forced within one.”

Ersleth held back a wide smile, “I am honoured.”

“But I called you not just to congratulate you. I brought you here, because it is time for you to partake in your first mission as a complete and individual Oratir.”

Ersleth straightened herself, “I am ready, Holy Master.”

“Good,” the Seventy-Seventh looked out towards the city scape, “this mission will take you farther than you’ve ever been from the Marble City.” The god nodded his head towards an aqueduct looming high above the rooftops and venturing deep into the distance, “Follow the direction of South-Eastern Aqueduct and go beyond it. Your destination is where the Bushfields meet the Everlasting Dustlands.”

Ersleth remembered thinking for a moment before asking, “You mean for me to go the lands of the S’Molk?”

“Yes. The S’Molk have created a village along the border there, away from our Aqueducts. There are radical thinkers amongst this village. More and more S’Molk are gathering around these thinkers, turning away from our gift and instead looking towards the Dustlands.” The god paused, “S’Molk have been traversing the Dustlands, a place they know they should not go. The more S’Molk who are convinced that there is something in the Dustlands, the more that will perish to its fiery grasp. We cannot let this continue.”

“Holy Master, I shall travel there at once.”

“Do not be so eager, Ersleth. I have not yet told you how to handle this situation. I want the village to be abandoned and the S’Molk who reside there to return to our lands. But it will be done with a gentle touch. We cannot have them running into the Dustlands afraid.” The Seventy-Seventh looked towards the fields of farms residing outside the city, “I want you to take a bundle of our finest fruits and foods to them. Remind the outcasts of the gifts we offer them. Reside within the village, preach to the people, tend to their needs… re-educate them.”

“I will perform this with utmost care.”

“There is something you must be aware of when dealing with S’Molk.” The Seventy-Seventh beaconed for her to follow.

She remembered being led into the small room behind the balcony which was home to only a single marble table and chairs, bookcases, maps, wardrobes and a mirror. The Seventy-Seventh stood in front of the mirror, before shifting aside and exposing Erselth to its surface. She looked into her own reflection confusingly, unsure of what her patron was attempting to communicate until he spoke again once more.

“The S’Molk are among the smallest of the races. They are timid, easily shaken. This may be a challenge for one of your stature and race… but a challenge you can overcome.”

Ersleth finally understood. She was born as Yormoog, one of the tallest and brawny races. Many found their rock like scales, sharpened horns and ‘brutish’ faces intimidating.

“Why not send an Oratir of a different race?” She asked.

“It is important for these S’Molk to learn to be unafraid. But further, I think that you are the most suited for it. Your mother never failed to tell me of your… misuse of energy, as she would phrase it, when she was training you. A type of misuse that will be needed on this mission.”

Even after a dozen recounting of the memory, Ersleth did not know what kind of misuse the god was speaking of.

The god nodded towards a desk in the corner, “On that table over there, you will see that I’ve prepared a map for your journey. You will leave tomorrow morning.”

“I understand Holy Master. I will not fail this mission.”

“There is one more detail about this mission that you must know. Before you head into the village, I want you to meet with a shaman who has resided close to it. He will be useful. Not only is he knowledgeable, but he is S’Molk as well. He knows his people.”

“I shall meet with this shaman then.”

“Then I must warn you. While this shaman is among our greatest preachers many of the other gods regard him as… irregular.”

That is always where the memory ended. Ersleth would go on pondering these words as she travelled along the Aqueducts towards the Dustlands. While most things within the memory only became clearer with time, the word 'irregular' only became more ambiguous- and more worrisome. What kind of shaman earned such a reputation among the gods themselves?