4. Rituals

Kiraen settles into her seat and flips open her notebook with quiet intent. This is a topic that interests her.

She sits with effortless composure, her tight leather pants and loose, draped blouse giving her the look of someone who never tries too hard but always pulls it off. Her purple-gray skin is muted in the ambient light of the classroom, and her white hair, cut to her collarbone, shifts as she leans forward. On her nose rests a pair of tinted sunglasses that she wears ever where, even indoors.

Two things catch the light when she moves.

One is the slender silver wand strapped to her thigh —narrow as a stiletto, etched with faint runes and shaped like a weapon disguised as a tool. It's not just for show.

The other is a bracelet, subtle and elegant, silver like the wand and inlaid with a single red stone that seems to pulse faintly when the light hits it just right.

Together, they speak volumes:
Kiraen might be quiet, but she came prepared.

Marlena is one of the first students to come walking into the lecture hall. She's a very tall (6'2") but very lanky young elven woman, bereft of the archetypal grace her people are known for. Instead, she's unsure in her steps, keeping her dark green cloak drawn closely around her body with one gloved hand as she makes her way to a seat. The other hand grips the strap of a satchel of holding, one of her own design that is very spacious, and most importantly, very stable. The threads of the extra-dimensional enchantment are woven tightly and intricately.

Underneath her cloak, she wears a set of light but sturdy leather armor. On her waist rests a well-stocked toolbelt, gleaming with magic to a perceptive eye. That same eye could also catch the brassy glint of a magitech-based gun, powered by deeply carved Excidium runes along the barrel.

Pushing up her spectacles with the heel of her hand, Marlena takes the seat to Kiraen's left. She flashes a smile and speaks a hushed 'good morning' to Kiraen before she gets out her parchment and pen, focusing mainly on Lorridian. She sweeps her thick dark braid behind her shoulder and starts to write.

Ritual magic. While she did look forward to learning its traditional usage, she was more interested in how she could adapt its use for magitech. I suppose I can bother Fennick for his insight later... She finds her mind drifting to the Arcane Crucible, a workshop guild near the Biblioplex. She drags her focus back to the lesson at hand. Her notes are dense but well-structured and detailed.

Tall, lithe, and decked out in form-fitted attire, which includes a long cloak that drapes firmly, but openly around her, Salem is easily distinguishable thanks to her sunset-colored eyes, her cool, relaxed smile, and the uncanny aura that seems to pervade from her person. Getting close enough to even brush against her sends an eerie crawling feeling under one's skin that passes quickly.

Her pale skin is interspersed with tattoos in the form of snakes, thorny vines, and spider-lilies, covering all but her face, which is partially obscured by raggedly done-up raven hair that sways monotonously in a bristly ponytail behind her. The features of her face as soft and slightly plump, with arched cheeks and a patch of freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose.

Salem is decidedly older than the 'typical' first-year students, but still appears quite young, and walks with an unconcerned amble in her gait as she moves across the room and settles into her seat on the opposite the door. Sitting down, she unhooks a small, rectangular satchel from her hip, which turns out to house a single, incredibly thick grimoire, as well as a small vial of ink. She places both on the desk before her, plucking one of several feathers from her hair. A rather big feather, actually, and that does not resemble the plumage of any local birds.

---

Once class beings, she draws a pair of glasses from within her cloak and slips them on, listening to the lecture intently.

Zix shows up in its usual attire of road-worthy clothes, and the Critic perched on its shoulder, greets everyone, takes its usual seat, and opens the satchel and puts the usual scholarly implements onto the table: a tightly-sealing inkwell, a writing quill from a tough-looking conical container, a stack of parchments with notes from a travel case.

Quinn, walks in 6'2 all muscles and bones. A mix of strength and malnourishment. His patch work clothes show how poor he is. The only thing about him that stands out is his dagger. It's clean shiny and taken care of as if the most important thing in the world.

Professor Lorridian lifts a piece of chalk and begins sketching a circle behind him on the slate board — not a perfect circle, but one divided into eight arcs, each labeled with a sigil from the 8 schools.

"As we begin, you must understand — ritual magic does not favor or shun any school. Rather, it changes the scale of their expression. It magnifies, deepens, and usually complicates."

---

He taps the topmost sigil with the chalk — a stylized eye enclosed in a spiral.

"Perceptio."

"Rituals of Perceptio are ideal for scrying across vast distances, piercing illusions layered over time, or revealing truths buried deep in the earth — or mind. A group ritual here can connect minds into a shared vision, extend awareness over miles, or even reveal events long past."

"But beware — too many minds peering at once can blur the vision, dilute focus, change the prediction. And anchoring a ritual that sees into painful memories or overwhelming truths? That can crack even a strong mind if not properly shielded."

He moves clockwise.

---

"Dominatio."

"Rituals of Dominatio elevate this school to its most formidable state. Through shared focus, a circle of mages can do what one alone cannot — bend larger minds, more minds, or even objects of immense scale to their collective will."

"A single caster might compel a beast to stand still. But a ritual? That can tame a wyvern, or puppeteer a dozen guards without lifting a blade. You might lift a sword with telekinesis — but with a ritual, you could lift a fortress wall, or hold an avalanche at bay."

"There is immense reach in Dominatio rituals — across time, across distances. They can instill long-lasting compulsion, or even control the inanimate en masse."

He pauses, eyes scanning the class.

"But here’s the catch: more minds means more risk — including your own. The act of control must be perfect. Every participant must be aligned in will and clarity of purpose. Doubt is weakness. Disagreement? Ruin. Because if your grip slips, what you sought to control may not only escape…"

He leans forward, voice low and calm.

"…it may turn that control back on you."

---

"Creatio."

"Creation rituals are... spectacular. Entire structures formed from arcane essence, living golems born over hours of invocation, light that never fades. Rituals allow Creatio mages to build permanence, something spontaneous spells rarely offer."

"However, the energy requirements are immense. The rituals often need rare materials, and the consequences of misaligning a summoning matrix? Let’s just say I still don't like to go near the East Courtyard of the Elemental Academy after sunset."

---

"Mutatio."

"Transformative magic benefits enormously from ritual. You want to turn a battlefield into a lake? Ritual. Merge multiple monsters into a single form? Ritual. Reshape someone's body safely? Please, use a ritual."

"But Mutatio rituals can be unstable. Change is inherently volatile. The longer you channel it, the more chance it has to evolve on its own. You must maintain control from the first syllable to the last breath."

---

"Excidium."

Here, his voice dips slightly.

"Rituals of destruction are usually... forbidden without supervision. But they exist. And they are terrifying. Excidium rituals can erase cities, unravel souls, extinguish entire bloodlines by echo."

"They’re easier to cast than you'd like — because entropy always wants a little help. But the backlash is brutal. It corrupts. Ritual participants must guard their intent fiercely, or risk empowering or becoming the very thing they sought to destroy."

He moves on, softer.

---

"Tutela."

"Ah, the rituals of protection and healing. Here, rituals truly shine. A healing spell may close a wound — a ritual can regenerate a limb. A barrier spell can block a sword — a ritual can shield a town for a week."

"But here’s the trick: timing. Rituals are too slow for emergencies. You must prepare. Predict. Nothing too sudden can affect your ritual. Anything unexpected can easily shatter it, even after successfully cast."

---

"Amplifico."

"Power. Enhancement. Rituals here are like feeding a storm. You can raise a warrior to godlike strength, or make a spell echo across realms. You can even augment a ritual itself, strengthening all other effects."

"But… excess is the danger. Amplifico rituals are hungry. They want more — more energy, more time, more sacrifice. If you overreach, you burn out. If you empower something unstable, you break the world around it."

---

And finally, he taps the last sigil.

"Illusio."

"Rituals of illusion? Art. Entire landscapes woven from light and thought. Phantasms that remember you, dreamscapes shared across sleeping minds. Layered or even sapient deception that lasts weeks, months."

"But Illusio rituals require synchronization of belief. Everyone must envision the illusion identically, or it will fracture, shimmer, or worse — reveal the truth beneath. And trust me — the truth, when cloaked too long, can be... unpleasant."

He steps back from the diagram, letting the room absorb the enormity of what he’s outlined.

---

Dorian sits along the side of the room, sketching with charcoal in a sketchbook. Not with the skill of a practiced hand, but if someone seeking answers from nothing. It's a barely recognizable form, a man with crazy hair, maybe antlers.

Dorian is a rakish man, his hair mussy in such a way as to look haphazard but perfectly so. Fine aristocratic features, a casual flamboyance and with no hint of shyness, he's clearly comfortable around strangers. His clothing is similarly fashionable, nearly cutting edge. If there is one odd thing about him, it's that his expensive clothing seems worn perhaps a little too often.

Those who know such things might recognize his last name, that he shares with an absurdly wealthy family with fingers in all sorts of industry and seen regularly with nobility.

His eyes take in the new students, and he gives them a slight smile, warm and genuine with practiced grace.

Dorian's ears perk up at the mention of Perceptio rituals. He even deigns to write notes in his notebook, something he rarely does when anyone is looking (it interferes with his flamboyant self-image).

"Professor, will we learn how to focus multiple minds during rituals to avoid these catastrophes? I presume there is more than just willpower we can employ."

The Critic hops down from Zix's shoulder and hides inside its jacket.

Salem reacts by faithfully inscribing the notes she writes into her oversized grimoire. Not on any one particular subject or specialization, however, but all of them. Why stop at mastering just one kind of magic? Why not simply master them all?

She regularly peers up at the board, watching the writing, but not really the man or his theatrics. The latter was flashy, but ultimately served little more than personalization. The pages of her grimoire are so thick and many that they muffle the sound of the quill scraping against them, thus even though she herself seems animated, nary a sound emanates from her save for the occasional turn of the page.

At one point, she closes her right eye, and brings a finger up to tap there. It snaps back open in an instant and looks about frantically like it has a mind of its own--while the other eye remains steadfastly on the tome in front of her. It settles down shortly thereafter...

Kiraen raises her hand and askes. So the chanting words don't need to make sense, by themselves? That makes so much sense. I have been witness to many religious rituals, but seeing it in this light makes sense in a new way.

Could you recommend a small ritual, small or relatively harmless, that I could practice on?

Movement, gestures, disiplin. Rituals are the martial arts of magic. Kiran muses to herself.

"Excellent observation, Miss Nyrazzrin." He taps a finger to the side of his head. "Indeed, the words in a chant need not always hold semantic meaning. Most do, particularly in ancient tongues. But more often, it is the structure, sound, and cadence that really matter. Language as rhythm, not lexicon. You are not telling the universe or the gods what to do — you are humming your hopes."

He paces once, slowly, before the slate.

"As for a small ritual — yes, you may absolutely try one. In fact..."

He snaps his fingers, and a soft shimmer of light pulses from the medallion at his chest.

"...Let us begin now."

"Form yourselves into groups of six. You’ll design a simple ritual together. Your goals: harmless, creative, and achievable. Maybe a minor levitation circle. A shared dream-memory. A color-shifting flame. Something with low risk but clear magical effect."

He casts his gaze across the room.

"You’ll decide on the schools involved, draw the circle, draft a chant, and research your components. You don’t need to cast it today — only prepare it. You’ll present your design next class. If it is safe and clever, you may try performing it by then."

There’s the scrape of benches and the shuffling of parchment as students begin to sort themselves. Greta Ironhart gives a quick look and briskly joins another cluster before anyone else can speak to her.

The remaining students — Quinn, Dorian, Salem, Zix, Kiraen, and Marlena — glance around, realizing they’ve been left standing near each other by default or fate.

Dorian tosses his sketchbook down and stands up with a flourish. "A ritual to see, how about, the registrar's files about us?"

He grabs a couple chairs and faces them towards done others, using his feet to draw another into the impromptu circle. Secretly, he wants to learn this magic to learn much more than what's in his short file.

Zix perks up, intrigued, and also seems to shift to slightly more refined bearing and tone of speech, facing Dorian. "Ooh, the files. Yes, that would be a splendid idea."

The Critic continues hiding from the professor.

"That's a novel idea Dorian, but the registrar's defensive wards are likely a bit too robust for a cadre of first years to circumvent. At least, I would hope so. I wouldn't feel comfortable if it were easily accessible." Marlena considers the idea further though. "However, maybe we could do it anyway, just to challenge ourselves? What do you think?" She directs her question to the group, but she then realizes she's getting ahead of herself. She hasn't even introduced herself to the two strangers of the group yet.

"Oh, apologies. I'm Marlena." She smiles sheepishly at Quinn and Salem. "Pleasure to meet you two." She extends a hand to Salem first. She feels nothing out of the ordinary when getting close to Salem, though of course, Marlena doesn't realize that is unusual. Whether Salem accepts the handshake or not, she offers one to Quinn next.

"Oh, apologies to those not already acquainted. I am Zix," adds, facing the stranger, then turns to glance towards Salem, with a wink and change in posture that is reminiscent of a certain witch.

It sounds like a good idea for the second attempt. How would we know if the ritual was succesfuld or if the wards held?
As Professor Lorridian said, we should start with something that could produce a visible result right away. Like turning the flame of a candle purple or something.

Salem glances at Marlena's hand, uncertain, but eventually returns the handshake, if only fleetingly. Her expression is replaced with a cordial, but ultimately distanced smile. "Salem. Charmed, I'm sure."

To Zix, she nods knowingly.

She wrinkles her nose almost immediately at the preliminary suggestion. "I think I'd rather not know what this school has on me, if you don't mind. Moreover, do recall that we need to present this, and I rather don't think the professor would take kindly to our tampering with school documents, even if it is just for fun. Best to do such things behind closed doors."

Salem leans back into a more casual posture, one leg hiked over the other and her hands resting on her knee. "But if you are looking for something more challenging than simple parlor tricks, I am conceptually familiar with this type of magic, or at least, of a similar kind. In my line of work, we call it a séance, and it is typically used to communicate with the unseen. A lost love, perhaps, an elemental spirit, or a lost soul that even now haunts these halls. We could conjure a memory as well, or maybe...a portent of what is to come. I see no any reason why we couldn't reproduce a similar effect with ritual magic."

Umm hi, I'm Quinn. Sorry to say my files will be well empty. But I encountered a shadow thing earlier it was seeking help. If we can use Salem's method maybe we can try to help. I'm new to this magic stuff. As matter of fact it was almost outlawed where I come from. Only magic items were allowed. So I um don't know anything. Except that I can't channel magic unless it's through my sword.", he said pointing to his dagger.

Salem glances at the dagger that Quinn appears to be so fond of, tilting her head and pursing her lips thoughtfully. "I've heard of some practitioners using athame as foci for ritualistic practices, usually to draw symbols or direct energy. We could employ a similar tactic here, though if it isn't a virgin blade..."

She pauses, still thinking, then breaks with a shrug and a bemused smirk, "Well, que sera sera. It wouldn't be any fun if there wasn't an element of uncertainty, now would it?"

After a moment, "As for this shadow...'thing'...you mentioned, would it not be unwise to presume upon its aims with so little information? It could just as easily be a harmful spirit trying to appeal to your sense of nai--ahem...'benevolence' and lure you into a trap. Do you have some reason to believe it has good intentions, or that it is truly in need of help?"

"We tried to communicate. And it didn't attack or harm anyone.", I just wasn't any use at the time.

Dorian adjusts as Salem and Quinn talk about knives or some such. "Then the professor's papers. If we can read something from the bottom of her pile that she has not yet revealed to us, then Bob's your uncle, we've succeeded and can prove it."

Marlena seems to be deep in thought for the past few minutes, but she does come to a conclusion eventually. "If peering at the registrar's files is against the rules and involving ourselves with Quinn's shadow friend is risky, then I'd like to try out the séance. That said, what do we want to accomplish with it? Calling back a lost love sounds rather romantic, in my opinion. And if not a lost love, then simply a loved one who was gone too soon. Perhaps we could give the Professor closure that he never got to have. Though, I don't know anything about his personal life."

"I don't think we are likely to achieve the sort of closure that the university professors could not achieve without the aid of meter students. But I do like the general idea of a séance.."

"What's the point of a seance? If not used to help someone like the shadow? Besides there's no one for me to contact or wish to speak to. My parents were dead long before I could walk or talk. I don't even know there names. So it seems pointless to me.


The simple task of reading something the teach hasn't revealed yet could be the best option. And least risky. Besides if I herd right I could break the spell with a simple swing of my sword. That. Should be my roll. To destroy the diagram if things go wrong. Keep it simple. That's the best course."

Okay, let's do this! Time to move on. Majority rules.

The group falls into a brief, contemplative silence.

Finally, Marlena draws in a breath and stands a little straighter.

"I think... we should go with the séance." she says, her voice carrying a newfound certainty. "It’s within the guidelines the professor set — visible result, low physical risk — and, honestly, it feels fitting. This place must have old memories clinging to it. Echoes just waiting to be heard."

Zix nods in quiet agreement, the faintest smile on their lips. "A connection to the unseen. Something simple, something... poetic."

"Alright then," Dorian says with a flourish of his hand, "let’s call some ghosts, shall we?"

Salem leans back again, her sharp gaze scanning over the rest of the group. "Very well. If we’re agreed, let’s not waste time. We’ll need to divide the work."

Marlena, with her broad knowledge of lore, took responsibility for researching and selecting the material components. She began flipping through a well-worn reference book, muttering to herself about symbolic herbs, candles, and objects that could serve as anchors for spiritual communication.

Zix, ever attuned to rhythm and meaning, volunteered to develop the chant. They settled cross-legged with a scrap of parchment, tapping out syllables in the air as they considered the cadence that might best bridge the living and the unseen.

Salem and Dorian, both confident and creative in their approach to magic, undertook the task of designing and performing the ritual structure itself. They sketched out the sacred circle, choosing the alignment of the participants, the flow of energy, and the delicate balances necessary to maintain stability during the séance.

Quinn and Kiraen, practical-minded and steady, assumed the critical role of supporters. They would reinforce the energy of the ritual as needed, help sustain the chant if faltering, and—most importantly—be ready to cut the ritual short if things went wrong. Quinn kept a casual hand near the hilt of his dagger, already imagining the swift motion he might need to sever a misbehaving spell.

After some contemplation, Zix altered its throat to one more similar to that of the Auelfen of Aventuria - double-voiced in a subtle choir-like way, with a harmonic undertone. It started humming the draft version of the chant for everyone to acquaint themselves with, accompanied by improvised use of a couple of sticks to tap out the rhythm. There weren't really words in the chant, the syllables were just there to mark the moments of emphasis.

Dorian's magic is best suited for Amplifico, and he lays out the groundwork for that. He's focused and when side by side with others, he is driven by his pride to make sure that every aspect had been carefully thought-out - he will be a master magician, and let no one day otherwise.

The humming is a good start, and Zix seems to be working on bending that to unifying their intent. He sets up the resonance fields to draw the humming-focussed resolve of the circle to form a prism of power that Salem can use to pierce the walls of night and form a clear channel to the other side.

Marlena finds that her desire to call a specific soul were too ambitious, as one typically needed a piece of the deceased's remains, an emotionally significant object of theirs, or the place of their death. None of this was feasible to arrange. However, she could at least try to figure out how to talk to a random soul.

"Hm... We simply must have some mugwort... Yarrow, too... Just a pinch of angelica and a dash of rue. Perhaps sage as well. Do the portions matter...?" Marlena mutters to herself as she writes up a list of the material components. They would need candles as well, and it seems any will do the trick, at least as far as the book says. That just leaves the anchor.

A virgin blade. Salem did mention that. It gives Marlena the idea to simply create one. "I'll make an athame to bring to our next class. Yes... A hand-crafted blade should be an excellent anchor." Already, her mind is drawing out the plans to forge and shape it. Confident in her skills, it would be little trouble to have it ready in time.

Kiraen falls back into the role of big sister to Marlena and guardian to the others. She will keep them safe. In her minds eye she visualises the energies as they chant, and keeps an eye for fluktuations or new energies

As the group continued their quiet, diligent preparations, the energies within the circle began to thrum with a life of their own.

But something was… off.

Kiraen, attuned to the flow of ritual energy, noticed it first. A jagged undercurrent, not chaotic, but overly intense — demanding more than the group could comfortably offer. Her gaze shifted to Dorian, who, for all his studied elegance, was radiating a kind of forceful ambition into the circle. His Amplifico was too hungry, pulling more magic from the group than they could stabilize.Frowning slightly, Kiraen moved closer, not interrupting but gently inserting herself into the weave of the energies. She softened the sharp edges of Dorian’s magic, sending the excess away, smoothing the lines of force so that they resonated more easily with Zix’s humming and the others’ focus.It worked — the ritual's structure steadied, no longer fraying at the edges. But the effort cost her. Kiraen felt a thread of fatigue coil through her limbs, a hollowness behind her ribs where her strength had been momentarily overextended.

Either way, the preparations were complete.

In the next class, Marlena brings the crafted athame and ritual materials, which Professor Lorridian approves. The group sets up the ritual: Marlena arranges the herbs and candles, Zix maintains the chant, Dorian properly channels Amplifico with Kiraen's help, and Quinn stands ready to support. With everything prepared, Salem steps into the center to begin casting the final part of their séance ritual, as a heavy, expectant silence falls over them.

Quinn stands ready to destroy the markings and spell with a total disinterest in the ideal of talking to a random dead thing. He hopes it attacks so he can just kill it again.

Salem closed her eyes. The scents of burning herbs wafted thick through the air, bitter and cloying: mugwort, sage, and yarrow twisting into a heady perfume of boundary-breaking intent.

She placed her fingers lightly on the athame Marlena had crafted, letting its untouched edge rest above the center of the ritual’s geometry. With her other hand, she gestured in a slow arc through the air, fingers trailing invisible runes as she began to speak — or rather, to weave — the final invocation.

"O veil between the living and the lost, part thine threads at the edge of this circle. By name unknown, by sorrow remembered, let the unheard voice be given tongue once more."

Zix’s chant swelled in resonance.

"We summon not by chains, but by welcome. Not by force, but by invitation. Step forward, if you will."

There was a pause. Then the circle dimmed — not the light, but the sense of space itself, drawing inward. The candle flames inverted for a heartbeat, flickering downward before snapping upright.

And then she was there.

Not so much appeared as manifested, the soul of a woman at the center of the circle. A flickering figure of translucent white and silver hues, her edges soft and shifting like smoke trailing through moonlight. She was tall, or had once been; long hair floated around her as though suspended underwater. Her eyes opened slowly, pale and depthless.

She looked to Salem first — not startled, but aware. Present. A ghost, yes, but not mindless.

"You call, and I answer. I am Eryndel." Her voice echoed faintly, layered, like the last note of a song reverberating through a hall. "Who among you seeks me? And why?"

Kiraen is focused on the energy flow, and especially now they made contact, she is extra cautious.

Quinn readied his sword with a flick of his wrist. He was ready to end this on moments notice.

In awe, Marlena stares at the ghostly figure for a few seconds. After all, this is the first person she's ever seen from beyond. However, she snaps out of it when she realizes the name the figure just gave. "Eryndel? You're Eryndel? The Oracle who left those prophecies about... the dungeon?"

She steps closer. "If you're truly the same Eryndel, then could you tell me more about the dungeon? Just who created it? What forces wait down there? And the Chosen Ones, who are they? Did you ever manage to glean anything about them and when they'd arrive?"

For a moment, Eryndel simply looked at Marlena, her form rippling slightly as if caught in a draft that no one else could feel. Then, with a breathless stillness, she turned her head and cast her gaze across the circle, seeing not just the gathered students, but through them—through time, through fate, through memory.

The feeling that washed over her was not shock.

It was inevitability.

She had seen this moment once, in a vision carved out of starlight and fevered dreams. At the time, she hadn’t known what to make of it—only fragments. Faces she couldn’t name. Voices calling her back. A circle of magic laced with both recklessness and luck.

And now... here they stood.

"So," she said softly, more to herself than to them, "it came to pass. The seal has weakened. The echoes have grown loud enough that even the dead are summoned to answer."

Her eyes settled on Marlena.

"Yes. I am Eryndel."

There was no pride in the statement, no mystique. Only weariness. A profound and quiet grief, like that of someone who knew too well the weight of her warnings unheeded.

"The dungeon was not built during my time. It was uncovered. A thing ancient beyond kingdoms. Before Misthaven. Buried by hands who understood that not all power was meant to be harnessed. I wrote what I could. The visions came with blood and fire—pieces, never wholes. But always the same refrain: ‘Seal it. Guard it. Wait.’"

The flickering of her form intensified briefly.

"You ask of the Chosen. I saw no faces. Only lights, five of them. Each born of different stars. Different wounds. Each with the potential to awaken what sleeps beneath and to survive what follows. I did not know when they would come, only that when they did... they would summon me, back from the dead."

Her voice caught, just barely. Emotion—soft but real—touched her next words.

"And now you have. And now I know..." Her gaze lifted, scanning each of their faces. "The Chosen have arrived. And you are not ready."

The air seemed to constrict.

"But you must be."

Well shit.... Kiraen exclaims
How do we get ready?
Ready for what?
And what are these dungeons you are talking about Marlena?

"While I was looking into the incident," Marlena leaves the Hollow Quill part unsaid to maintain secrecy, "I happened upon information about an oracle named Eryndel. She left a series of prophecies about a dungeon that laid underneath Misthaven," she explains to Kiraen. "I admit, I was skeptical about it until now. Least of all, I didn't think we'd be the chosen..."

She looks up at Eryndel. "Do we need to go into this dungeon? What are the potential consequences if we refuse the call? On a more minor note, what's the dungeon's name? We can hardly keep calling it 'the dungeon', now can we?" Marlena smiles, trying to inject a small bit of humor into this grand moment.

Eryndel’s form wavers like a flame caught in a breath of wind, her translucent eyes locking onto Marlena’s.

"You ask if you must go into the dungeon," she begins, her tone sorrowful yet steady. "But understand this: when a great wave rises, it matters little whether you walk toward it or wait on the shore. The dungeon will find you. It will find all of you."

She lets the silence stretch before continuing, her voice weighted with certainty.

"The Chosen Ones are never volunteers. It is not called ‘the Ones Who Choose.’ Fate does not ask permission—it binds. I have seen it."

Her tone shifts, becoming hushed and reverent.

"The place you call a dungeon was once the heart of all things—a sacred beginning. The dwarves say the god Murad gave their ancestors a single stone. Small, perfect. Along with it, he gifted Creatio—the first school of magic—and a command: build."

She lifts a ghostly hand, as though cradling something unseen.

"And so they did. They lit their forges. They sang to the stone in the deep tongue. Layer by layer, they built outward from that pebble. What began as a fleck became a chamber, a cavern, a vast hollow—and still they built. Their chants molded the world’s very fabric. They didn’t just dwell beneath the earth. They made it. Shaped it. Expanded it."

"According to this legend, the world beneath your feet—everything you know—was once no more than that divine stone, grown by dwarven hands across generations. They dreamed of a perfect sphere so vast it would one day reach Murad’s fiery hearth in the sky. Like all gods, he watches by night—not from temples, but from above. He is the red star. The one that never blinks."

She pauses, the weight of myth thick in the air.

"To the dwarves, he is the Maker of Deep Things. The Furnace Heart. The Whisperer in Stone. But the humans… you gave him another name."

Her gaze sweeps the circle, her eyes smoldering faintly.

"You call him Ares, the God of War."

---

After a dramatic pause, she continues, her voice now gentler.

"The elves, in turn, were given dominion over the surface. They planted the forests, summoned rain, softened the land—preparing it like wood for joining and growing the next layer. They, too, had a divine task. For them, that same red star is Coretta, the mother goddess—the blood of life, of birth."

"And we, the humans?" Her voice sharpens. "We came later. We were not named in the grand shaping. And yet we endured. We multiplied. We conquered. We ruled. Mutatio. Dominatio. We discovered and perfected those schools."

Her form dims, flickering with strain.

"But now… something stirs beneath. What lies below is no longer the womb of the world. The forge has been tainted. Its songs have turned sour. And now that forgotten cradle beats once more—not with Creatio, but with something else."

She leans closer, her voice a whisper made of wind and ash.

"Excidium. Death. Decay. Rebirth. "

Turning her gaze back to Marlena, she offers a faint, sad smile, and finally answers her question about the name:

"The dwarves once named it Ghal Maraz—the Deep Anvil. A place of making. A place of prophecy. But names lose power when purpose is lost. Now… it may answer to none."

"There are 6 of us that means 1 will not be a chosen one who?", he asked. Of course he was hoping that he would not be one. And pretty much knew he wasn't. The rest knew something beyond him. He was just an observer. An outsider and out cast. Had the teacher not said groups of 6 he'd have wound up trying to figure out this project alone.

Oh not this, not destiny again. I should double my efforts in learning fatecraft and ensuring I'm not snagged by the web of destiny ever again. Though at least this thing mentioning five chosen is a sign that maybe the prophecy might be about someone else. If I'm to face an ancient threat, then I'd rather do it on my own terms, not at the nudge of destiny!

Kiraen is drawn to the story and the exposition, and realises that she left her guard down. Quickly, she returned her attention to monitoring the energies.

Dorian isn't sure what he expected from a magically fueled seance but this isn't it. Still, the power of story enthralls him with the others. After Eryndel’s telling ends, he thinks hard for a moment.

"Decay. And Rebirth. Two sides of the circle of life perhaps. We are at a threshold, a crossing over point. Perhaps not just us, but the world as we know it. Or, is this the metaphor? The world as we each personally know it certainly is being torn down and a world full of magic born in its place."