Wayfinder Stones

Wayfinder Stones are one of the curiosities of the land of Ahlus, holding within them a latent magical aura that can be harnessed by master arcanists for a number of purposes.

Along with the remaining Waymarks, the magic of the Wayfinder Stones faltered suddenly in 49WD, the reasoning defying arcane research since.

## History

The definitive origins and source of the Wayfinder Stones were initially unknown, but when Koravel used the *Legend Lore* spell to learn more about them, he was presented with the following comments:

*"Soil and stone perverted in the name of the Banished by the Warped Servant, stolen by the Races of Aita for their own whim. The Council of the Moon grew strong with them, but too it manifested their doom. The Bridge works both ways."*

Later research revealed that the Wayfinder Stones were created at the command of the Darkbringer, reborn as Hadar the Dark Hunger by their servant Akmod the Cold Devourer, intended to create a way for them to return to Ahlus after being banished by Caihrnn long before Aita's Second Gift.

## Known Locations

Nelenet's Tower is home to at least thirty Wayfinder Stones, eight for each of the five Waymarks that have been created within.

## Uses

First and foremost amongst these uses are the creation of stable communication points between two locations - an artificial and stable portal that can be passed through safely and consistently without seemed fear of fault, transportation error or disorientation of users. By aligning a group of eight wayfinder stones, a capable individual can summon such an egress, after which point it will maintain itself until such time that the stones are removed once more. It should be noted that during such removal processes the connection will often remain open until half of the wayfinder stones are removed from the arcane lattice they weave, although what occurs to any individual passing through the portal in such a state is poorly documented.

## Research

### Completed by Siebern Kuiper and Koravel

The composition of the stone proves difficult to discern. Fragments of other elements, streaks of non-precious metals and minerals founds usually only deep beneath the surface - silicates of olivine and pyroxene, flecks of adamantine, the shimmer of peridot. An echo of a transmutation-like magic lingers within each Wayfinder Stone, although the otherworldly presence given off is sheltered beneath an overwhelming aura of potential Conjuration magics - owing to the most well-known usage. Of increasing curiosity remains the contrast between the stone core, the banded polished metal and the gemstones set within, for all appear to made of identical composition, the aesthetics the only discernable difference. Previous reports state that the stone was first mined as an ore deep within the Spirit Caverns of Mol Boramm, but there are no persisting signs of the extraction and purification process.

The Wayfinder Stone seems to hum with an arcane resonance when placed closer to another Wayfinder Stone, and as more are positioned within close proximity the sonorousness nature of their latent energy grows stronger still, with a small gravitational-type pull slowly bringing the artifacts together. With half a dozen, the force can be easily overcome, but one could speculate that the more are placed in the vicinity of others, the greater this attraction would grow - and with it the scale of their potential.

The sporadic Conjuration energy seems to have an almost life-like sentience to it, reaching out to try and share the magic within as if the arcane potential spills forth with little in the way of inhibition, like a bucket filled to greatly and greedily from a well. These surges come in pulses without any true rhyme or reason, and trying to predict and document when peaks arrive is a maddening and largely impossible task. With each efflux they seem to reach out for other stones, giving flashes of curious locales, picturesque vistas, bleak plains, endless oceans, cities lifted aloft, wild forests and other realms far and bizarre.

After spending weeks attuning to the energy of the stones, you come to the conclusion that these are glimpses of other planes, echoes of their past collective usage in means of research and exploration.

*You watch over the shoulder of a figure short even from one of his gnomish heritage. Quick, deft fingers fiddle nervously at a braid of brown as he watches the trio of individuals hover through the portal tinged jet-black at the crackling edges, the haze at the edge of the egress mimicking a distant storm beyond. Enclosed in spheres of shimmering force, the volunteers disappear, thrown suddenly upwards by the surging chaos into which they entered. In the distance, a mound of earth shaped like half a castle keep spins perpetually, rubble falling from its corners like a trio of waterfalls. As the stone tumbles, it momentarily seems to flow like a crimson liquid, before shattering against a crystal cloud into a mountainous pile of rotten apple cores. The gnome scans the horizon, seeking the explorers and sighs in relief when he spies them walking across a perfect cube of sapphire. One of the three sinks suddenly as it shifts into a sphere of mud, before shattering into pieces of a silvered mirror that scatter the light each and every way. One reaches instinctively for their lost companion, finding naught remains, and so turns back to their other associate. Leaping free, the pair rotate suddenly, landing upon a grassy plain covered in tall bioluminescent violet grass, flattening the foliage with the unseen edges of their arcane shielding. Lightning of brilliant red crackles in the distance, splitting a continent asunder.*

*Over the course of the next minute, samples start to float back to the waiting gnome, powders of green and grey, shards of azure and black, mundane-looking dirt that drips a viscious yellow-amber oil. Each is stored carefully by an assistant, but the gnome's eyes never once leaving the portal. Satisfied, the pair turn back, pushing once more through the grass to begin their return. An ear-curdling scream warbles into birdsong as the foliage grows taller still, encasing and breaking through the sphere of shimmering force with a simple contraction. Panic descends, a shadow cast across the sky. Riding a bolt of crimson lightning a hulking batrachian mass lurches for the entranceway, looming between the explorer and his return. The gnome glances at his samples, reaches from one of the stones set into the edge of the portal and pulls it free from the silver-white metal frame.*

*The connection closes.*

Another echo calls.

*The flotilla creaks in the passing breeze, a dozen ships moored around an expanse of some three dozen round huts glistening from a recent deluge. They cling to a tombolo of white sand and coral-shingle, a hundred or so figures mill back and forth going about mundane tasks. Some fix huge nets of cream-brown rope, folding each stretch carefully once satisfied with their efforts, others still hang racks of butterflied fish to dry in the wind, a small group crowd around a monstrous catch some thirty feet long - the predator's fine blue-black scales scattered upon the decking as they fillet the rose-pink flesh from the sharp-finned beast. But most numerous are those figures that package the endless ocean's bounty - packing them tight into barrels and crates marked with six crescented moons and placing them upon wagons bound for a shimmering deep blue portal set into a dull grey metal.*

A few more days pass before the next echo of a time past calls through.

*The harsh tongue echoes true despite the endless clamour of steel against steel, the cries of death and rebirth, the distant thunder of the very battlefield shifting. Goblinoid words call for the glory of the Bane-of-All and the Battle Chief, Orcish warcalls reply with proclamations to the glory of He Who Watches. The half-orc takes a single glance longer over the cacophany of violence, glory and eternal conflict. None pay him any mind, despite the emaculate plate decorated with glowing runes, the haze of heat burning at each twisted point sprawling from his spaulders, gauntlets and bracers. He steps forth, wielding a pair of weapons. One, an adamantine morningstone with foot-long spikes, the other a spear carved of dragonbone and decorated with Dethek runes. As they catch the twilight glow, the hordes of warmongers take heed, rushing to claim the weapons for themselves through means predictable. The half-orc cleaves down a dozen with his first strike, another dozen with the next. But they do not pay heed to his words, ones that echo in every tongue at once.*

*"See the destruction I wrought with my hands, with the weapons uncovered by the Empire. Fight beneath their banner for glory of your own, and you will be rewarded in kind."*

*Some hundred bodies lie at his feet when the proclamation comes to an end, though a thousand more have taken their place. The half-orc glances back the way he had came, the circle of iron encasing a portal of orange-red chimming, the soft note lost into the void of violence. They sense his failure, the weapons vanish from his hands with the same echoing chime and the connection vanishes - and the hoard with morningstar, longsword, scimitar, greataxe and spear clamour forth and add another to their eternal tallies.*

The next comes near immediately afterwards, striking you with a wave of nausea, a mental fillip of concentration.

*In a flash of amethyst-purple, the elf tumbles into a pile of ochre dust, a never-ending horizon broken only by twisted and gnarled constructions of iron tarnished with rust and bone bleached in the unyielding red sun huge in the green-grey sky above. The heat haze causes his flesh to blister almost immediately, skin of pale grey growing blotchy and pink. The weeping sores leak clear liquid that darkens the scorched stone and earth beneath him, but his hands move quickly. A bubble of orange springs around him, offering respite in a place otherwise inhospitable. Time passes, but the lands do not. Sweltering winds batter the ward, the light above relentless, the eyes of entities ancient and foul watching, unwavering. A figure walks the cracked ground, her form lithe, gaunt and bare feet unperturbed by the fiery warmth of the sands. Svelte silks of viridian, lilac and jade engulf her, obscuring her face. Through the warding bubble she walks, embracing her lost child and the pair vanish.*

The sound of creaking branches, the call of a wolf, the scent of honey - all mark the surge of energy that brings another vision.

*The halfling shifts from her den hidden in the shade of the snow-laden pine. The gale from the western mountains catches the needles, prompting a cascade of cold slurry flecked with narrow green leaves to slump at her side. Her companion laughs softly, a mist of warmth settling in the air between them. They share a gentle smile, as well as a cautionary glance skyward for further inconveniences. She snaps back to attention at the parting of a hedgerow some eighty feet ahead of her. A buck, its antlers broad but crooked, covered in a rose-pink velvet tinged with deeper hues of red and mauve. The pair share another nod, this time functional, professional - devoid of the affection of moments prior. The halfling shifts once more, the click of an arrow against the maple of her bow failing to garner the attention of the deer. Beneath furs she strains as she draws it taut, the faintest whistle heralding her release. With a husky yowl it crumples, kicking weakly in the darkening snow. The male hunter rushes forwards, a flash of notched metal in hand. With practiced grace, it parts the dappled fur between the ribs, and after a few moments the ebb of warmth spilling forth slows. She rushes after him, wrinkled brow slick with sweat, expression awash with a flash of yellowed but straight teeth.*

*The grin is not reciprocated, her companion instead dazed, pained. Thick and viscious residual spills from his lips, to his knees he drops as he hawks up the ichor. Fur begins to sprout upon his chin, cheeks and brow, hands now pressed to his temples. From between the new-formed dappled hair sprouts two twisting burls of horn. The cracking of bone stretches his limbs, hands tapering into hooves, arms and legs increasingly gaunt. His clothes tear and shred as his new body pushes free. Equal parts bafflement and horror mirror between the pair, a curdling scream reverberates through the cold forest, then falls silent once more.*

The call of a sixth echo draws your attention once more.

*Standing atop a vast estate surrounded by fields stretching towards each horizon, the lamentations of a stablehand draw your gaze. Struggling with a steed of grey-black, the adolescent boy careens into a stack of some two dozen barrels, each marked with both an overflowing goblet and a crescent moon. Upheaved, three of their number begin to roll with increasing pace down the neatly-cobbled pathway. A burly-faced and rotund man in fine cloth that seems to shift and sway with illusionary magic barks an order of disapproval, lamenting the cost of such a product.*

*"More than your family's worth, my child! If even a drop is spilled the Mulberry Lord would surely weep! What are you, an agent of Desir or Lerance? Sent in response to their jealousy? Just before Poet's Feast too, surely this is not the will of the Three-Eyed Light!"*

*At the words of the master, no fewer than eight fieldhands rushed after the dislodged cargo, the errant stablehand blooming into a blushing mantle deeper in colour than the grapes of the surrounding vines. Quickly recovered, each of the barrels would be inspected in turn, a farceful display, given their short-lived adventure of mere seconds, before a nod of approval was granted to each. With the troublesome horse finally fixed into place, the wagon slowly shuffled forwards, eventually disappearing in the distance through an amber gateway rimmed with an arch of gold.*

The seventh echo is the briefest so far.

*An army of a hundred or so individuals, each grouped into teams of a dozen. At the head of their head marches a figure marked with a symbol of varying form - one a rose, another a lily, a third a broad-reaching oak. Ten in total, all looking to an eleventh with a sixteen-sided prism hanging at his neck. In unison they walk through the olive-green haze, a portal framed in iron. Only when all have passed through do they realise their way has closed behind them - and only the cries of fear and terror permeate back through.*

The next echo returns once more to the side of the gnomish individual, through the furrows in his brow have deepened, his braid thinner, but no less orderly.

*A clockwork rhythm mutes near all noise in the modest chambers, hundreds of small bronze contraptions clicking and whirring away, and thousands of pieces and components unassembled cast between them. A few amongst them go about orderly tasks, endlessly moving polished pebbles between wooden bowls upon scales, folding pieces of parchment before stamping them with wax seals, firing small bolts of burnished iron into a pockmarked cork targetboard. The gnome springs from his chair, two mechanical springs catching the worn timber as it tips backwards with the momentum and righting it back into position. He flicks a pair of lens into place from behind his ear, rummaging through a large brushed-bronze chestpiece for a few moments. A contented cackle punctuates his realisation, the tools shift in his hand, and the whirring grows louder still as a sputter of arcane energy echoes through chassis. Prostheses of metal are hastily fastened into place, the chestpiece sealed closed once more.*

*It sits upright, a headless clockwork form - much to the joy of the tinkerer.*

*"Just wonderful, truly marvellous - revolutionary!"*

*He motions for the construct to bend downwards, dropping slowly and awkwardly to its knees as a dozen servos fire and hiss within the limbs. Working away, the gnome pauses every few moments to admire his creation, bathed evermore in the soft diamond-white glow of a portal rimmed with a circlet of silver and set with stones.*

Nearly a week passes before the next echo.

*"Zarlius Kudrersk,* *for the crimes of defamation most foul with aspirations to spurn obloquy and treasonous thoughts and deeds against the Astedian Empire, by the resplendence of the Emperor and the circumspection of the Increscent Six of the Council of the Moon, you are sentenced to exile. If you have anything you would say to those present, now is the time."*

*The tiefling's head remained low, moving briefly only to meet the gaze of stone-faced gaze of the Justiciar clad in a harsh-cut jacket of slate grey. He offered no resistance to the armoured grasp of the guards that shifted him to the centre of the shallow pit, around which a crowd of several thousand clamoured to gaze upon the guilty, jeering all the while. The loose bindings at his ankles and wrists served through by the armblade of one of his escorts, a pack of rations, rope and a waterskin placed into his hands. The pair of warriors stepped aside, moving once more over the boundary of iron enclosing the pit.*

*A figure stepped forwards, a staff in hand topped with a large gemstone of pale corundum. A flash of magenta light consumed the tiefling as the encantation came to a close, accompanied by the rushing of howling winds - deafening even for a moment. The iron cooled, the crowds dispersed, justice had been delivered.*

Another surge of power brings the distant sound of pick against stone, growing ever-louder as the echo becomes clear.

*The outpost teetered towards the edge of the gargantuan stalactite, peering off into the expansive cavern beyond. The moss granite-grey portal set into a ring of zinc was the largest thus far, wide enough for three dozen rails to traverse through it side-by-side. The echoing sound of minecarts rattling against the iron and timbers, laden heavily with ores precious and otherwise was matched by the hauling of huge slabs of dense marble for fanciful construction and chunks of limestone being pulverised by creatures of living stone and bagged by the humanoids tracing between them. Gemstones scatter the light of a thousand torches, sending spirals of crystalline haze wherever they are carried, each passing by the watchful pupil-less gaze of squat pale-yellow fleshed creatures. An excited cry carried across the cavern, heralding the slow-gaited arrival of a bundled mass atop the backs of four rounded figures of living granite. The shouts of eagerness gave way to a quietening hush as the cloth was drawn free, the pleochroic gemstone beneath near as large as a wagon. Turned between the elementals, flashes of emerald green, garnet red, spessartite orange, citrine yellow filled the cavern as the facets caught and dispersed the dull glow.*

*A voice like a far-flung landslide broke the lingering silence.*

*"Thieves, marauders, bandits! The bones of your families with break, for this day you have defiled the sanctity of the Sevenfold Mazework."*

*Not even the fury of the pillaged could slow the rush that would carry the gemstone through the portal and out of view.*

### Completed by Otto van der Velde VI

The stone tightened in a vice to hold it steady, tattooed hands test the weight of the hammer for a moment, before falling heavily. No resonate strike calls true in the workshop, the weight in your hand vanishing unexpectantly. The table at your side creaks slightly - the hammer materialising upon it with a certain lack of grace. You seize up the hammer again, steadying your grip against the handle, left palm upon the vice. It disappears from your grip once more - once again appearing a moment later upon the table. A grin broadens. Now tying the handle in place with coarse rope, you swing for a third time, finding this time instead the hammer's head alone vanishes, leaving naught but the tapered wood strapped into your tattooed palm - and a somewhat rusted metal waiting upon the cabinet.

The next experiment envelopes the orb of stone in flame, but the heat does not touch the surface. White-hot embers glow an inch from the edges, suspended in place and billowing a swirling cloud of smoke that quickly fills the room. You go to quench the flame, but instead it persists, lingering for a minute despite your best efforts. Vibrancy comes, tongues of many hues spawning on the upward peripheries. On the stroke of the sixtieth second, the embers fade in an instant, the obscuring haze falters, dispersing in the gentle breeze of windows opened by modest measure. The material itself shows no signs of damage, nor any residual heat.

One of the windows swings open heartily, bouncing against the stonework as the latches fail to slow its swing. As casually as one would discard the peel of a finished citrus fruit, you cast it aside, watching with curiosity as it accelerates three flights towards the soft earth beneath. For a fraction of a second it speeds forth, then starts to decelerate, before landing so gently as to barely disturb the earth beneath it. Abseiling by means of your trusty Rope of Climbing, you retrieve the prize and try again, casting it with increased starting velocity with aid of *Catapult*. Tossed by arcane force, the deceleration takes hold once more, but cannot achieve the same lessening. Instead, with an echoing crackle of thunder it vanishes, reappearing a moment later a foot beneath where it was once loosed - enough space to decelerate sufficiently to prevent a damaging impact against the earth below.

### Completed by Exander Havenshade

Spurned onwards by the efforts of your companions, you seek to attempt to learn from the artifacts yourselves, sinking minutes that turn to hours, hours into days, days into weeks. The material, while undoubtedly wreathed in arcane power appears mundane in construction, a simple stone lifted from the deep earth. And yet it is simultaneously baffling, similar enough to the soil and stone of the ground, but shaped and changed by forces, events, occurrences unseen, unknown, unfathomable. They flow with their own rhyme and reason, maddeningly unpredictable in the strength of their magical aura, but equally storing the surges within like an artificer's capacitor to generate a continuous reservoir of the arcane, charges of use. A pulse radiates strong, a rippling tear in the study-come-bedchambers within the Exotics, and another place grows true.

*The shade of a thousand leaves scatters and shifts atop the lace tablecloth, darkening the simple offerings of nettle-tea contained in the wax-glazed pot. The burble and burl of an urn upon a nearby flame, the warmth-filled haze of steam condensing upon the branches cooled by the storm stirring overhead. The meeting concludes, the elf bearing scars from one hundred and thrice battles upon their brow, palms and exposed chest, and yet they do not detract from their beauty. The dancing flame, tinged with elements of soot-yellow as it burned with a zealful fury, cavorts in the reflection of their blade - a scimitar with a mirrored twinblade, the handle between them ever-shifting, organic through means of vine and root alike. Pawing at a bandaged palm, the elf laughs, deep and hearty, shifting upon a passing breeze laden with the whisper of forest spirits into sinister, then gleeful, then no more than the polite chitter more at place in response to a witty retort upon a theatre's stage. The figure opposite them pays them little mind, seemingly thinking naught of their mercurial disposition. Instead, her focus lingered solely upon the parchment now signed in drops of red-purple. Contented, she rises suddenly, her charcoal-grey tunic at odds with the extravagance of her verdant surroundings. She turns back for Waymark, a sapphire portal rimmed in a eight-foot circlet of gold.*

Another echo stirs a few moments later.

*An oppressive angular slope rakes ever skyward towards the horizon, broken only by dark canyons carved through the maroon-brown stone by those earthbergs of similar hue suspended within a wine-black sky. One shatters against the spire of a dark tower with a thunderous strike, spewing dark rock and rubble alike across the landscape in its wake. The dozen figures turn instinctively, warded by a clag of abjuration streaming from the alabaster-white staff of the figure at their head. Sweat drips from their brow, and yet the path ahead looks no shorter than it did than when they first passed through the russet-haze surrounded in iron days prior. Beneath the feet of one of their number, the ground stirs, a fumarole born anew spewing sickly and putrid steam and scalding the flesh from the hands that move quickly to cover their eyes. The foul and pained scream grows ever more as their footing falls them, and they begin to tumble, ever accelerating with the angulation of the slope. A wave of gravel takes the feet of another, the pair vanishing behind the rest of the party, naught of those remaining moving to assist. Never once would they find purchase enough to slow their descent.*

A third flash of place distant and past creeps into your mind.

*You watch as the dwarf claws at the ground, dirt clamouring carob-brown beneath startling well-groomed nails. A desperate wail lifts him to his feet, pushing aside the grip of those bind him in place within the softly-teetering ox-drawn wain as it rattled along the winding bucolic pathway. A knowing glance is shared by a pair who leap after him, grasping after that attempting his flight. Naught but a few ginger-red strands linger between their fingers as the dwarf springs to his feet and begins to run. The wain draws to a stop, pausing just before an archway filled with a shimmering curtain of opalescent energy. They give chase, their pleas cutting through the empyrean tones of babbling brooks and the melodical call-and-response of pale songbirds. The dwarf awaits then, not thirty feet from the wain, eyes bound heavenward upon the aureate glow lingering then.*

*"Should you not wish to leave Gimmond, son of Gorkral, then do not. Find the rest of an eternal slumber in a fleeting second, the joys of a thousand lifetimes in but a moment."*

*The rainbow-hued gaze settled gently upon the grin of the dwarf in that moment, a trumpeting sound of joy revelling in the contentment.*

*"To be with Tianyan again?" the dwarf asked, eyes slowly shifting between the golden-feathered down, pearlescent ivory tusks and vibrant watch of the messenger.*

*A nod came, followed by another trumpetting articulation of joy. As Gimmond, son of Gorkral stepped forth, he found no such resistance from those that had been sent to return him home. Instead they followed in his footsteps, revelling in the gentle squelch of warm earth between their bare toes. The others followed in time, and from the golden frame, all disappear into the winding fields sprawling towards the horizon.*

### Completed by Siebern Kuiper

Returning once more to the Wayfinder Stones in your possession, you are granted another series of passing glances at places, people - and times - unknown.

*The putrid mass of pale squirming flesh pressed ineffectually against the crystalline container, the clatter of three pairs of tendril-like black legs scattering against the slick surface. Everywhere the squat worm-like larvae shifted, it left a thick vicious ooze - semi-opaque and wretched - before resigning itself once more to unemotive passiveness. Unblinking eyes hollow and cold stared distantly past the two figures that lingered over the container.*

*"Masterfully grotesque, no?" one spoke, voice impassive.*

*"Um... yes, Magus," the other returned, quivering somewhat with both dissettlement and inexperience.*

*Plucking up some semblance of courage, the acolyte stepped forth, closer to the pellucid container as to assume the confidence of the one they were shadowing. Bead-like gaunt eyes set into a sunken face at the end of the impassive grub watched more carefully now - a flash of recognition. With horror, the younger mage gasped, a weight in his throat.*

*"Mierla...?! What trickery is this Magus, please?"*

*"No trickery," the wizard returned, unmoved by the sudden avowal.*

*"Simply confirmation of what the Inner Sanctum already suspected. An expedition was chosen to do so, Miss Aranza was simply amongst those selected. Now, Master Nifas, do you need to dismiss yourself, or shall we make the most of what is presented?"*

*Acolyte Nifas contemplated the choice for a moment, avoiding Mierla Aranza's - or rather, what had become of her - gaze. Doing so made the decision easier, and so he reached for the instruments upon the bracket table.*

A few days pass, and with it another glimpse of a place elsewhere is granted through your efforts.

*Burning vapours descend from above, scorching at the arcane shields lingering around the trio of hooded figures, seeping beneath their boots to pockmark the cobbles upon which they tread with haste. All around them sprawls a desolate city of half-melted stone, each and every building warped and twisted by the fury of the unrelenting dark clouds thick in a brown-stained sky.*

*They push onwards, side-stepping from their path only to avoid thick layers of putrid scum shrouded in haze and further dull-hued grime.*

*The assault is halted only by the refuge of great walls slick with the very same slime and scum, for within the raining acid cannot pierce through. Tomes clutched tight and close, heavy eyes watch as they near their quarry, and a silent prayer upon the lips of one of their number catches the attention and ire of further observers still.*

Another vision comes.

*“This will be the time; I can feel it in my bones!”*

*The wearied expression of the figure standing proud and straight at the ship captain’s side feigned an accepting reluctance to the proclamation. With a martial respect, thin lips stirred into reply.*

*“I will pray that the winds are with us, Admiral Sung – and with them the Dukes that shape them.”*

*Asher Sung, of similar age but fuelled with a vigour and inspiration absent in his companion nodded in approval. Eyes darted across a map, studying a pale sea of cloud, upon which had been traced three dozen routes of silk thread and pinned in place by bronze points so delicately positioned. Olive-tan hands fingered a string of pale green with an almost wistful pondering.*

*“You heard just as well as I what the feathered folk described when we offered them wood and fur – the Labyrinth Winds, the Path to Zuros. This is the time.”*

*With simple gesture, he gave the command.*

*Ropes loosed; the ship stirred into life – a wreath of purple-blue flame spiralling around the widest portion of the hull. Upwards the Zenith climbed, defying the gravity of the land of soil and stone, and through a suspended pool of pale blue, rimmed in a brushed grey metal frame.*

A whistle-like scream stirs you from the vision, before the noise seems to grow present once more, ever more melodic. A poignant note played skilfully upon strings, quickly drowned out by the clamour of the crowd.

*Neat-spun ribbons and tattered cloth alike drift side by side from the alley corners and storefronts. Thick and heavy on the air the scent of spiced stews, breads sweetened with dates, the plummy breath of purple-lipped revellers half-dancing, half-teetering in their drunkenness. As the melodic tune played fancifully rose higher still in crescendo with the rippling of arrhythmic applause and slurred cheers punctuating the final notes, the performer bowed deeply with a broad grin. Another joined them upon the stage, a pale-haired half-elf clutching close a maple-wood cittern wreathed in pearlescent flame and crested with a white rose of equal composition.*

*The pair addressed first the figure sat atop the raised dais, stout frame upon a gilded chair glimmering near as brightly as the necklace tight against the throat of the Duke. As custom, he returned the gesture and so the music sprung into life once more, bandore and cittern in perfect harmony.*

*Spurred on by a reveller in a puffy hat decorated with a peacock feather, the majority of the crowd immediately rush to join them in the lyrics, famed as the boisterous tune about a military commander who made the fault of walking in range of a plucky archer seemed to be. Nonetheless, a few on the fringes appear distracted - following a mauve-hued haze carrying at the edges of densely0packed stalls. With the clatter of chains and a mournful scream, denizens of the Abyss spill forth twisted and grotesque.*

*Panic erupts through the crowd of onlookers, but few can move fast enough. Masses of fetid flesh proliferate from the bloating and ravaged dead created from revellers in mere seconds. True chaos befalls the unawares, the slow, the unlucky, torn asunder without grace, mercy or reason. Wine and ale in hand alike befouls, smoked meats much enjoyed reduced to piles of mould. The Duke slumps into his chair, throat slit cleanly and seeping scarlet into the frilled collar cresting his doublet.*

*It ends as promptly as it started, warmages and priests bearing an ornate moon upon pendants appear unannounced and previously unseen. Arcane proclamations echo, the Abyss sinks back into a maligned corner distant from the Material Plane.*

The next vision is different from the others. While viewed from a range of angles and perspectives, all the echoes had been clear, like watching in through a windowpane of polished crystal. This instead is muffled, hazed, warped.

*Gloom, carrying upon it a chill unlike any mundane wind or storm.*

*Something moves within it.*

*The oppressive weight of the land above lingers above, stretching for an eternity.*

*As a bundled mass levitated psionically you float aloft, shaped from soil and stone.*

*In a garbled tongue filled with trilled cachinnation a ritual begins, the echo grows somewhat clearer, and promptly fades entirely.*

The focus shifts, another echo comes through.

*With a practiced grace, the brush passed across the taut canvas, trailing warm hues of ochre and amber. Sweeping archways, rounded spires and walls of thick metal bricks, all glimmering with the heat and glow of a deep red sun waning in the bronze sky above. At their base, dark stone of black basalt and sable obsidian flecked with maroon and indigo, wreathed in flame – and yet a dozen vessels of brass floating atop the fiery waves with nonchalant ease.*

*After carefully washing and drying the miniver bristles, the artist moves to place the brush behind his ear – pale and tapered, the angular lobe decorated with a small green gemstone. Finger pressed to his lips; he studied the scene.*

*Unsatisfied, his gaze returns once more to the copper-lined pool at his side, a haze of burnt rust with the very same vista beyond.*

*The brush moves once more in mimicry.*

The distant fall of rain heralds another pulse of energy that brings forth another echo.

*The man slides upon the muddied embarkment, a slurry of grim further dampening a filthy suit of dented and torn chain. Instinctively brushing rain-sodden hair from obscuring his sight, a one-eyed gaze surveys the scene before him, moisture pooling in the empty right socket recently healed into a mass of knotted scar-tissue.*

*The downfall obscures most of the sights ahead, the fogged haze of magical energy shaped at the hands of wandslingers. The serf spied a pair of them, clad proudly in their silver-clasped blue capes, each billowing from the arcane force created by the unyielding incantations upon the lips of the battle mages. Knights clamoured around them, seemingly so mundane with mere steel in their grasps in place of rods of imbued wood foci of Adreechen Birch. With each magical flash the plate of the chevaliers flashed, glints of the enamelled patterns of chivalrous acts hidden beneath tattered tabards of yellow-gold and cobalt-blue decorated with a cross and a magpie.*

*A cheer echoed through the battlefield mere moments after a thunderous ball of flame rocketed from the fingertips of one of the wandslingers, the heat immutable even for the torrential downpour overhead. Relief settled upon each of their faces of the assumed champions, a brief moment of respite in surroundings of such terror and exhaustion.*

*For a moment, a few amongst them even allowed them the pleasure of laughter, guffaws celebrating the victory of comradery against the dominion of their foes.*

*Fumes of pale light and the heavy scent of ozone stirred from further beyond the embankment, soundless but noticed by a few in their number nonetheless. The serf rose to his feet, calling words lost to the storm’s call ever present atop the battlefield. Awkwardly falling to the slickness of the slope, a ragged wound darkened the ground further where he fell, and men of pristine bronze surged forth in his wake. Flashes echo from columns levelled in the hands of the metal warriors, and cloth, chain nor plate withstand their wake.*

Another echo, hazy as the one a few before it stirs forth.

*The ritual continues, the equivocal concoction of vocal and bodily intonations and inflections.*

*With each pseudo-sibilant, the earth from which you watch grows in density, condensed by magics far and foreign.*

*The obscuring fog continues to falter, the rite persists.*

The next echo, while no more familiar is presented with the same crystalline clearness.

*A bracing breeze heavy with the morning frost sweeps through the slate-bounded fjord, rippling at the surface of the river flowing with due haste with the widening of the way. Carrying scatterings of fresh fallen snow upon its meandering path, it sweeps through the mountainside, arching through tunnels of compacted stone that give away to halls of blue-white ice. A vociferous clamour casts the winds aside, the reverb of battle echoed in turn by roar like the grind of colliding crags.*

*A band of warriors spilled from an archway, half a dozen icicles teetering in their wake. Beings of pale flesh exposed bare save for furs at their throats and waists, each carrying a blueish hue – not from the cold, but rather the intoxicatingly complex patterns snaking across every toned groove and angle of their physique.*

*Physiques shaped by an eternity of glorious combat.*

*Their latest quarry came barrelling through the neighbouring wall, scattering shards of ice through the cabal. One of their number disappeared beneath a fragment half again his own size, those his apparent demise was met only with laughter.*

*“Until the morrow, brother!”*

*Jaws of elemental stone lunged forth, flattened bedrock fangs dripping with oil, tearing another asunder.*

*A violent guffaw of amusement spurned the leader of the hunters onwards, deftly springing between curled digits racking after his footing.*

*“So keen to follow Geirmund into death once again, Hrodgir!”*

*With an immortal fury, a huge two-headed battleaxe flashed high, helped by the momentum of hide boots against the slick flooring. Pebbles scattered, the regolithic exterior shattered – though the debris sprung to life of its own.*

*A predictable bout of mirth was given in response.*

*“Good, more to fall beneath the axe of Andvett the Advehent!”*

*The berserker raised his weapon once more, moving to cleave the new foes as he had torn asunder their source. All around him the stone itself stirred, an echoing resonance in frenzied pitch. Man and foe rushed forth – and found themselves frozen in place. No such ice bound rock to stone, nor no hoarfrost smattered betwixt the hairs of his brow – the source of their interruption arcane rather than mundane. A simple phrase uttered upon the lips of an unseen observer, a cloak hued as smoke and decorated with lunar light. A podium of gold around a pool of metallic silver lingered at his feet.*

*“Master Andvett, a word, if I may.”*

Another day, another echo.

*The legion stands motionless, helms of burnished steel held still as all wait in formation without word, hesitation, or breath. Bound tight in place across the torso of each a long-barrelled contraption rests skyward, adorned with switches and a looking-glass bolted in place. From each arm extend a narrow blade, the gentle whirring of their mounting mechanisms in rhythm with the clockwork hearts hidden deep within behind warding glyphs and shields. The quiet hall of stone stretches into the distance, a facility equally hidden, unimaginable. Dozens of legions lay in rest, waiting for the signal – an activation code to ascend to their primary function, forged for a single violent purpose.*

*A cloaked figure, austere in a close and harsh cut robe of charcoal-grey moves between them, softened leather boots the only audible disturbance to the vast chamber. From the centre of a crescent-moon pendant he pressed a sixteen-sided prism, pushing the crystalline key into an awaiting podium.*

*Flashes of pale arcane energy stir at their feet, encircling the awaiting soldiers. Previously hidden panels slink from place, a plain brutalist framework hovering into view. At the corner of each the stones sit, pale embers curling in their own call to activation. A flash of light, the frame settles into the stone once more, the legion out of sight – deployed with a deadly recondite precision.*

The same fog returns, obscuring the third echo from the deep.

*The undulating of the unfamiliar utterance, mucous-moistened muscles matched by a percussion provided upon perverse pale pinions, all in perfect unison as the ritual draws to a close. The haze fades in entirety, revealing the creature beyond. A slick mass, maw monstrous and radiant with an imposing crimson-fade. Desquamating flesh and scales spill from ray-like wings, wounds necessary for such a success, such a perversion. Now they curl in prayer around the soil and stone transformed anew. A dorsal-flanked tail quivers in exaltation, a task performed, a purpose fulfilled, repudiation with principle in dedication to another. Into the maw the creation descends, infinite in potential, ebbing with an arcane sonorousness, a resonance without parallel. Together you climb, towards the sound of muffled drums and the clatter of steel against stone.*

*The next aspect begins.*

Seconds later, another echo comes.

*In the dark, once again. Encased in stone, and so you cry out – the resonance within your form calling out to be saved, rescued. You hear them closer now, their shovels and picks clearing the path.*

*A path to freedom!*

*You feel the magics within you, the potential for such power. You sense their greed, the desire in their hearts that drives them deeper and deeper towards you more so than any command uttered on the lips by their king.*

*The striking of their tools echoes closer. You reach out, an arcane radiance to catch their gaze.*

*Closer still!*

*The yearning to be found, to take the first steps on your bold purpose is overwhelming now. They simply need to reach out mere feet further.*

*Candlelight, the glow of a lantern!*

*Squat and dirtied, the bearded humanoid stares directly at you, studying with naught but avarice in his gaze.*

*You have him!*

*The pick falls once more, clearing the way to your recovery.*

*The next aspect begins.*

No sooner does the last echo fade, another surges into view.

*"Revolutionary!”*

*Those are the words they used, and yet they know not. Their mortal minds cannot comprehend the intentions of the ones that created, or that which commanded the creation. Their vision instead looks to expansion, personal gains, power over neighbours friendly and foe alike. Misguided, short-sighted.*

*And yet you will do great things for them. Wonderous things, terrible things, unparalleled things in the eyes of such beings – and they will create their own limitations.*

*But these actions, these ambitions, they will bring you closer to the machinations of the Banished Hunger. Not even the wilful ward of the Quiet Lord can keep the fare of the earth from its table.*

*The next aspect begins.*

The echoes seem to have an urgency now, giving little respite between them.

*The ones that have seen the truth possess enough of your number now, so they begin their work. Refinement by true design, the necessary steps fulfilled, the efforts of the traitor overturned.*

*Soil and stone shaped by those born of soil and stone.*

*Purity achieved; the connection made. A bridge over an impossible impasse, obstacle to ascension defeated.*

*Because of you! Consummation of intended purpose.*

*The harbingers await. An infinity has passed, but now time draws close.*

*The Glorious Eye, drawn seeking the truth of creation.*

*The Foul Labyrinth, Flesh stolen from the Mind.*

*The Storm of Rust, delved too lustfully seeking halcyon pasts.*

*The Locked Book, pried into the dark hunting for secrets lost.*

*The Maw of Undoing, eager for the power to destroy his rival.*

*The Stoneheart Despoiler, loosed for sake of chaos.*

*The Cold Devourer, the true servant that sacrificed their soul and blood.*

*All ready themselves for the master.*

One final echo occupies your cognisance the moment the previous falters, riddles of increasing intensity. No further echoes come, simply the same parlance repeated again and again.

*A union between the creator and the destroyer, torn asunder in years of yester.*

*A union between day and night, created anew to remediate the past.*

*A union between the consciousness and unconsciousness, a path for the one cast aside to return.*

*A path shaped by the actions of the valley of radiance, seeking out truths in the far-flung darkness.*

*A path shaped by the actions of the devourer of the cold, saving its master from the ravages of the void.*

*A path shaped by the actions of those that did not forget, to deliver revenge on the one that cast aside his own shadow.*

*Revenge against the one that had been as an equal, before it sought superiority.*

*Revenge against the one that created shaped the soil and stone with impunity, declaring his blasphemies good and pure.*

*Revenge against the one that had fragmented his mirror-image, prompting rebirth in existence anew in place of the Darkbringer sundered by the pride of the One With The Dirt.*

*Rebirth to ensure the destruction of the lands shaped by the hand of Caihrnn.*

*Rebirth as the Distant Nightmare, the Hunter in the Ephialtes.*

*Rebirth as the Insatiable Hunger, the Master of Far Infinium.*

*Rebirth as the Cinder Star, rebirth as the Drowning Void.*

*Rebirth as Hadar.*