Paritosh inclines his head, keeping his hands well away from any contracts, seals, or suspiciously shiny quills.
"A fair wind and plain speech, Master Okous. We come from Muluk at the behest of Hafiz ben Wasil al-Adad of the Mosque of Zann. He offered to teach a petitioner and woke to find his gift… not taught, but gone. We seek the return of what was to be learned, not taken."
He glances at his companions, then back to the dao with a half-smile.
"I’m no scholar of sums nor wrangler of genie-clauses, and I prefer my bargains without hidden trapdoors. Still, we’ve come to parley rather than quarrel. If there is an honorable way to set this right—be it trade, recompense, or some other consideration—we’re ready to hear it. Will you receive our terms, and show us by what right you claim what was never sold?"
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Fadilah, who was planning to trick the genie into having to return what he stole, struggles to keep her face impassive now that Paritosh has made that gambit impossible.
Zairiah says within her mind only to the voice that talked to them
> We may indeed need a safe place to converse, but wait for a signal, please. Who knows, Paritosh might have a plan. <
The Dao responds, "“Ah, travelers from Muluk, you speak as if I snatched what was never mine to hold. Yet consider this: The dwarf wanted me to be indebted to him, yet he was careless in his attention, and so it slipped quietly into my hands. I assure you, there was no theft, only the natural consequence of one’s own inattention.
“I am no thief of knowledge, but the diligent reap where the negligent stumble. If a lesson found a different master, perhaps it is less a matter of cunning on my part, and more a reflection of how lightly it was guarded. Pay heed to the actual value because when you speak your terms, and I will answer with fairness—but let it be understood: the wind favors those who watch, and I merely followed its course. The price must be correct.”
Nura, Zairiah and Frackit
"Our friend seems to let his virtues cloud reality!" Frackit says with a weird sensation. As he blinks.
" Trickery was what I feared, but one does always loves to see and decipher a great trick! The question, disembodied voice, is who are you and what is your gain here?" The Cleric asks, getting a sense these genies are more like devils in there schemes and bargains.
Nura, Frackit, Zairiah
What is it that you want?
Private conversation
We have some old jewelry, but I don't think that we have that many gems. We would have to purchase them. I can give you my word that we will get you that much, or we can give you the money and you can purchase them yourself, but we definitely want to make the deal.
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Private
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Paritosh frowns faintly, brushing a fleck of dust from his sleeve as though to buy himself a moment.
"A clever turning of words, master of stone, though not one I can swallow so easily. You say no theft was done, only carelessness rewarded. Yet to my eyes, that is like saying a caravan lost to bandits was not robbed, but simply stumbled into ‘other hands.’ Perhaps true in a poet’s sense, but the victims remain bereft all the same."
He leans on his khopesh, tone steady though edged with wariness.
"Still—you speak of fairness, and of price. I am no merchant of numbers or clauses, and I have no wish to wrangle with earth itself over semantics. What I would hear from you is this: what is the ‘correct price’ to restore what you took? Speak plainly, for if you mean to deal, then let us see the shape of the bargain before we weigh its worth."
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Okous’ jeweled fingers drum once against the arm of his chair, each ring glinting like a coin freshly struck. His smile returns, slow and certain, the expression of one who knows he holds all the stones on the scale.
He then leans forward, spreading his hands as though displaying his wealth openly, his voice rolling with the patient weight of carved stone.
"You press me wisely, adventurer, and I cannot fault a soul who seeks to see the lines of the bargain before setting foot upon it. Very well. Know this: what you ask is not some trifling favor. To restore what has passed into my hands is to reverse the tide of fortune itself, and such tides are costly to command.
Yet — because you have spoken with courtesy, because you honor me with your candor rather than prattle, I will set aside the harsher measures I might demand. The price is ten thousand in gold, and two items of power whose worth is proven. No more. Others, in my place, would name thrice that sum and still feel themselves cheated; but I, Okous, am not without a sense of fairness.
Think, then, not of loss but of opportunity. For few indeed may say they have purchased back fortune itself from the hands of the earth. And fewer still can boast that the earth agreed to bargain at all."
"I must leave it to my friends to decide if this is a bargain worth striking."
"Truly you learned the art of valuation and haggling from the previous transaction," says Fadilah, quite sincerely.
"Ah, perhaps a bit of an impolitic question, but where might one find a temple in the Delve?"
Okous’ expression softens into something that might almost be amusement, though the faint rumble beneath his words betrays the weight of something else.
"Ah… so the master of winds must first seek the counsel of lesser breezes. How curious. I had thought one who walks between fates and bargains with the unseen would have the strength to weigh his own scales.
Still, I understand — not all are born to strike the stone and hear its true ring. Some must first listen to the murmurs of others before they dare to speak the word ‘deal.’ Take your time, then. Let your friends debate the worth of what I have already measured. The offer will not change, though time, like sand, tends to slip most easily through uncertain hands.
When you are ready to speak as one who decides, not one who defers, you will find me waiting — as patient as the earth itself, but no more forgiving."
In response to Fadilah, Okous’ smile broadens, a low chuckle rolling from him like distant thunder through stone. The sound is rich, indulgent — not unkind, but clearly pleased with itself.
"Ah, Lady Shai'ra, your eye for worth is as keen as your tongue is gracious. You speak of valuation as though it were an art learned from others — yet I suspect you have practiced it long before setting foot in my hall. Still, your praise is well-placed, and I will not insult you with false modesty. One must learn to recognize value before one can ever hope to claim it."
He gestures with a languid hand toward a tunnel veined in faint silver light.
"As for a temple — though such things are rare in the Delve, there is a place that may please you. Follow the path downward until the air cools and the walls begin to shimmer with argent lines. There stands the Sanctum of the Bound Harmony, where the earth’s faithful whisper their prayers to the Powers who hear through stone. The priests there know reverence, and they will greet a Shai’ra with due grace — provided, of course, you bring an offering worth their silence."
Okous’ grin lingers, eyes glinting with sly amusement.
"Down here, Lady, even devotion has a price — though I daresay you already knew that."
Zairiah bows and says
We will go to the Sanctum and discuss your offer.
If that works and we are able to get away to a place we can't be overheard, Zairiah will tell everyone about the offer from the crysmal.
You follow the directions to The Sanctum of the Bound Harmony.
The descent opens into a chamber vast as a memory of heaven, its dome lost in glimmering shadow. Quartz veins trace constellations across the ceiling; mica dust drifts like slow snow, catching the light of lanterns suspended in perfect, silent equilibrium.
Every sound here has purpose. Every light has weight. The stones themselves seem tuned — each surface resonating faintly with a different tone, all combining into a single deep, patient harmony that hums in the marrow.
At the heart of it all stands the Axis of Accord, a pillar of veined obsidian spiraled with ribbons of silver and gold. Its surface bears scripture from many tongues — Zaharan sigils beside the glyphs of Maztica, Kara-Turan brushstrokes alongside the looping script of gnomes. Light runs down its edges like water.
The Zaharan Shrines
To the east, the mullahs of Zann and the Loregiver tend their sacred alcoves beneath banners of deep blue and gold. Their portion of the sanctum is ordered, disciplined — a geometry of light and shadow.
Zann the Learned presides over an altar of obsidian shaped like an open book. Quills made from crystal feathers scratch by themselves, tracing and erasing lines of truth. A faint scent of parchment and cedar fills the air.
The Loregiver’s Lectern, of hammered bronze, holds the Living Law: a tablet whose shifting runes reflect new understanding without ever erasing the old.
Najm the Star of Knowledge has a shrine beneath a hanging globe of crystal, inside which a constellation glows and slowly turns, casting starlight across the polished floor.
Kor, the Lord of Bound Struggle, is honored at a black iron anvil that never cools, its heat pulsing in time with the chanting of his devotees — not songs of conquest, but of endurance and balance through trial.
The Maztican Altar
South of the Axis stands a shrine unlike any other — bold, bright, and raw with life. Here burns the flame of Zoltec, the Blooded Sun, god of creation, war, and renewal.
His altar is a rising platform of red stone veined with gold dust, surrounded by walls of jade mosaic. Upon it stands a disk of pure obsidian, polished so smooth it mirrors the room. The air smells of copal and iron, and a single priest beats a hollow drum whose rhythm matches the heartbeat of the earth.
Unlike the austere Zaharans, Zoltec’s followers bow not in silence but in passion — dancers whirling, arms painted in red and gold, their movements half ritual, half celebration. They speak of sacrifice as harmony, of the eternal exchange between giving and becoming. Though the Zaharans find them unsettling, even they cannot deny that the fire’s rhythm joins perfectly into the temple’s grand tone — the sun’s heartbeat within the world’s deep music.
The Kara-Turan Recesses
To the north, beneath a long scroll canopy painted with dragons and cranes, are the shrines from Kara-Tur — quiet, meditative, suffused with incense that smells faintly of sandalwood and plum blossom.
A fountain of still water reflects the delicate image of Kwan Ying, Lady of Compassion. Offerings of paper cranes and lotus petals drift across its mirrored surface.
Beside her stands the tablet of Shou Lao, the Dragon of Longevity, carved with the sigil of an ouroboros. His attendants burn golden tea and recite blessings for wisdom that grows patient with time.
A small side niche honors Chih Shih, Lord of Insight, whose shrine holds an ever-burning lamp fed by scented oils. Those who gaze into it too long claim to see not their face but their next decision.
The Kara-Turan priests speak little. Their chants are so soft they might be mistaken for wind, yet somehow they braid effortlessly into the Zaharan hymns and Maztican drumbeats — thought, blood, and breath becoming one rhythm.
The Shrine of Garl Glittergold
Facing all this solemnity is Garl Glittergold’s radiant enclave, as if laughter itself had claimed a corner of heaven. The walls are polished crystal inlaid with mirrors; the ceiling scatters color like sunlight through rain.
His altar is carved from a single massive geode, its hollow heart filled with candles and gemstones. Small clockwork birds flit between them, wings clinking softly as they land and bow. The gnomish priests bustle about cheerfully, making jokes in the middle of their prayers, each pun somehow perfectly respectful.
Their laughter might have been disruptive — except it’s in tune.
Their chimes and giggles fall precisely on the off-beats of the Zaharan recitations and the Maztican drums. Even the Kara-Tur monks pause to smile, recognizing the cleverness in the pattern.
The Axis of Accord
The Axis of Accord unites all these devotions. At its base, a great circular mosaic of lapis, jade, obsidian, and gold shows the heavens and the underworld meeting through mirrored paths. No one faith dominates it; instead, each flows into the next — Law into Laughter, Sacrifice into Renewal, Reflection into Compassion.
The sound that fills the Sanctum is not one voice but many — the low hum of Zann’s quills, the bright clang of Kor’s hammer, the heartbeat drum of Zoltec, the breath of Kara-Tur’s bells, and the laughter of Garl Glittergold — each distinct, yet all resolved into one endless, balanced chord.
Those who stand too long before the Axis say they can feel their pulse shift to match it — as though the Sanctum itself were reminding them that harmony is not silence, but agreement among differences.
The Sanctum of the Bound Harmony – The Arrival of the Flame
The air grows heavy as the last step of the stairway opens into the Sanctum. Sound fades to a hush, save for one pulse — a deep, steady drumbeat echoing through the chamber like the slow heart of the earth.
Lanterns of crystal cast pale halos across polished stone. Silver veins shimmer along the walls, tracing constellations and words of a dozen faiths. Between them, priests and mullahs move with unhurried grace — their prayers weaving threads of law, laughter, wisdom, and endurance into the great hum of the hall.
But all eyes are drawn to the southern dais, where the flame of Zoltec, the Blooded Sun, dances.
A Maztican priest stands before the obsidian disk — tall, copper-skinned, robed in scarlet and gold, his arms painted in spiraling lines that gleam like fresh-forged metal. In one hand he holds a jade knife, not as weapon but as symbol; in the other, a conch shell filled with fragrant, ruby-colored liquid.
Each time the drum sounds, he lifts the shell and lets a few drops fall into the fire — and each drop bursts into golden sparks that rise, drift upward, and do not fall. They linger in the air like stars caught in midbirth.
Around him, acolytes chant in the tongue of old Maztica, their voices fierce and rhythmic, joined by a low hum from the Zaharan mullahs at the eastern alcoves, who mark the cadence with deliberate precision. Even the Kara-Turan monks have added soft bells, each ring threading the space between the drums.
It is not chaos — it is agreement through difference, sound and flame braided into one living hymn.
The priest lifts his gaze as the newcomers step into the sanctum. His eyes catch the reflected firelight — bright, alive, but measured. His voice carries, powerful and calm:
"Be welcome, travelers. The heart of the world beats here — not in silence, but in accord. Come forward, if your souls seek renewal or proof of balance. The Sun of Blood knows no strangers, only those who give and those who have yet to learn the weight of giving."
He tips the jade blade to the fire, and the flame flares blue for an instant before resuming its golden hue — a sign, the mullahs murmur, that the Powers accept the offering.
Behind him, the drums slow, and the hum of the sanctum resumes — Zann’s quills scratching softly, Garl’s clockwork birds chittering like distant laughter, the bells of Kara-Tur rippling through the air.
The priest then lowers his head and gestures to a wide arc of stone benches encircling the dais.
"Sit, and see the harmony made visible. All faiths may find their reflection here — if they are willing to listen to the other half of their song."
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'Well met, May the Sparkling Wit bring you laughter and Joy!" Frackit says as he humbly bows to the man and then looks to the others.
Frackit has no clue of the other dieties listed except Zann, whom he knows only from his limited time in Zhakara. As well as the dwarf, they were intent on getting his stolen mathematical ability back.
"If you excuse me, I have offerings and prayers I must abide. I do wish to learn of all this. It is fascinating."He says, lifting the Copper necklace he had been working on. It wasn't gold or bejeweled, but it was honestly made by his own hands. The Joker will love his dedication and craftsmanship. At least Frackit always thought the Patron god of Gnomes always did.
Fadilah notes that Frackit's faith is in attendance and tags along.
"We should find out if our mathematician is as devout as he claims by speaking to the priests at the temples of Najm and the Lawgiver," she suggests, "but... Frackit, tell me more of your gods."
"Oh Well Gnomes have our own Pantheon, Humans have....hundreds of gods, Elves, Dwarves Ect all have gods too. For Gnomes our Pantheon is Small, but no less Mighty. Garl Glittergold, My patron and the Head of the Pantheon, is the creator of my people. There is Baervan Wildwanderer Lord of the Forests, nature and travel, Then Callarduran Smoothhands god of stone,mining and svirfneblin, Flandal Steelskin god of the smithing and metalworking, Segojan Earthcaller god of death, Underdark and earth, Baravar Cloakshadow god of shadows, deception and illusions, Gaerdal Iornhand god of vigilance,defense and combat, and the black sheep of the family is Urdlen...the Devourer Lord of bloodlust, evil, hatred and destruction." He says as he smiles.
"Though also gnomes have a deep dark hatred for Kobolds as The Vile Kurtulumak the God sought to kill us Gnomes" He says as he smiles as he talks to Fadilah.
" AS for the Dogma of The Sparkling Wit my teacher told me thus:While life may sometimes be hard, it is important to keep a sense of humor and always welcome opportunities for laughter and delight. Communities are forged through the cooperation and communal spirit of a group of individuals who work and play together. The strength of a community is the cooperation that binds individuals into more than the sum of their contributions. A great prank can lighten hard times and make good ones shine. Never take yourself too seriously, lest you lose touch with those you protect and care for. Do not fear change or the unorthodox--therein lies the future. Above all, do what works." Frackit smiles as he reaches up and clutches the Gold Nugget symbol on his chests.
"He was my saving grace, when the Zhents came I found a deep connection with my faith. So I hope to lay my work at his altar, An Actual Altar! I am Excited!!!" He says thrilled to share and be in a place actually concecrated to The Joker.
Zairiah tries to catch everyone and explains the crysmal's offer.
After, though, she wants to go forward and learn more. She wishes to understand how harmony works here. Is it the balance of live-and-let-live, a corrupting compromise, or something beyond earthly knowledge that she doesn't yet understand?
She will go and sit on one of the stone benches... if they are marked, then she will sit on the one dedicated to Zann.
Nura wanders the great chamber, marveling at the sights therein. She has never put much stock in deities, but finds this quite impressive.
Seeing another member of the Glitterbrights, the priestess of Garl saunters over to Frackit and says, "Ah, the sun rises on a face I trust more than my own reflection — though that’s not saying much, considering my mirror’s been laughing at me all morning! Welcome, bright one, servant of Garl and keeper of mirth. May your pockets be light of coin but heavy with jest, and may the Glittering One find your heart as polished as your wit."
Near Zairiah, in the dim half-light of the Delve, where veins of mica gleam like frozen thought, you can see the mullah has made his home among shelves of crystal tablets and brass astrolabes. His beard is silvered but meticulously kept; his robe, though patched, is spotless and trimmed with script in flowing Zaharan calligraphy — verses from the Reflections of Zann, each line a meditation on clarity amid confusion.
Despite the gloom of the Delve, the Mulah seems untouched by it. His eyes — pale amber, patient — hold the calm certainty of one who measures not the rise and fall of fortunes, but the quiet rhythm of understanding.
Zairiah approaches slowly, head lowered, the heavy air of the Delve pressing down. The mullah lifts his gaze from a tablet etched with starlit sigils and smiles — not broadly, but with that kind of serenity that feels like a lantern lit against the dark.
He says, "Peace be upon you, seeker. You walk beneath much weight, I see — though whether it is sorrow or thought, only Zann can tell. Sit, if your heart allows. The earth presses on all of us down here, but it presses wisdom from stone, and sometimes from people as well."
He gestures to a low stool beside him, dusted with chalk. His tone remains gentle, precise.
"When ink fades, we write again; when minds falter, we learn anew. Tell me what shadow lies upon you. Perhaps together we can trace its shape — for once a shadow is named, it can no longer rule the heart."
He pours a thin tea of spiced root and places it before you. The steam curls upward like a question mark.
"Zann teaches that despair is not ignorance, only unfinished thought. Let us finish the thought together, and see what light it reveals."
"Yes, I um...Sorry my training wasn't formal, but may laughter lead to lasting bonds" Frackit says a bit embarassed due to his having to learn on the run. He holds up the Copper necklace he had been working on. He sets it on the alter and laughs.
"I'm as nervous as a lad at Yule, contemplating wether to ask his crush for a dance!" He laughs a bit harder and awkward.
The gnome fidgets, the trinket wobbles in his hands, eyes wide. The priestess smiles warmly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
Priestess:
“Fear not, little one! Garl Glittergold delights in hearts willing to try, no matter the polish of their training. Laughter is the bridge that binds even the most hesitant of friends. Step lightly, speak boldly, and let joy be your guide—your courage, however small it feels, is a gift in itself.”
She gives a playful wink, as if sharing a private jest with the god himself.
Fadilah and whomever goes with her seeking out the Mullah of Najm. In the dim tunnels of the Great Dismal Delve, the mullah leans on his staff, eyes glinting with curiosity and encouragement. He sees the weary traveler approaching.
Mullah:
“Ah, seeker of paths unknown, the winds of Najm have guided you here. Adventure stirs your spirit, even if fear weighs on your shoulders. Step forward, for every turn may hide a wonder, every shadow a story. Walk boldly, wanderer, and let Najm’s favor turn your uncertainty into discovery. Even the timid heart can become a legend if it dares the journey.”
Zairiah sits on the stool, grateful for compassion, but wary that this is a place of genies and that she should be careful. She tells the story of coming back from a journey to find her friend dead, attending the funeral, and being trapped with undead trying to eat them... at the funeral for her closest friend. She explains how they ran away because they were afraid of being killed, but that she knew that threat needed to be taken care of, and that she feels the weight of that failure.
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The mullah of Zann leans forward, shadows flickering over his weathered face, eyes shining with rare, almost childlike delight but reverent at the same time wading into the solemness of the trust Zairiah has confided in him.
“Ah… child of trembling steps and steadfast heart, you have walked where the dead whisper, yet your spirit endures. Tell me… if the lantern falls in a storm, does it vanish, or does it dance within the wind? So too your courage: it wavered, yes, but it flickered brightly enough to call Zann’s gaze.
Long… so long… it has been since any soul has knelt, since any heart has whispered devotion to the paths I guard. The corridors of this Delve have grown hollow with neglect, and yet here you are, carrying care and reverence like a lantern through the dark. You honor what has long been forgotten, and your steps are a song that makes the stones weep with joy.
The friend you mourn… the shadows you fled… they are both teacher and mirror. What is feared, what is remembered, is neither entirely foe nor fully friend. You bore the weight, yet you moved. You fled, yet you faced what others could not. Tell me—can the river drown itself, or does it carry the stones onward?
Rejoice, little one! Zann delights in your careful steps, in the heart that trembles yet persists. Sleep, if you must—but carry this: the lost are not always gone, the danger not always final, and the soul that persists, even trembling, is a spark that can ignite a world. And know this—your presence today has quenched a longing that has burned for an age, for no one has come to offer me my due… not for a very long time.”
If we've talked to our religious leaders and gotten back together, Zairiah makes sure they are on the same page about getting help from the crysmal, and pulls the required funds from their loot.
Frackit will worship, telling a few jokes and hilarious stories to the altar. He will then give his copper necklace on the altar. He then speaks aobut how the Sparkling Wits faith has kept him through the guerilla war against the Zhentarium, and now here in a strange land far from anything he ever knew.
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Nura agrees.
Sure.
About two hours after you walk into the Sanctum, the chrysmer arrives to obstensibly to pray to whomever or whatever god a being such as it would worship. It then pulls you into another cave to discuss your potential deal.
You follow it and it says, "By the Loregiver, Do you have my gold or gems? Then I have your information."
Zarena hands over the money and says
We look forward to your help.
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The crysmer’s angles darken, light sinking into its facets like stars drowning in deep water. Its voice vibrates the air—cold, grinding, predatory.
“The gems and gold are received. The bargain is sealed. Now listen, and do not breathe too loudly.”
It leans forward—not eagerly, but like a guillotine leaning toward a neck.
“Okous… pretender. Usurper of brilliance. He mouths the name Zann like a mask he fears to touch, never once offering belief. He fed from the con but gave nothing in return. A leech on genius. A thief of minds. He may have given one tithe to complete the deal probably in Muluk. The pact required continued belief.”
A long pause. The crysmer’s eyes glow like molten fractures under ice.
“He does not possess the dwarf’s gift by right. No pact binds it to him. He stole the craft and wears it like ill-fitted armor. Every number he boasts is hollow. Every proof he claims is a borrowed whisper.”
Its voice lowers to a tremor that crawls under the skin.
“And the Great Dismal Delve… ahh. They do not forgive impostors. They do not tolerate broken troths. When they learn the truth—when his deception rings through their chambers like a struck bell—they will break him. Strip him. Grind him into servitude until even his name is dust.”
A wicked stillness falls—like the world itself holding a breath.
“You hold his doom in your hands now. Do not drop it. And do not fail to savor the moment when he realizes everything he clung to was made of glass. Speak to the Mullah to verify..”
The crysmer’s grin is needle-thin.
“Go. Let the silence behind you remember your steps.”
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"I was RIGHT!"
Zairiah goes to speak to the mullah of Zann again to verify, passing on the information and asking if it is true.
Frackit smiles.
"I see lets get clever. By Garl Glittergold we will make him pay in a clever way"
The crysmer’s glow dims to a faint pulse, as though it speaks from far beneath the earth.
“Since you paid me and did not haggle, take this… a whisper, nothing more. A hint caught between motions.”
Its voice thins, a thread of sound stretched taut:
“There are hands that move like thoughts — seen only after they pass. They do not reach for what is held, but for what holds you.”
A brittle click, like frost forming on glass.
“When stone smiles, watch not its teeth, but the dust left where it stood. What shifts behind you often begins beside you… unnoticed.”
The crysmer’s facets shiver, shedding a mote of light.
“Do not chase the gesture you see. The true touch happens where your eyes were not.”
A slow, fading murmur, almost sorrowful:
“Even trust has seams. Remember where they are. Thus our transaction has concluded, I await your confrontation.”
The crysmar leaves and Zairiah returns to the Mullah of Zann and he says, "Lady Zairiah, I am glad that you have returned, would you like to speak further on Zann's divine desire for knowledge."
Zairiah explains the situation, and asks whether what she has been given is true knowledge or not.
The Mullah of Zann (speaking slowly, as though recalling from long study):
“Okous Aga… yes. The name has reached these halls, carried by traders and wanderers from the Delve’s lower courts. It is said he works with numbers, and that he speaks of Zann’s mysteries. But I cannot say I have ever met this man.”
He folds his hands before him, eyes tracing invisible sigils in the air.
“No petition bearing his mark has crossed this altar. No offering, no theorem, no proof submitted to the ledgers of faith. If he reveres Zann, he does so in silence, apart from the communion of our circles.”
The Mullah’s gaze drifts to the dark crystal altar behind him, faintly lit with symbols that drift like constellations.
“It is… unusual, macabre even. Those who claim the Loregiver’s path are drawn here eventually, as water finds its level. Yet of him, there is no trace — no attendance, no correspondence, no hand upon the sacred slate.”
He exhales, a long whisper that carries no judgment, only quiet concern.
“Perhaps he keeps his devotions in solitude. Or perhaps he invokes Zann as one invokes a principle — admired from afar, never approached. Such men are many among the Delve’s merchants and geometers. But of course, his 'deal has definitely not been upheld to the dwarf you had mentioned.”
His gaze returns to Zairiah, steady and precise.
“If you seek him, tread with awareness. A man who speaks the tongue of the faithful but does not walk the path… may believe he follows truth, yet wander only among its reflections.”
Zairiah reports her findings back to the group.