BelGareth
     The Technomancers Legacy    
  
The planet was dead.

Or perhaps more accurately, it had been dying for a very long time. A slow, inevitable collapse that had begun so long ago that no one remembered when life had flourished here—if it ever truly had. It has no name, this world. It simply is a broken shell adrift in the cold void, revolving around a sun that had long since dimmed.

The sun, too, is dying.

It is as if they are father and son, bound by invisible threads yet forever apart—each following the same road, but never able to touch. The planet, scorched and cracked, drifts in the shadow of the fading star, neither alive nor dead, just waiting for time to finish what it began. Its surface is a graveyard of forgotten hopes and crumbling cities buried beneath layers of sand and regret.

The sky is a pale, ash-colored expanse, where the light that filters down is weak and gray, casting everything in a half-light, like the memory of a forgotten dream. The wind carries with it the echoes of a thousand lost civilizations, their once-mighty towers now nothing but dust. The few who remain cling to life in the scattered city-states that hover above the wasteland, isolated and afraid, their walls and machines the only things keeping the desolation at bay.

 Aetherhold  is one of these cities.

It floats above the ruins on the eternal winds, its spires stretching into the clouded sky like the last gasp of something long-dead. The turbines beneath it spin, powered by an energy older than the city itself, a fragile tether that keeps the city aloft. But even here, in this bastion of survival, the cracks are beginning to show. Tremors ripple through the streets, and the people whisper of strange disturbances, of machines failing and the winds growing weaker.

They say the city is sinking.


 


They say the world is ending.

But you are here.

Whether by fate or folly, you find yourself in the Grand Promenade of Aetherhold. The market buzzes with life, though beneath the surface, there is tension—a nervous energy that flares up with every tremor, every flicker of the arcane lights that line the streets. Vendors shout their wares, offering Magitech relics and strange devices salvaged from the ruins far below. The crowd presses in, their faces a blur of worry and determination, for even in a world that is dying, life must go on.

You can feel it, though. The weight of the city above, the tremor in the stone beneath your feet. The city is sick, its lifeblood—the ancient wind turbines—failing. You’ve heard the rumors. Perhaps that’s why you’re here. Perhaps you’ve come seeking answers, fortune, or simply to survive in a world where survival is a question, not a guarantee.

And then, there is the letter.

It lies folded in your pocket, heavy with the weight of secrets. A summons from Magister Elara Voss, the ruler of Aetherhold, a woman known for her strength and conviction. The message was cryptic—something about the city’s foundations, about the winds, about a problem she could not solve alone.

Above, the sky rumbles, and a tremor shudders through the streets.

The city is falling.
And somewhere, deep beneath the surface of the world, something stirs.
BelGareth
 In the dark places of the world, where the light of the fading sun cannot reach, something stirs. 

It is ancient, older than memory, older than the stones that lie buried beneath the sands. It waits in the shadows, in the forgotten corners of the world, watching as the last remnants of life flicker and fade. Few speak of it, for to do so is to invite its gaze, to call down its attention.

They say it hungers, but not for food or drink. It sustains itself on the souls of the lost—the broken, the forgotten, the imprisoned. Those cast away from the light of the city-states, left to rot in the deep places, are said to vanish without a trace, swallowed by the darkness itself. Some say they can still hear their whispers, carried on the winds that sweep through the empty ruins.

But the truth of it is buried in shadows, for no one has seen the thing that lurks there. Not with their eyes.

They say it cannot be seen, only felt. A presence. A void. Something vast and ancient, dwelling in the places where time itself seems to bend, where the walls between worlds grow thin. Some call it a shadow, others a star, and still others claim it is neither—merely a hunger, a wound in the fabric of reality itself.

But whatever it is, its influence grows.

And it is waiting.
BelGareth
Magister Elara Voss paced the length of the chamber, her fingers twisting together in nervous knots.

She had not slept. Not properly, not for weeks. The weight of the city pressed down on her, and she felt it in her bones—the tremors beneath the streets, the growing unrest in the markets, the whispers of failure that followed her wherever she went. She knew her people saw the cracks forming, even if they did not say it aloud.

They had no idea how bad it was.

Her gaze flickered to the door again. They should have arrived by now. She had sent the summons days ago, and still... nothing. Her chest tightened. What if they didn’t come? What if they couldn’t help? What if it was already too late?

 Stop. 

She forced herself to stand still, but her fingers still twitched, betraying her calm. She could not afford to lose control. Not now. Not when everything was unraveling around her.

 The city was dying. 

She couldn’t tell them that, not directly. Not yet. But they would see it soon enough—the tremors, the failing turbines, the strange disruptions in the wind. The city that had stood for centuries was sinking, and she had no idea how to stop it.

She swallowed hard, the taste of copper in her mouth. They have to help.

Another tremor shook the floor beneath her feet, and Elara’s breath caught in her throat. The walls groaned, as though the tower itself was warning her, mocking her for thinking she could hold it all together.

 Please. 

Her eyes darted back to the door. They had to come. They had to.
LairdMaon
 "Magister Voss!"  Missy calls out as she glides through an open skylight. She places a hand on the wall and traces some random details down as she lowered herself to the floor.  "Why did you call me from my home? I was in the process of cleaning the house for Mymri when I received your letter."  

When she touches down, she takes note of the fresh dust still falling from that last tremor.  "Please,"  she looks to the Magister with an expression of pleading that's made completely of sarcasm,  "tell me you've not called me in to clean this place?" 
Deadguy
     Zeta Bazareene 

The sharp clack of hard-heeled boots echoed down the corridor leading to the Magister's chambers. Zeta had been here before, but never on her own, either ushered in by her father for formal introductions or escorted by guards for sentencing.

She paused at the door and took a deep breath. Maintaining composure was important in this situation. She was wanted, an opportunity that might not come again.   It's nice to be wanted...  

While she took a moment to herself, she felt the floor tremble through the soles of her boots. She might have missed it had she chosen to fly.   For all its grandeur, it fails.  

The smile the thought brought to her lips was genuine. It was a good time to make her entrance. She knocked firmly on the door once before pushing it open. Seeing the frazzled look on Elara's face, Zeta's resolve hardened. A feeling of superiority washed over her as she bowed low.

  "Magister, how may I be of assistance?"  

Only after she had entered and asked her question did she glance to the side and notice the seemingly Draconian-inspired automaton who was either a servant of the Magister or who had beaten her to the summons.
niw18
     Brute the Berserking Magitech Templar   


A towering figure in black would walk through the halls, spikes moving through his black clothing as he made his way toward Magister Elara Voss for the meeting. He would mumble about how annoying it was to the berserking magitech templar. He was in a foul mood, but that was normal for the warforged. He found himself annoyed, which made him angry, which was very normal for him.  He could be heard as the angry templar approached the office and knocked loudly before angrily entering the office and looking at the magister and then the others there to answer the summons she had set out.

He would look to the female humanoid and then look to warforged brethren who seemed to be a draconian model and gave them a nod and looked to the magister as he felt the shake the tall hulking like warforged  "What is going on"  he would ask her very indifferently with a strong hint of anger in it.  He would look around as the shaking from the earthquake-like shaking was making him angry but this should make him look good to the cult and might also put him possibly in good standing with the lord of blades.
Xav
      
      Alar     
 Gramarist 7 // Master 1 - Factotum 3 - Incarnate 1 - Chameleon 2 
 AC: 19 (19 T/14 FF) 
 HP: 54/54 
 Spot: +26 
 Initiative: +6 
 Conditions: -  
 
  

A gray-skinned man in simple dark clothing, cross-legged in a meditative pose, hovered in the middle of a space filled with shadows and nebulae of various shapes and shades of gray. Alternately, some parts of the space thickened before his gaze, forming unusual landscapes, sequences of numbers and symbols, or complex schemes. After an indefinite amount of time, the space smoothly collapsed, and the man opened his eyes.

Alar was in a small, unlit room with only a simple bed, a table with a stack of papers, and a couple of chairs. The man rose from the floor, without bothering to turn on the light made a couple of notes on a piece of paper, and then left the room, but before he could get far enough away, his eyes lingered on the mailbox that seemed to contain something. Raising an eyebrow - letters didn't come to him often - Alar pulled it out and read the contents carefully, lingering on the signature. Checked the date of posting. Checked the internal clock. It looked like the letter had been sent a few days ago. Unfortunately, his meditations could last quite a while, unless someone suddenly interrupted them. However, it was less impolite to be late than to not show up at all, so without further ado, Alar made his way to Magister Elara Voss's residence.

Knocking twice on the door, after a short pause the man stepped inside, finding that the other invitees had apparently been delayed in arriving as well. Two of those present were familiar to him, but the powerfully built stranger, shrouded in - or composed of - technological armor, was unknown. Alar shifted his gaze to the Magister almost immediately, however. He had only seen Lady Voss from afar before, but today it was effortlessly apparent that the woman was visibly tired, if not - exhausted. Nevertheless, with a nonchalant face the man bowed slightly and said:

 - I beg your pardon for being late. How can I be of service, Magister? 
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

OOC actions.
 
rypt
The last to arrive is a towering angelic figure.  Not only is she so tall that she must duck beneath the doorframe as she enters the room, but her black-feathered wings are wide enough that she has to twist herself sideways as well.  She wears armor of an old-world styling, the faded emblem of an ancient god etched into the pauldron on her right shoulder.  A longsword hangs at her hip, sheathed in a rune-marked scabbard.  A great winged helm covers most of her face, golden eyes shining from slits in the metal.

Once she has stepped into the room and stood to her full height, she looks to each of the others in turn.    "Which of you is Magister Voss?"   she asks, her voice rich and enveloping.

From her belt, she draws a small leather folio stained with blood.  She opens it, and removes a familiar invitation.    "This letter was delivered to Justiciar Henrig Ekkarr."    She pauses a moment, resisting a sudden swell of emotion.    "He was killed in the wastes en route to this meeting.  I have come in his stead."  
LairdMaon
After studying the eclectic array of individuals gathered before the government official, Missy turns her attention to Magister Voss.  “Okay, judging by the complete lack of anything resembling a maid uniform, you didn't call us for a clean-up job. That being the case, why are we gracing your presence with ours?”  Anyone watching Missy would note that she now has a hand resting on her hip.
Deadguy
     Zeta Bazareene 

Zeta rose from her bow as the others entered and introduced themselves. She looked at each of them in turn with an appraising eye.   This is the team I'll be working with...  

The dragonborn automaton seemed witty, perhaps to a fault. She was the kind of person who could spout some nonsense in a tense situation and defuse it or ignite it into a full-blown conflict.

 The heavily armoured and spiked automaton seethed with emotion for no apparent reason. An interesting contradiction, all things considered. Zeta had always found the constructs to be logical to a fault. This one seemed to be swinging in the opposite direction. Hopefully it had enough control that she could stand behind it in conflicts without fear of it turning against her.

The grey-skinned man was more difficult to assess. Obviously touched by other planes, he still had the face of a mage, or perhaps an assassin. Zeta could sense the presence of harnessed soul energy, though not as strongly as her own binding of it. A riddle wrapped in a mystery within an enigma, to be sure.

The final arrival was the only one that caused a slight change in Zeta's expression. As the giant of a woman walked, or crouched, through the doorway, she showed obvious surprise. A quick glance might have mistaken the woman for an angel summoned from another plane, as the grey-skinned man might have been. The ancient armour and holy symbol were certainly not a common sight in the floating city. Hearing that her master had been killed in the Wastes painted a clearer picture of her relationship with the city, or lack thereof. Still, she seemed reliable enough to have continued her master's quest after his death.
BelGareth
Elara Voss stood in the dim, trembling chamber, anxiety etched into every line of her face as the eclectic group arrived, one by one. She managed a tight smile, though her eyes darted between them, taking in each figure—some familiar, others entirely new, yet all bound by her desperate summons.

Missy was the first to arrive, gliding through the skylight with an air of sarcasm that left a faint, forced smile on Elara’s lips.  "If only it were so simple as cleaning,"  she murmured, her voice taut with tension as she brushed a fine layer of dust from her sleeve.  "But no. I need… more than that."  She glanced at the settling dust, and her voice grew almost a whisper.  "Much more." 

The sharp clack of Zeta’s boots echoed from the hallway, and Elara inclined her head as the young woman strode in, her tone formal yet underpinned by a trace of warmth.  "Zeta,"  she said softly,  "thank you for coming. I wish I could say it was a pleasure to see you, but I’m afraid the city’s problems are beyond pleasantries now."  She clasped her hands tightly, struggling to suppress the nervous twitching of her fingers.

The heavy footfalls of Brute followed, each step an omen of his own brewing frustration. His towering, armored form and angry demeanor were a storm cloud that filled the room, but Elara met his gaze, her own apprehension flickering just beneath her composure.  "I appreciate your arrival, truly,"  she said, voice steady but tinged with a faint note of trepidation.  "The tremors, the instability—they’re just the beginning."  She glanced briefly at the floor as another tremor shook the chamber.  "The city itself may soon be in danger." 

Alar entered shortly after, his calm demeanor a balm to her frazzled nerves. Elara offered him a weary nod.  "Alar. Thank you for coming."  Her eyes met his, and in that moment, her exhaustion was visible, though she forced herself to stand tall.  "I hope you’ll forgive the abruptness of my summons. I had little choice. There are… forces at work here, things I cannot explain alone."  Her hand lifted to her brow, brushing away the tension that seemed etched into her face.  "I need help. More help than even I can find within these walls." 

Her words lingered in the air as the final figure entered, ducking beneath the doorframe, her wings brushing the walls as she twisted to fit her imposing frame into the room. Elara’s eyes widened at the sight of the angelic warrior, visibly moved as the woman held forth a bloodstained letter. Elara nodded, her gaze softening with a flicker of grief.  "I am so sorry for your loss. I did not intend to send him into danger."  She met the woman’s piercing golden eyes with a look of deep gratitude.  "Your presence here is a gift to us both, for he had a strength I could not hope to match. I pray that his strength… that your strength may help us avert the fate that draws near." 

Elara took a breath, forcing herself to face them all, meeting each of their gazes, feeling the weight of their presence, their power, their purpose. Missy’s sarcasm, Zeta’s formality, Brute’s intensity, Alar’s quiet attentiveness, and the angelic figure’s solemnity—they were all that stood between her city and ruin.

 "No,"  she said finally, addressing the question hanging in the air.  "I did not call you here for a simple task."  Her voice grew stronger, though her eyes betrayed her worry.  "This city—my city—is failing. The foundations that have held it aloft for generations are growing unstable, and I fear something far worse is coming. I need… people I can trust, people who are capable of facing what lies ahead. I know I am asking much." 

She let her gaze linger on each of them once more, a flicker of desperation breaking through her composed mask.  "You are all that stands between this city and its end,"  she said, her voice almost a whisper.  "If we cannot stop this decay, Aetherhold will fall, and I don’t think we’ll be able to survive that." 

The silence that followed was thick with the gravity of her words.
BelGareth
Elara took a steadying breath, her gaze shifting from one face to the next, gathering strength from their presence. She could still feel the tremors in the stone beneath her feet, an ominous reminder of the city's fragility.

 "The problem lies in the heart of the city,"  she began, her voice barely above a whisper.  "Aetherhold floats on ancient turbines, fueled by Orichalchum—a substance we’ve used to keep us aloft for generations. It powers everything, from the lights in our homes to the very winds that hold this city in the sky. But something is wrong. The turbines are failing. The Orichalchum… it’s disappearing." 

Her fingers gripped the edge of a nearby table, knuckles white.  "The engineers tell me it’s impossible. Orichalchum doesn’t simply vanish—it’s stable, eternal. But no one can explain it. We’ve tried every known test, every scan and measure, and each one returns the same result: our power is fading." 

She released the table and met their eyes, determination hardening her voice.  "That’s where you come in. I need you to go into the depths, below the turbines, where few have ever gone. There are chambers and conduits there that haven’t seen the light of day in centuries—some say they’re haunted. I don’t know what you’ll find. Perhaps it’s a mechanical failure, perhaps a theft, or something far stranger." 

She hesitated, as if the words themselves pained her.  "If I’m being honest, I don’t know what to expect. But I need you to find out what’s happening to our Orichalchum, to our lifeblood. If we don’t find an answer soon, Aetherhold… it won’t survive much longer." 

Another tremor shook the chamber, rattling her words into silence. She looked to the floor, then back up, her face a mask of urgency and fear.  "There are whispers—rumors of sabotage, of dark things moving in the forgotten places. I’ve heard stories… but I can’t say if they’re true. All I know is that whatever lies below, you must be prepared for it." 

Elara took a breath, her expression softening, a flicker of hope threading through her voice.  "Please. Find the truth. Save Aetherhold. You are our only hope." 

She drew herself up, awaiting their response, knowing she had placed the city’s fate in their hands.
BelGareth
Elara paused, glancing between them before adding,  "And for those of you who wonder what the city might offer in return…"  She drew herself up, as if hoping to lend weight to her next words.

 "Those who help Aetherhold in this time of need will be granted an official title of honor within the city. This honor grants priority in trade agreements and access to the finest vendors—doors that are closed to most will open for you."  Her eyes flicked over the group, gauging their reactions.  "You’ll also gain limited access to the city’s vaults, should you need to requisition items of use from our stores. And finally,"  she said, a note of anticipation brightening her voice,  "you’ll have access to Aetherhold’s teleportarium. For those who walk dangerous roads, this privilege is invaluable." 

She paused, letting the words sink in.  "It is no small honor. But I realize that I ask a great deal from you in return. If you succeed, however, your place in Aetherhold’s history will be undeniable." 

With that, she looked to each of them, her expression hopeful but determined, awaiting their response.
Deadguy
     Zeta Bazareene 
   Of course... throw promises of wealth and prestige at the problems. Nothing has changed.  

Zeta crossed her arms, taking a harder stance than she had initially assumed. She finally had the leverage she needed, and she wasn't going to let the opportunity pass her by. Zeta suspected that Elara had assumed that such a demand would be made, and that she must have been willing to consider it, otherwise she wouldn't have bothered to send the summons in the first place.

  "These things are all well and good, but you have something that belongs to me. If I do this for you, I expect it back."  

She left the statement vague enough that only the Magister would understand the inference.
rypt
As the tremor fades, the winged warrior turns and steps to the side of the room.  She reaches up, almost to the ceiling, and traces a finger along a hairline crack in the wall.    "We both know what Ekkarr's answer would have been,"   she says with a sigh, rubbing plaster dust between her thumb and forefinger.  Her skin is as the sky above -- perhaps resplendent once, but now nearly devoid of color.    "One day, I will meet him again in the Sovereign's hall, and I would be disgraced in our reunion were I to deny you now."  

She turns back, focusing her golden gaze upon Elara.    "But before I pledge my steel to your cause, know this, Magister.  The deepest depths of your city still float high above the poisoned heart of this world.  And were I free to choose whether to confront the darkness there or the darkness here, well... it pains me to say that I would let your city fall."  
BelGareth
Elara’s eyes flicked to Zeta as the noblewoman crossed her arms and spoke, her words sharp and laden with veiled meaning. For a moment, Elara faltered, the faintest flicker of discomfort crossing her face.  "I haven’t forgotten,"  she said quietly, her tone careful, measured.  "And you’re right—I wouldn’t have called upon you if I wasn’t willing to consider your terms." 

She straightened, locking eyes with Zeta, her voice softening.  "Help me save this city, and I promise you this: I will pull every string, call in every favor, and fight tooth and nail to see your father released. It is not entirely within my power, but I will make it so. That is my vow to you. But first, we must ensure there’s still a city to save."  Her gaze lingered on Zeta for a moment longer, her expression a mix of understanding and urgency.

As Skatha stepped to the side, her words carried the weight of loss and conviction, underscored by the ominous truth she spoke of. Elara followed the winged warrior’s gesture to the faint crack in the wall, her heart sinking further. The Magister’s voice softened, almost pleading.  "I know what I ask of you, and I know how much it costs. If there were another way, I would take it. But the poison in this world—the darkness you speak of—it threatens us all. Aetherhold is not perfect, but it is one of the last places where people can still hope, still dream. If it falls…"  She hesitated, drawing a steadying breath.  "If it falls, what hope remains for the rest of us?" 

Elara straightened, summoning what strength she could muster.  "I cannot change the past, and I cannot promise you absolution for what lies beyond this city. But if you help me now, you will have done what I could not—you will have given us a chance to fight back against the darkness. That is all I can ask of you."  She met Skatha’s golden gaze, her desperation tempered by resolve.  "Please. Do not let Aetherhold fall." 
rypt
The winged woman's expression shifts momentarily, her mouth curving slightly into something very near to a smile.    "You are bold, Magister, to kindle hope in a land where even the sun is but embers and ash."    She shifts her weight back on her heels, folding her arms across her chest.    "I will not make you a promise I cannot keep.  Your science is alien to me.  I cannot save your city.  But in Ekkarr's honor, I will do everything in my power to protect those who can."    She looks to each of the others who answered Elara's summons, then bows her head.    "I am Skatha Orun Aestrithr, Brightblade of Dol Dorn."  
Xav
      
      Alar     
 Gramarist 7 // Master 1 - Factotum 3 - Incarnate 1 - Chameleon 2 
 AC: 19 (19 T/14 FF) 
 HP: 54/54 
 Spot: +26 
 Initiative: +6 
 Conditions: -  
 
  

Alar remained silent for a while, calmly waiting and giving others the opportunity to speak out. At the same time, he watched those with whom he would have to fulfill the request - strangely enough, it turned out to be a request, not an assignment - of Grand Magister Voss. So far, he was rather surprised by the attitude of her other guests - it seemed, some of them had rather little respect for the status of a woman, and this certainly raised some questions.
Of course, Alar did not voice them yet, instead calmly asking Elara:

 - I understand that you are very limited in the information you have, but do you know, who exactly spreads the rumors, that these depths are haunted? Has anyone tried to scout them yet? Are there any archived schemes or plans of the place? 
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d20+10)[ 19 ]  Sense Motive - how truthful is Lady Magister, when she claims she knows little to nothing about the depths?
 
niw18
Brute would angrily listen to the talk around and the information that angers him even more and the fact it could also affect the lord of blades, making him even more angry. Brute would look at her  "How do you not know can you not send astral constructs to investigate what is stealing it from what I am getting"  he would say to her his tone concerned but as normal a strong tint of anger was also in it.  He would look to them " Hmmm I have not heard of anything before that could call this it would be nice if we had more details"  he would say from his time as military assigned warforged then explore / adventurer. he heard the rest but it just left him more angry at the lack of information they are giving to help the city and maybe even the planet.
BelGareth
Elara’s lips tightened into a faint but sincere smile at Skatha’s words.  "Bold, perhaps. Desperate, more likely,"  she admitted, her voice quieter now, tinged with a mix of gratitude and resignation.  "But even embers can be coaxed back to flame, and hope... hope is the only thing I can offer."  She inclined her head in respect.  "Your vow honors him, and it honors me. Thank you, Skatha Orun Aestrithr. Your strength may yet give us the time we need." 

As Alar spoke, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the tension in the room, Elara turned her attention fully to him. His questions, measured and direct, drew a flicker of discomfort across her face.  "You’re correct that the information I have is limited,"  she admitted, meeting his gaze steadily.  "The rumors have been persistent for years—stories passed down from the early days of Aetherhold. Tales of shadows in the depths, strange sounds, and disappearances. Nothing definitive, nothing we could act on. As for scouting..."  She hesitated, her voice lowering.  "Several attempts were made. Some returned with little to report, others never returned at all. It’s why we’ve relied on the upper levels of the turbines for so long, why the lower depths have fallen into neglect." 

Her hand gestured faintly toward a stack of scrolls on the far table.  "We do have archived schematics—plans from the city’s earliest construction—but I can’t vouch for their accuracy. Many areas of the depths have changed over time, warped by the very Magitech meant to sustain them."  Her gaze softened as she added,  "I can have the plans brought to you before you leave." 

Brute’s angered tone cut through the room like a blade, drawing Elara’s attention. She visibly flinched at his suggestion, though she quickly composed herself.  "I understand your frustration, Brute,"  she said, her voice carefully even.  "Constructs and other devices have been sent before, but something in the depths interferes with them. It’s as though the very air below rejects them. The few we’ve sent have been lost or rendered inert."  Her expression turned grim.  "It’s why I called for you all. The depths require more than machines. They require ingenuity, strength, and adaptability. Traits only you possess." 

She took a steadying breath, addressing the room as a whole now, her voice firm but carrying the faint tremor of urgency.  "I know I ask much of you. Too much, perhaps. But the city needs you, and I believe that together, you can uncover what we cannot. If we fall, the entire world may follow." 

Elara paused, her gaze moving from face to face, lingering on each of them in turn.  "I wish I could give you more—more certainty, more answers—but this is all I have. And so I ask for your trust."  Her hands clenched together briefly before she added, her voice softer now,  "Please. Aetherhold depends on you." 

 


Elara straightened, her expression shifting from desperation to determination as she addressed them all.  "I won’t send you into the unknown without some guidance. There is someone waiting for you in the depths—an engineer by the name of Varyn Locke. He’s one of the few who have worked near the lower turbines in recent years and knows the labyrinthine conduits better than anyone alive." 

She moved toward the table, retrieving a rolled-up map and placing it carefully before them.  "Varyn is stationed at the central access hub, just above the deepest levels of the turbines. He’ll guide you to the last known location where… disturbances were reported."  Her voice faltered slightly before she pressed on.  "I won’t sugarcoat it—what he has for you may seem insubstantial. Sightings of movement, faint sounds, equipment behaving strangely. But it’s all we have." 

Elara’s hands rested on the edge of the table as she leaned forward, her eyes locking onto theirs with renewed resolve.  "Follow the clues, no matter how small they seem. Speak with Varyn, and let him guide you. He’s a good man, but he’s as much in the dark as the rest of us. What you uncover will likely lead to more questions than answers, but I trust you to see the truth for what it is." 

Her gaze lingered on each of them in turn, her voice softening as she added,  "The depths are dangerous, even without the threat of sabotage or worse. Stay together, watch each other’s backs, and trust your instincts. I’ll do everything I can from here to support you, but once you descend, you’ll be on your own." 

She straightened, brushing a hand through her hair as if to dispel her lingering doubts.  "Go now. Varyn is expecting you, and the sooner we act, the better. Whatever is happening down there, we cannot let it spread." 

Elara stepped back, folding her hands before her as though bracing herself for the weight of their departure.  "Good luck to you all. May you find the answers we so desperately need." 
Deadguy
     Zeta Bazareene 

Zeta's attitude softened slightly at Elara's answer. She had been prepared for harder negotiations.

  Things must really be as desperate as she said.   

She noticed that the Magister had not explicitly agreed to free her father, only that she would try. This made Zeta uneasy. Risking her own life and putting her own plans on hold to solve this problem for an enemy, only to have her manipulate the situation, would most likely result in his death.

   Is the risk worth the reward?   

She twirled the ring that held her family crest around her finger as she thought silently, half listening to the others. When Elara spoke of leaving, she blinked slowly and focused on the present.

Nodding her head in understanding at the given directions and the name of her would-be contact, Zeta made her way to the doors. Her footsteps had the same measured purpose as when she had entered.