Prelude

Howling winds scoured Hyndall's face with icy grit, threatening to hurl him back down the frozen slope. The biting cold scratched at his throat to claw the air from his lungs and suck the heat from his marrow. If not for the Scarf of Living Flame wreathing his body in a roiling bubble of heated air, he too would have fled back to the city. There he'd be, sopping up his second teapot of goftal curry with soft, chewy chunks of Darianne's fluffy flatbread instead, and not, most assuredly, enduring a cold meal of hardtack and pemmican.

need a better hook/action scene here.

Each step towards the source of the alluring song only strengthened its pull. He wasn't sure where his resolve ended and where the compulsion began, but both left him with no choice but slog onward.

Not even a week ago, Hyndall had been spoiled for choice. He'd stood in the port city of Nicta's famed open-air fish market, making the paramount decision of his day: how should he break his morning fast?

Hence, why he was peering down at the clusters of emerald scallops in their water-walled tank. Each was the size of his palm clad in shells of crystallized mana that sparkled like their namesake gem as they flit around the water.

"No lacs today?"

He looked across the top of the scallop tank at Galene. The fishmonger looked back with arms crossed over her dark leather apron. Her weatherworn face was set with twinkling grey eyes and creased into a smile. A striking, cochineal-red kerchief held back hair bleached copper by sun and sea.

"I thought I'd try something different."

"Oh-ho," she chortled, rubbing her chin. "And here I'd given up on you as one more delver without taste."

"Would a 'delver without taste' shop here?" He gestured at her stall and she snorted. "Besides, of all the fish I've tasted, they tasted the best."

"Oh? And how many other fish have you tasted?"

He waved his hand in exaggerated dismissal. "Enough," he said and shrugged. "Why bother once you've found yourself a winner?"

"You tell me," she said, raising her bushy, copper eyebrows.

Truth be told, he'd once thought it impossible to tire of the rich, buttery taste of grumpy lacs—a local fish so named for its perpetually downturned mouth and vexed brow. However, he'd been in Nicta for a month, coming down to the fish market to eat lacs for three weeks, patronizing Galene's stall for two of those weeks and obstinately ignoring her recommendations to try something new for almost as long.

Three weeks of the fish—no matter how expertly it was fried, stewed, fried then stewed, smoked, roasted, sautéed, cured, curried, poached, cold smoked, or raw marinated in freshly squeezed quat juice—had rendered its delectable flavours insipid. That was why he had found himself in dire need of a new local delicacy to bring to one of the many cook stalls and lean-tos that clung to the market like barnacles.

Her eyebrows crept higher and her smirk spread wider the longer Hyndall held his silence. His breakfasts had been lacs-exclusive in part to avoid giving her the satisfaction of being right. Sure he could have settled for inferior selection from other stalls but he'd grown to like the fishmonger. He recognized he was only delaying her inevitable smugness but he also wanted to see how high her eyebrows would go. When they were at last half-hidden beneath her kerchief, she spread her arms out towards him, as if inviting a response. "Well?"

"That one." Hyndall pointedly thrust a finger and the conversation back to the scallops. "The big one."

She held his gaze for a few moments longer then shook her head and leaned back with a toothy grin. She flicked her chin at a wooden sign off to the side without breaking eye contact or that damned self-satisfied smile. "The big ones cost extra, you know. Even for a favoured customer looking to finally try something different."

He grinned back despite himself. "Fine by me. Did I pick wrong?"

She snorted and turned to the middle of her stall where a loop of water twisted in a slanted figure-eight around two fist-sized orbs. The bright upper orb strobed with jittery white filaments that sizzled where they danced along the water's inner curve. Its dark counterpart beaded with a slurry that dripped into a bucket below. A fly buzzed in lazy circles around its rim until a close by filament snapped out at it in a small arc of lightning. It disappeared into a puff of smoke that was drawn into the viscous sludge coating the dark orb, smoke and all.

That little show never got old.

He'd been meaning to ask her where she'd commissioned one. He wasn't too interested in the water-purifying properties as he was the bug-zapping capacities. It would make ranging in the early summer months both more pleasant and more entertaining.

She passed an arm through the water where it twisted close together but didn't quite meet. The water clung to her skin, sheathing her hand in a thick gauntlet of water. She stopped just shy of her short-sleeved blouse and her entire arm glistened in the early morning light. She repeated with her left, leaving only a thin stream of water to swirl in the air.

He'd queued behind a handful of customers seeking the scallops in the couple short weeks he'd been here. Yet despite their seeming popularity, he'd only found these scallops at Galene's stall. From the cagey way that she'd spoken of them, there must be some secret to finding them. From the gauntlet thickness she used only for the emerald scallops, they must dwell deep where water lay heavy. Even so, it barely inhibited her speed and precision of her skills that had piqued his interest in the first place. However, there was a reason this scallop yet survived. From the way he had seen it move, Hyndall hoped it would give her a bit of a challenge.

Clomping back to the tank, she frowned down at the scallops.

She jabbed one water-gloved hand up into the tank, and the loose cluster of scallops burst apart. A twist of her hip and a crook of her elbow set her hand darting straight for the large scallop only for it jet between her fingers. Galene's left hand speared into the water towards it from the other side but, as if it could feel the movement in the water currents, it jerked away from both hands. In what he suspected was a deliberate act, it careened into its kin to send them scattering, and even Hyndall lost track in the confusion. Clenching her left hand as if to grip the water itself, she swirled her arm sunwise around the tank. The water swirled in sympathetic motion until the scallop wheeled readily into her right hand. She yanked the troublesome quarry from the water and thrust it triumphantly above her head.

Then, a sudden jangle of discordant notes cascaded through his mana core.

They were at once the rising tones of anticipation, the clarion call of challenge, and the exhilarating trills of reward. He swept his gaze across the market along the billow of growing realization that snapped up head after head like wind sleeves gaping south whence the siren song blew. There, a distant mountain—the mountain to the locals—dominated the horizon on a clear day like today, peeking even over the city walls: Mendwhi.

Among the gawkers had been the distinctly broad but squat frames of a couple of dwarves and the buoyant haloes of dark hair typical of Durst-over-the-sea. However, neither were out of place in the keTzhyul empire, let alone in such a busy port. Most who turned had the telltale triangular crinkles of guildsign texturing their Miens, marking them as fellow Guild members. Of the few remaining were older merchants and patrons, locals judging by their chartermarks.

A frisson of excitement rippled through him and he suddenly knew. He had heard and, for a time, believed the tales. Tales varnished into a lurid sheen by generations of storytellers to enchant children and fools. Tales from when his childhood ambitions had not yet caught onto the circumstances of his birth, he would steal away to the Guild hall to listen to the visiting troubadours. There, before an audience of rapt children and nodding grandparents, they would regale them with epics of delvers wandering wondrous worlds and coming back with power to beggar the gods themselves. Blades so keen that reality would cut itself upon them. Truths so brilliant that they cast long shadows into the past, present and future. Magics so sublime that they made the world seem less real.

Johessi the Smitten who stole the hearts of gods until doom fell upon him from the skies. Though the accounts of what befell her was as numerous as the tellings.

Menaereo who used a shard of the Ravening to decapitate the King-beyond-Death on his mountain-throne, creating the plateau on which their eponymous city still stands.

Sedera the Farseer who had studied the magnifying powers of grand water bindings and replicated them in miniature, delighting nearsighted scholars everywhere. Though lenses of water had given way to ones made of crystallized mana, they still bore her name.

Each and every one had heard the undeniable call of adventure draw them to the dungeon that began their legends. Or, so the stories would have him believe. It was only years later when he joined the guild that he could confirm how dastardly effective it was at drawing in new members while also laying bare the kernels of truth. This was a song heard by all who had returned from delving into those cryptic holds of risk and reward.

This was the dungeonsong heralding the birth of a dungeon.

The song's initial trill faded, releasing Hyndall from its irresistible pull. He wrenched his gaze away to see a market exploding into motion. The pair of dwarves were all but bowling people over in their haste ahead of a wedge of delvers. All around him, prospective goods and conversation were discarded with equal abandon as people jockeyed to be first. The first to leave. The first to find the dungeon. The first to plumb its depths.

Why couldn't that be him? He spun around to leave.

"Hyndall! What's going on?" shouted Galene over the ensuing din. The faint quaver in her voice spun him around. He felt a twinge of embarrassment that he had just been about to leave without so much as a farewell. She was looking from the mountain to the different groups of delvers, trying to triangulate what they were seemingly fleeing from. He could not help but laugh but he was impressed with her instincts. She still held his scallop in one hand but her left hand was clenched into a fist surrounded by a whirring disc of water. He'd seen her gut fish and saw through shells with those water blades.

"Don't worry. It's just a new dungeon!" he shouted back, excitedly and she swung a puzzled look his way. "Sorry, Galene, I need to go. Here." He dropped three silvers onto the payment tray as he rounded the stall. "Save that scallop for me for when I get back in a week." He waved and she waved back, less puzzled, before he ran off.

He set aside the childish stories and tried to recall the more grounded rumours about the dungeonsong. If he could hear it, then the newly manifested dungeon was in his level range and it would only be a few days away at a walking pace. So it likely stood on Mendwhi. That meant two things. The first was the chance to avoid the slow-moving bureaucracy of the local claimant of the guild. The second was the titillating promise of achievements for the first to clear the dungeon.

Moreso than any tales of powerful loot, that promise was why he, like the others, was rushing to leave the market. He normally meandered back along the shore for much of the way to avoid the more direct but crowded, narrow streets of the inner port, but he shoved his distaste aside and headed north.

He joined the column of clamouring delvers spearheaded that had followed behind the spearhead of dwarves. Sheepish apologies were all he had to offer as they jostled past the once-orderly queues of patrons that were already scrunched against the cook stalls. A gauntlet of dirty looks, indignant huffs and not undeserved shoves later, he joined the exodus of excited delvers pouring onto the wide, sunlit road.

The wide road started at the wharf and quickly became inundated with goods that had flowed in on the morning's tide. Goods and people, he reflected—the road was not too far from where Hyndall had disembarked off the ship from Glaryss. Hyndall filed behind the others, squeezing between the warehouse walls and a rumbling wagon whose axles groaned with the weight of Nicta's robust economic engine. He sidled past an endless caravan of manalumin sledges set on the shallow runnels carved into the stone road, and wagons pulled by gray-feathered clucking dray-warks on pairs of scaled claws. There was even a hover pallet carrying a single black chest bound with thick bands of scintillating red metal that glided over cushions of lubricated air, dampening wards and the mana of their four well-armed attendants. All were sized to accommodate one of the various recommended configurations of the unremarkable standardized wooden crates.

Most containers bore the seal of the port's authority with a red prickly texture, which must have been today's cipher. A guard at a checkpoint ahead waved at one of the wagons bearing faded blue and grey plaid seals, and it pulled into a turnoff. With the rate at which the foot traffic was moving, perhaps he would have been better off taking his normal route back.

Vehement bellowing drew his attention away from his impatient fuming as he passed by the checkpoint. Sparing a glance inside, he spotted a guard wildly gesticulating at a small unmarked crate on a sledge surrounded by piles of red-sealed crates. If he had to guess, the tensely rigid man being yelled at was being extorted for a bigger bribe.

Soon they left the checkpoint behind them and veered into what a sign called the lower market district. Here, the wagons transformed into a steady stream of porters that ran goods further into the city. It was late enough that the inner streets had once more been closed to wheeled traffic. Bottlenecked no more, the agitated delvers popped through the gate and spread out at a run, some glowing red as they streaked off.

update the walk through the wharf

Hyndall slowed down to get his bearings. He knew vaguely where he was but he had never had cause to visit this district. Scanning the skyline, the only landmark he could see was the Violet Spire but, with the morning sun, he could at least determine the direction of his inn. He set off at a more sedate trot as he recalled what he could from the guildhall map room. As a member in good standing with the guild, Hyndall's first stop in a new city was always the guildhall, and Nicta had been no exception. There he'd queued up for the city delve and visited the guild consulate for a temporary chartermark so as to access the city's public charter spells. Then it had been off to the map room. Even in other cities where the charter gained him access to their wayfinding overlay, his second stop would yet have been the map room because, like an old man, he still preferred orienting himself the old-fashioned way.

Though the map room did have traditional flat maps catalogued in racks set against the walls, the space was dominated by a holographic map hovering over the round, central dais. This map was an essential tool for planning any expedition, but Hyndall also found it useful for getting acquainted with the city. The control array let him inspect the landmarks in areas as small as individual city districts, but it could also be pulled up into a blobby view of the guild's reach across the Known Seas. Each river, hill and valley was rendered in great detail all the way from Nicta's walls to the nearest cities. However, the land's contours blurred into vague impressions towards the northern shores and where the Ctan peninsula met the mainland.

The projected map was an expensive, multi-layered blend of guild artifice and magic that remained irreplicable despite the best efforts of nations and schools. He'd attended a scouting seminar hosted by the lead surveyor for the west keTzhyul region who'd claimed that the maps could not exist with contributions like hers. He suspected that claim would be disputed by the cartographers, ciphermancers, mana weavers, and crystal artisans required in its construction. While it wasn't strictly false, neither high-quality flat maps nor skilled surveyors were exclusive to the guild. Nor was access to the map room, as the guild offered public visiting hours. However, the guild valued the map data enough to earn the Durst Technical College a highly publicized ban for overtly replicating the crystallized mana plates that housed it.

The most notable feature of the city had been streets resembling nothing more than three meshes messily mushed together. Portmain and its tributaries ran parallel to the shoreline. Craftsmain and its derivatives also ran parallel to the shore, but the one further north after it curved away from the deeps of the port. Marketmain, meanwhile, branched out in a third direction to the east. The three grids joined together to create those odd, angular spaces that were anathema to conventional urban planning: the Capital District.

He thought he'd gotten quite adept at using the controls to plot paths using visual landmarks and resonance patterns of the larger thoroughfares. However, it took him a bit to puzzle out a route through the haphazard patchwork of streets in that interstitial district to the third stop and his current destination: a B-rank inn from the guild's much-vaunted Local Lodging List.

As soon as his delving profits had been able to bear the cost, he'd moved up from their budget list and quickly discovered B-ranks to be just as good as A-ranks while costing only half the silver. It was an open secret that they were being enticed with a 'guild discount' in order to earn more reviews with the added benefit of boosting their cost ratings until they ranked up. Of course, the discount would then go away, but by then their other scores would be high enough to keep their rank even with the losses to their cost score. The guild didn't encourage this behaviour but neither did they expressly forbid it seeing as they got their promotion fee either way. So, without any loss in confidence or oversight, they overlooked it. Hyndall, for his part, was happy to play the stooge so long as all the other scores were on the level.

He'd been drawn to the quiet, two-floor establishment in the Capital District by the budget-tier food and lodging cost scores. But it was the close proximity to a bathhouse which he could access with only his temporary chartermark that really sold him. All this despite the warning of an overly-talkative owner.

Based on his recollection, he'd need to head down Craftsmain away from the mountain, turn two streets past the caryatids of the Dueling Sages at the Sky Forum, and work his way towards the Sun Spire until he found the pillar carved into the likeness of a 'tiny man with a giant beard and the biggest, pointiest hat you'll ever see.'

He reached for the mana patterns woven into the fabric of the city and sifted through them until he felt the three long patterns of the main streets. He found the one nearby textured with heavy bumps which would be Craftsmain. With a path clear in his mind, he broke into a run.

His leather soles barely touched the cobbled streets as he put the full weight of his faith in his Stable Footing. In his near-ankle-twisting experience, cities were a blend of the surrounding biome and wherever the stones underfoot had come from. Nicta wasn't full of itself enough to import material from far away, so his proficiency with temperate forests was serving him well.

It was that sliver of the sun's ascent when the dray-warks hauling in goods were prohibited but their spoor had not yet been swept up into the dung-barrows. Hyndall hurdled over steaming green clods and dried brown smears as he wove through the wide berths between bewildered walkers. If muck were a biome, then he must've made enough proficiency gains for the first tier. But in the absence of any existential notifications, Hyndall had time to stew.

He'd started by crafting uncharitable epithets, with such a fecund source of inspiration so close by. It was probably unfair of him to expect the sweepers to get everything as soon as the last of the large birds had evacuated, but it took them days to collect the waste from all but the main streets. Were he running the city, he'd be keen on revisiting the contract held by the scavengers. Chances were that the streets used most by those with any pull were kept the cleanest, but, even if corruption was not to blame, perhaps the city had outgrown the terms of the contract. The Nictan crew was split between the sweepers that pushed their barrows to the transfer station outside the walls and the wagoners delivering it to the farms further out. His route to the forest in the east took him past the station on Marketmain and wagons trailing a fragrant dusty haze that emptied out the driest of the middens by the time he returned in the evenings.

He'd thought nothing of that plume at first but quickly gathered a lot of thoughts after the first whiff sent him running upwind of the payload and the wagoner's cackling laughter. He'd taken to wearing his neckerchief with the best self-cleansing enchantment but the smell still lingered. He was extra thankful for the bathhouse those days.

It made sense that they only delivered the dry stuff, but understanding why things were a certain way didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

It also did not stop him from calling them "poo poo heads".

come up with a clever insult to replace "poo poo heads"

He passed the twin statues framing the grand entrance of the forum. Carved from a dark green stone, they stood thrice his height and faced each other as they launched attacks that melded into the frieze balanced on their heads.

He'd visited them one night to admire the statues' depiction of what was their final duel. The sages had declared it a draw after trading blows and the bas-reliefs above them depicted their ensuing dungeon delving exploits. Daryin's long, flowing robes had been masterfully rendered as if the stone itself was draped in cloth while his signature fireball roared with enchanted flame over his opponent's head. Meanwhile, every link of Nema-Te's chainmail had been painstakingly carved in stone as she swung a flail whose head crackled with cyan lightning above Daryin's. It was a little much but still very much enjoyed by that little boy that had shown up early for the troubadour shows.

"Coming through!"

A red blur barrelled past, spinning him around as he reached for his absent bow before he registered the words. Hyndall watched the red-limned buffoon Charge through a pile of droppings, smearing it across the cobblestones and narrowly avoiding doing the same to an old couple.

"Codswoggling plakt!" hollered the tiny woman after him. She raised her wooden staff which thrummed with a premonition of violence, a well of puissant energy gathered within its crook, so dense as to appear black. From within that darkness, a slit lazily cracked open to peer into a mercurial web of crackling azure lightning. Then a second peeked at undulating waves of white incandescence crashing against a field of spindly red flames. A profusion of overlapping glimpses fluttered open, each occluding the others, until her staff bristled with an eye-watering riot of colour, texture and power.

"You're safe," said the old man, almost too softly for him to hear, rubbing the small of the woman's back. The power she'd been gathering winked out. "He's not worth the headache or the indigestion."

Her shoulders slumped and she sagged against her staff. "You're right, dear. It's just that bilge-swilling dungeon rats shou-" she cut herself short and straightened up. "I'll just report him."

Other passersby had turned to watch the man's near escape from uncertain death, no doubt to report him through their chartermarks as well. He had a moment of doubt but it quickly passed and he inspected the delver before he got too far to submit a useful report. All it would take was one idiot left unchecked for people to sour on delvers so he had an obligation to his fellow guild mates. One bad nana spoils the bunch and all that.

Despite that, Hyndall didn't know if the report would accomplish anything of substance, let alone stop the reckless delver from trampling over some poor sod. He might have his chartermark revoked with enough reported incidents, but delvers rarely stuck around long enough for that to matter. Perhaps if there was an empire-wide system or if the guild cared enough, but a system at that scale would be readily abused. The most he realistically hoped for was that it would take hours to scrub the muck.

Performative responsibilities performed, he set off again towards the inn at a slower, self-conscious pace.

This feeling was not shared by the handful of guildsigns running approaching at full tilt in their full gear, at least one still doing up his straps.

Most looked to be dressed lightly for the temperate forest biome of the city delve or their steps looked too light to be weighed down by many provisions. Imbued equipment could account for some of their impractical fashion choices, but nobody his level would be caught running around with that sort of vanity armor. Though dimensional storage made it difficult to tell at a glance how much people were carrying, it didn't magically make things weigh less.

Since the dungeon could be done in a few days by most competent parties and the food was edible, lazier delvers ended up packing light. If the true competition started when they reached the gate, then this boded well for him.

On the scales of happenstance, Pux was yet smiling upon him from wherever dead gods go. Not two days ago, he'd been the first to respond to a posting from a group looking for a replacement in their two-slot. They were queued up to go next so yesterday had been a scramble to provision his bags for a week in the dungeon. He hadn't relinquished his original slot, despite it being a single-veto matchmade party, so he'd doubled up on the non-perishables. Maybe he could have optimized his selection after the first delve, but this saved him a trip.

That reminded him.

He took a smoky yellow, eyeball-sized sphere from his jacket pocket and gently squeezed it as he pushed mana into the Speech Bauble. He started verbalizing his message and felt the acoustic nodes resonate with each shift in pitch and tone. He dictated a suitably apologetic note on the way on the way—offering "a regret so profound that each step would be made heavier by soul-crushing guilt." Although, he knew the leader of the expedition would herself be scrambling to leave for the dungeon, it would have been rude to not leave a melodramatic note.

He'd finished ciphering when he spotted the familiar conic tip of a bronze hat. He swerved towards the base of the statue so that he could rub the polished fringes of its bushy beard. He was in the minority judging by how burnished its bronze bits were. The slope of its hat was probably the most touched with its baldest nose coming in second. Even the floppy brim of its hat was shinier than its beard.

He stepped into The Gold Hat, nodded at Jhasz, the innkeeper, and headed to the stairs. He took two steps at a time up to the lodging floor and squeezed past another delver in the hall before he got to his room. He unsealed the door to his room with a quick activation of his key seal and pocketed the sealing bolt.

The room had been a little more expensive than he had been expecting but he'd be hard-pressed to lodge any complaints. It was only big enough for a bed, desk, chair and chest—which, in his opinion, was about all anybody needed in a bedroom—but it had afforded him privacy, competent noise-dampening enchantments and a view of Mendwhi. He'd have to remember to leave a good rating at the guild upon his return. He packed his sundries and swept the room twice before allowing himself a moment to enjoy the absence of the pervasive shrieks of gulls.

After testing that the door had locked behind him, he headed downstairs to check out.

The delver he'd passed was already gone but Jhasz awaited him at the counter. "I reckoned I'd be checking you out too." The innkeeper pushed a rectangular wooden coin tray across the counter.

Hyndall placed the bolt from his room onto the tray and pushed it back. "A lot of people leave already?"

The innkeeper picked up the bolt and peered at it over his farseers. "You're the fourth in ten minutes." He snapped his head up to fix Hyndall with an intense gaze. "That's what you get for insisting on catching your brekkie elsewhere."

When he grunted, the innkeeper broke into a wide grin. He slipped the bolt into his apron and pulled out a silver coin, sliding it forward on the tray.

While Hyndall's breakfast run hadn't set him back as much as he'd expected, his gurgling stomach reminded him he had yet to eat. He'd He moved to take back the deposit but paused, his hand hovering over the coin. "Do you have any breakfast I can take on the road?"

"You'll be wanting the oatcakes and hard cheese. We've still got some of the mutton from last night—cold though."

That sounded adequate. "That sounds perfect. How much for one?"

"One silver," said the innkeeper without skipping a beat.

Hyndall glanced down at the tray then back up at the beatifically beaming innkeeper. "Alright, let's have it."

"One traveler's special," he shouted in the direction of the kitchen. He pulled back the money tray and made the silver disappear.

"I also need to run a message to the guild hall." Hyndall held up the speech bauble he'd recorded on the way.

"Oh!" The innkeeper tapped his temple and pointed at him. "One of Ludia's squabs ran a message here for one 'Heimdall'. I reckon that's you." He pulled a pulsing yellow sphere from a cubby with the number twelve and slid it over on the tray.

Hyndall picked it up and the pulse smoothed out into a steady yellow glow as it resonated with his identity seal. Deciphering enough to feel the signing-seal, he could tell that it was the expedition leader. He slipped both baubles into his coat pocket "My thanks. I suppose I don't need to run a message after all."

A young boy half his height ran out of the kitchen carrying with both hands a package wrapped in dark green leaf and tied with rough twine. He looked over to the innkeeper who thrust his chin out at Hyndall. The child stepped forward, bashfully offering up the traveler's special which Hyndall graciously accepted with exaggerated gratitude. The leaves were waxy to the touch with widely-spaced veins—nana leaves, if he wasn't mistaken. He hefted the parcel and felt better about the silver.

The innkeeper looked down, quirking his lips into a slight smile, and dipped his head back toward the kitchen. The young courier beamed up with his father's big-cheeked smile and scampered away. The innkeeper looked down, quirking his lips into a slight smile, and dipped his head back toward the kitchen. The young courier scampered away beaming.

"If that's everything," said Hyndall, taking a step toward the door.

"That's everything," said the innkeeper, waving. "Pux smile on your delve."

"Yours too." He waved back, pushed open the exit and immediately felt a twinge of embarrassment as he jogged off.

He fed a sliver of mana into the bauble to decipher it with his identity seal. <Dear...> The greeting came out flat and muffled as the acoustic nodes replicated her voice, followed by a strangely long pause. Then his name tumbled out, breathy and hurried followed. Yet another pause lead into the long, composed expression of her deepest remorse. How <this irrevocable sorrow will chafe at my soul with every waking breath, dimming joy and robbing every achievement of meaning.>

Somehow, despite his swiftness, the expedition lead had already left him a standardized form message. She was irritatingly good and Hyndall had no doubt that run would have been the smoothest he'd ever done. Fresh dungeons were harder to come by, and it sounded like she had already abandoned their slot in the queue. Plus, he had kept his original slot so he was still on track to progress the ketZyhul track of his Guild certification.

Barely a half hour had passed since the market by the time he made the last turn onto Capital Way. Ahead of him rose the double belfries atop the two semi-circular towers that flanked the large single-arch gate. It wasn't long after that he joined the long string of like-minded prospectors out the gate being pulled to the song's source.

Mendwhi.