Bright sunlight crested trees, golden rays piercing through leaves to strike a bent back. The rustle of soil being upturned broke the clearing’s relative silence. Relative silence, because the woods surrounding the clearing were alive with the sound of birds chirping, distant beasts roaring, and the rustling sound of a constant wind through the leaves. Sunlight and shifting bows cast emerald shadows across the grass, keeping the air cool and refreshing.
For once, Calamvor was grateful for the cool breeze. Down south, he wouldn’t have stepped outside during the height of summer to work on his garden. Even if he did, he certainly would have been doing the work with his magic rather than being elbow deep in soft earth. The work was a calming force on an otherwise overworked and burdened mind. So far from his family, adopted and otherwise, loneliness had become a constant war.
One dirty hand reached for a pouch set off to the side, withdrawing with a seed clenched between three fingers. With gentle care, Calamvor placed the seed in the earth before turning the soil over. He was almost done with this part, and then he could continue his experiments. Not that his garden wasn’t one as well, it had simply become more as he had progressed in his mission. The Archmage rose to his feet, knees creaking ominously as he did so.
“Getting old,” he muttered with a grimace. Even his voice sounded more raspy than it had five years ago. Natalia would turn eighteen in a couple of months and graduate from Primaris Scholarum shortly after. And he would miss all of it. The call burned in the back of his mind, an itch that could never be sated. He could disobey it, of course, turn his back on Krat’Imos and cease being his High Architect. He wouldn’t do it. The cost was simply too great.
The gods had shown him the end of the world, or at least, the end that they had been keeping locked away. An ever-growing cancer at the farthest point of the Far North Reaches. Sighing, Calamvor turned his face toward the sky and let the wind tussle his long, grey-white hair. The shadows of emerald leaves danced across his closed lids. He breathed deeply of the northern air, noting the chill bite to it, how it filled his lungs with refreshment and cooled his brow when the wind blew.
He let it wash away the nightmarish scenes he had witnessed, let it blow away his doubts as to his purpose here. He would do his duty, and in doing so, he would protect his adopted granddaughter and his two closest friends, as well as the rest of the mortal lands to the south. Not only would he keep them safe, but he would be the first to do what every other Archmage and Architect had failed to do. Craft a dungeon core.
There had always been attempts, ones that the gods had ruthlessly squashed. It was a sign of their desperation that they had requested this of him. He didn’t know why they couldn’t do so themselves. Lord Krat’Imos himself should have been able to do so easily. The only reason he could think of was that they wanted a dungeon core without a soul. An easily controlled weapon to spawn monsters capable of holding the line against the abominations seeking to devour the world.
Besides, if one could be created, what was to stop more of them from being created? Several of them along the border, and you had the recipe for a living wall, a vibrant defense against the darkness. Cultivate them well, and all they would need is Aether to spawn their creatures, and the conflict would do the rest.
“Enough ruminating, Calamvor,” he muttered to himself, “Let’s get back to work.” With a couple of flicks of his fingers, he weaved a small Working to help the new plants grow before turning to his house. It was modest compared to his estates down south, but Calamvor wasn’t blind to the fact that the cabin before him would be considered a mansion by any other person’s metric. He took the steps up to the double doors in front before stepping inside.
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Different paintings graced the foyer area, graceful images of natural beauty that his eyes took in with appreciation as he passed them by. Walking to the right, he turned into the kitchen, where fine wooden cabinetry and swirling marble countertops provided a pleasing space to make food. With a grumble, his stomach protested his lack of breakfast, and Calamvor gave in. His fingers danced as his magic bent space to bring fresh materials to him.
His servants down south continued to do their job, placing fresh ingredients within a special spatial device he had set up before leaving. He sent up a prayer of thankfulness for their diligence, as well as one for their well-being, before making himself a sandwich. So many of his noble acquaintances needed fancy meals, but Calamvor had always enjoyed a good sandwich. Perhaps that was his old adventuring lifestyle speaking, but simple things made the world turn, no matter the magic used in its procurement.
Wiping a bit of spicy sauce from his mouth with his thumb, Calamvor sucked on it, relishing the zesty flavors of home, even as he made his way down the stairs and into the basement. It was here that the actual work was being done. Large and spacious, the main basement room was uncluttered other than a few scorch marks and some ritual lines. Magical runes helped to vent any fumes, and he was always present to clear the Aether from the area if a ritual went wrong. From there, his long legs took him down a sloping tunnel to where his laboratories were located.
Runes of silence prevented him from hearing the sounds of squeaking coming from the room a couple of tunnels down the way. His test subjects were raucous beasts, and he had needed to runes to protect his sanity as he went over his Aetheric Mathematics. His laboratory welcomed him like an old friend, silently beckoning him to complete his latest work. An emerald-like gemstone shone from where it lay propped up on a low pedestal.
Calamvor frowned as he took it in. It was the core of a monstrified Dryad. Dryads were a species of elementals that formed a symbiotic relationship with their host trees. When the said tree was damaged or cut down, the pain would often create the ideal factors of torturous pain capable of transforming it into a monster. Such was the case with the core he had been using. The problem was that its psyche was still somewhat attached.
While that wasn’t a deal breaker, the psyche being more like an imprint or echo left behind by the Spark when it returned to the Maker after death, it made it difficult to etch the proper runework. The echo fought the parts that didn’t fit its nature. While certain aspects of a dungeon core, such as growth, absorption of Aether, and the like, were suitable for the Dryad’s former nature, other factors weren’t.
Calamvor sighed and attempted to make things work, only to toss down his tools in disgust an hour or two later. It was no use. The core was a bust. He would have to try something else. Something more out of the box might prompt an epiphany. Calamvor hummed as he stepped out into the tunnel system. He would have to go into the forest to find a proper specimen, and he would need to finish the pond, but that wouldn’t take more than a couple of days.
The Archmage let those thoughts go and looked around at the underground labyrinth he had created, and let himself dream of the possibility of success for a moment. This place would make a good foundation, these labyrinthian halls. If it worked and he succeeded in his task, odds are the gods would request constant surveillance of the first success. “Hmm, perhaps I should prepare things in advance. Some gifts for the boy… young dungeon, should I succeed.”
Calamvor sighed again at the slip-up. Even after all these years, his desire to have a child, a true heir, was hard to dismiss. He thought he had released it completely. Believed he had set it aside. He loved Natalia and her parents with all his heart, but old dreams don’t really die. They slumber. And Calamvor was afraid this one was beginning to wake up. What would the gods do if they found him trying to create a real, living, and sapient dungeon core? Calamvor didn’t know, but his mind had begun to race with thoughts and ideas, things that would impact the world far more than he could ever have known.
