[Ker'Leor, Zindalyi Lyba]
A rough chunk of stone rises from the floor as though it grew from the mountains themselves. Closer inspection reveals careful chiseling and subtle carving to create a flat-topped altar. This part of the tunnel is hushed, the stone floor clean, the walls spotless, but thrums with power. Someone -- or something -- keeps the altar in good repair. Small bits of bone and feathers are arranged behind the altar, holding meaning known only to those who laid them there.
You also see a black picnic cloth with the image of a grinning fox with several things on it and a crisp white linen cloth with several things on it.
Obvious exits: southeast, southwest.


Stowing away his cleaning rag, he takes a moment to look over the Altar, breathing in the ambiance of silence that quiets his mind. Settling himself into his reason for the trek north.

Closing his eyes, willing himself to draw deeper into his stillness, he reaches out to lay a palm upon the surface of the cold stone…

>>“What did you call me”.... the anger and sharpness of the Mages voice in his mind breaks his solitude.

Evidence of his distaste breaks free from his solemn expression….

>>“Sorcerer!”

Opening his eyes and gazing out in submission to his own anger, failure is evident in his thoughts on the Grove Keeper encounter. Willing the memory from his mind, not yet ready to succumb to a defeat.

Almost pleading to the stone Altar for validation…..

>>“Those mages grow too strong, delving into mysteries that should lay dormant” he mutters to no one but the emptiness surrounding him

Retrieving an object from his carry all, he looks over the form of the broken lock, expressionless to its mystery….

>>“Oh how the gwethdesuan is filled with calls for these pieces.”

>>“They toy with these objects like children reaching into a fire!”

>>“Wisdom and respect give way to a growing power of ignorance amongst them, curiosity is the mana of the foolish.

>>“An Offering to you mistress”...


Placing the bloodlock upon the altar, low mumbled chanting filled the chamber…

Continuing his incantations he draws fourth a small dagger, wrestling it down across his other open palm. With a deliberate slow stroke the skin parts either side of the razor sharp blade, parting into the steel and when finished an open gash filling with blood pools and starts to seep across his hand.

Now with his arm outstretched over the mechanism seated on top of the altar he balls his fist, allowing a few drops of blood to drip down onto it.

>>“They place to much faith in tomes and the unknown, and not enough in faith and blood”



His eyes close and his muscles relax for a few moments.....



Memories of the day spent visiting the Trabe Plateau gathering fill his mind, what was viewed by most as an innocent pslm in motion, intriguing and poetic, the Shamans dance was gazed at by him as a violation, unfamiliar and foreign.

Drawing a piece of silk cloth in one hand and without so much as the obvious movements, the other hand wields his most prized instrument in the other…..

Smirking...

>>“So many souls you have released” gazing admirably toward his knife

appraising the blood stained blade, the metals shine cloaked in a crimson hue, congealed but not yet dry to the touch.

Wiping the blood clean from the blade, restoring the shine……

>>“"What did you do, Rifkinn? She may have been our only hope."

>>“That was a stupid, hasty action..."

And one more echo…. from the slain Nomad, so wrapped up in her trance, her spirit yet to recognize how the Olvi’s blade has torn it from her mortal self….

>>"The Spirits, oh how they rage!"

He completes his mind's venture to the past with the words he directed to the Moon Mage who invited the Shaman to the gathering

>>"You brought this."....

Opening his eyes once again to bring himself to the present, and looking down to the blood soak cloth……

>>“One more offering Mistress…. This one not of failure, but of retribution"….

Placing the blood soaked cloth on the Altar he draws out his lighter and sets the cloth ablaze….

Flaring light erupts around the cavern, stretching his shadow out from behind him, seemingly to metaphor his own sense of righteousness as the flames flair to engulf the cloth. And then fade as the last pieces of ash are swept up in the whirling heat.

As once more darkness paints the walls and surrounds….

>>“Mistress of Darkness”
>>“Your servant calls you”
>>“Turn your gaze to these fools”
>>“Confound their inquisitive minds”
>>“Halt their progression”
>>“Reveal to them that in you, lies their answers”
>>“And smite those who deny you”

He pauses…. feeling his anger and malice strengthening him…

>>“Steel my resolve”
>>“Quicken my strike”
>>“Guide my blade to the very centre of their arrogance”


Arms now outstretched, empowering himself on his own determination, he breathes in heavy breaths, seeming to drink in the atmosphere his own prayer has created, feeding.

Once more the quiet of the cavern settles, cloaking the brief cry for guidance and retribution.

Only now the smell of burnt cloth and blood remain in the air from the Olvi’s Mass.

Steadying his breathing, mindful of the blood now rushing from his heart to fill every extremity, he sets about calming himself.

Reaching out a last time to the altar, a reverent acknowledgment of his trust and faith…

The Olvi turns and starts to make his way from the tunnel.

Stopping before he exits, he turns back, his demeanor now changed from that in which he entered..

>>“Oh… Marssi says hi”

Grinning toward the emptiness of the tunnel, he winks to nothing and turns to continue outward.