Baby Rattle?

Stepping forward, I knelt down to look at what he discovered. Of all things, it was a baby rattle. Somehow, in this weird, impossible place, we found a very old metal baby rattle with the faded image of a lion painted onto it. I reached to pick it up and felt the tug of Essence Refinement activate..

Once my fingers brushed the rattle, it began to dissolve, leaving behind a single tiny memory jewel instead.. I used refinement to absorb it and briefly lost myself in a vision…

My mother's arms held me, making me feel small once more. She smiled at me and handed me my favorite rattle. She was crying, and I shook my rattle at her, hoping to cheer her up with my favorite noise. She was telling me a funny sound too: "shush…hush now...shhh," she urged, kissing my forehead.

I giggled at her face and the silly sounds she was making. I heard a scary man's voice say, "In here!". It scared me. I looked over at the door at the same time as Mother, and she said, "No! Stay away from us!" I was confused. That wasn't daddy. Who is this man, Mommy? Why are you screaming?

As the memory released me, I sat on the damp stone floor. Hamish asked me what was wrong, so I shared with him what I saw.

I felt suffocated, the ending of that vision is not something I want transcribed to this memory jewel for others to experience. So dear historian, I will only say that I described those last moments to Hamish, and he frowned deeply at my words.

"So… that's something that happened here, in this room?"

I nodded, "Yeah. I think so. An unthinkable evil occurred in this dungeon long ago.

Each of us lost ourselves in our own thoughts for a few moments, remembering the fallen, and then we continued our exploration, feeling much more subdued.

The soft glow of bioluminescent fungi cast long shadows along the walls of the cavern. The silent tingle of mana coursing through the crystalline veins gave the place an almost living presence, as if the dungeon was breathing. I sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, my fingers tracing the delicate carvings of a mana-infused crystal I had collected.

The air smelled of damp earth and musty fungus, mingled with something sour. Something had drained life from the stone and wood, leaving them brittle and corrupted. Hamish leaned against a jagged pillar nearby, his new leather armor creaking slightly as he adjusted his weight.

The light from the fungi highlighted the worn scars on his blade, and his gaze kept darting between me and the cavern's shadows, as if half-expecting another ambush. The jagged kobold blade hung loosely in his hand, still streaked with the residue of our last battle. He watched me with curious eyes, his brow furrowed.

"Robbie," he began, breaking the silence, "what're you up to now? Medicating' over shiny rocks? I know it was a bad trip you went on, but we gotta keep moving."

I glanced up, a smile tugging at my lips. 'Not meditating, Hamish. Planning. This dagger's a relic at best. If we're going to keep going, we need something better—a proper weapon.'

Hamish snorted. "Aye, that'd be nice. But unless you've got a blacksmith tucked away in that magical inventory of yours, I don't see how you're planning' to forge one."

I held up the crystal, its glow illuminating my face. "Who needs a blacksmith when you've got magic?"

Moira's voice chimed in, rich with amusement. "Now you're thinking like a caster, Robert. Shall we make something truly extraordinary?"

Hamish groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Oh, here we go. What's she whispering' this time? More sparks and spells?"

I grinned, setting the crystal down and pulling a chunk of dense granite from my inventory. "No sparks this time, just a bit of ingenuity. And maybe some luck."

Hamish crossed his arms, skepticism written all over his face. 'What're you planning', Robbie? That doesn't look like the kind of rock that wins battles." I laid out the granite, radiant crystal shards, and kobold wood in front of me. "Trust me, Hamish. Everything here has a purpose." The makeshift workbench glowed in the fungi's light, an impromptu smithy in the heart of the dungeon.

I closed my eyes, letting the flow of magic rise, a warmth that pulsed like a second heartbeat. The mana felt alive, like it had its own purpose, guiding my hands as I shaped the materials before me. This wasn't just crafting; it was creation, a melding of instinct and will. Golden threads of Moira's magic shimmered along my arms, syncing with my heartbeat.

"First," Moira instructed, her voice both soothing and precise, "you'll need to shape the granite. Use Earth Manipulation to carve it into something... formidable."

I nodded, extending my hand over the granite. I imagined the dense rock yielding to my will, its surface softening like clay under my touch. The stone began to shift, its rough edges smoothing as it elongated into a sleek, club-like shape. The crystal shards floated into the air, their glow intensifying as they embedded themselves into the granite, forming a pattern of jagged veins.

"So far, so good," I murmured, exhaling slowly as the effort left a slight sheen of sweat on my brow.

"Not bad, caster," Moira said, her tone teasing. "But let's not stop there. Infuse it with your magic—let the crystals amplify its power."

Focusing again, I channeled my mana into the shillelagh. The crystals pulsed in response, their light spreading through the weapon like veins of molten gold. The process was taxing, my mana reserves dipping dangerously low, but I pressed on, pouring my intent into the creation.

A grin spread across my face as the results took shape. I lifted the shillelagh, its surface smooth and cold, yet swollen with latent energy. The weapon felt balanced in my hand, its weight perfect for both close combat and spellcasting.

Moira's voice was filled with approval. "Now that is a weapon worthy of a caster. You've outdone yourself, Robert."

Hamish pushed off the pillar, eyeing the shillelagh with a mixture of awe and envy. "That's a fine bit of work, Robbie. But what's it do, other than look pretty?"

I smiled excitedly, twirling the weapon experimentally. "Let's find out."

I swung the shillelagh at a nearby stalagmite, channeling a burst of mana into the strike. I felt the mana flow smoothly into my new stone weapon, and I could feel the earth's magic that created it gather and amplify the force I instilled in it..

I struck it firmly with all my strength.

The impact sent a ripple of golden energy through the stone, shattering it into a cascade of dust and debris. Hamish whistled low, leaning slightly on his blade. 'Well, Robbie, if that isn't a proper caster's hammer, I don't know what is!'

"Bonks and magic," I said with joy, "What more could you want?"

As I admired my new creation, I glanced at Hamish. He had grown quiet, his eyes narrowing in concentration. The spark of magic Moira had granted him still thrummed within his chest, a steady warmth blending uneasily with the familiar ache of old battle scars, his focus sharpening with each breath. Memories of past battles, gritty, desperate fights where brute strength was all he had, flashed in his mind. Now, that warmth carried a strange reassurance, as if offering him something he'd never had before: an edge beyond steel.

"Hamish," Moira's voice broke through his thoughts, calm and insistent. "You've only begun to explore your full potential. Albion's magic isn't just strength; it's instinct and will. Experiment. Find your edge."

Hamish opened one eye, scowling. "Experiment how, exactly? You two keep talking about magic as if it's a recipe.

Think of it more like instinct," Moira said. Warden, the foundation of your class is resilience and support. Try focusing on that."

Grumbling under his breath, Hamish stood and gripped the jagged kobold blade in both hands. He closed his eyes, imagining the kind of shield he'd needed in countless battles before, a defense that wouldn't falter. The warmth in his chest swelled, spreading outward until a bright golden shimmer enveloped his form. It wasn't steel or stone, but it felt just as solid.

Hamish's eyes widened as the sensation took hold. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, flexing his arms. "Feels like I could take hits from a bleedin batterin' ram."

Encouraged, he turned his attention to his weapon.

He swung it overhead, then smoothly rotated it to pull it around himself in a horizontal, powerful slash.visualized each strike landing with fierce impact. The jagged blade glimmered as he executed a seamless double strike, the energy coursing through him making each movement fluid and deliberate. With a wide arc, the blade glimmered, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next, one of the moves he must have learned since taking up the abilities of a Warden. 

Hamish grinned, his confidence growing with each successful attempt. "This magic business isn't half bad," he said, pausing to catch his breath. "Feels like I've got a bit o' my youth back... though I could do without the sweatin'."

I chuckled, leaning on my shillelagh. "Welcome to the club." I thought about magic and how it's enhancing Hamish's fighting prowess. "You know, usually people think of magic as just spells and fancy effects... While that's true too, I never really thought of it as a way to enhance someone's physical abilities. It makes sense if you think about it." Hamish agreed. "I agree with' you there. The sensation of WD-40 spritzing my old joints is truly magical. "I smiled at his words, suddenly picturing him as the Tin Man from an old movie from the early 1900s. I mimicked the voice at Hamish, saying, "Oil can. Oil CAN!CAN!" We laughed heartily, a rare sound that lifted both of our spirits.

The dungeon had tested us, pushed us to our limits, but it had also whispered secrets through its glowing walls and trembling ground. Yet, cracks in the stone bore unnatural blackened veins, pulsing with an ominous light. The veins twisted and coiled like living tendrils, spreading their corruption outward and staining the surrounding stone. The air near them carried a faint, sickly warmth, as if the Warlock's influence still breathed through these ancient walls.

The warlock's corruption still lingered, tainting everything it touched. Each step deeper felt like peeling back layers of its purpose. I could feel the oppressive corruption growing thicker as we marched on, and we kept our weapons ready. As Hamish flexed his newfound strength and I gripped the shillelagh, I couldn't help but feel the dungeon watching, waiting for us to prove ourselves or fall victim to its malevolent intent. I was getting a bit tired of the dank smells and rat shit littering these halls as well.

This place wasn't always a dungeon, though. I could almost picture it as a grand fortress, its halls echoing with the voices of a proud clan. "Moira," I asked, my voice breaking the silence, "Can you tell me more about this place? How well did you know the people who lived here?" I thought again of the child's last memory. 

Her voice came softly, almost wistfully. "I knew them very well. This was once the stronghold of a clan I called ally, but I saw them as family. They were a powerful people, strong in both magic and faith. We stood together through some of Albion's darkest days. Their name is Clan Lamont." The name caused an emotional stir in me—a proud name. 

I glanced at the crumbling walls, their faded carvings barely visible, marred by dark streaks from the vile magics that had seeped into the stone, twisting its original craftsmanship. "What happened to them?"

There was a pause, as though the memory pained her. "Through treachery, they fell. The armies of a wicked warlock, consisting of the undead and corrupted beings, overran them. Clan Lamont's strength was insufficient to save them from the darkness. Some of them may have escaped, but it is not likely."

Hamish muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Bloody shame. Sounds like they didn't stand a chance."

I pressed for more, but Moira's voice had gone silent, retreating into her own thoughts. Her silence hung heavy in the air, like the echo of a song unfinished. "Hope you fine men are ready," Moira said. "The final guardian is waiting for you."