Names.

“It’s time, Merchant’s Son.”

It was such an impersonal name, but one he had carried since birth. He rarely heard it in the ordinary course of his life, but today was special.

He slowly lifted his head from the pitted gray stone by his crossed legs. In front of him was a simple altar of the same stone--more of a plaque really--with letters carved into it that were faded with age. The candle flames before the altar danced, making it hard to see as he looked to the back of the room, where a grizzled man stood by an open doorway. He was dressed in ill-fitting robes, and the words Father Gavrel-Adept Preacher were written over his head in spectral green. That had become easy to ignore as the boy had gotten older--every person he knew had their Name and title emblazoned in the space above them.

The dim interior of the stone temple, a stark contrast to the blazing sun outside, should have kept him from sweating, but he felt the persipiration trickle down the back of his neck, making the thin cloth of his tunic stick to his skin. He had spent hours in this place, praying and meditating before taking the last step into adulthood.

Slowly, body protesting after long inactivity, he rose.

Nervous tremors shook his limbs as he took a step forward. What title will I get? He had tried hard over the past few years to think of himself as a warrior, a leader, anybody with power. No matter that Father Gavrel had told all of the children in his congregation many times that the decisions of Nomenadon were made at birth, and that this day would only allow his mortal servants to see his names for their young. He knew others that believed differently, who said that the god granted names based on the character of the young people who received them. Those same people said that he was worthless, and today he would be revealed as such. No.

“Come now, hurry. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

The voice cut through the young man's increasingly frantic thoughts. Almost instantly, he felt relaxed, and began to walk more quickly. The Father had used an ability on him, Soothe maybe, or some other skill. Preachers specialized in influencing their followers, after all, and he had no way of detecting or resisting the man's abilities. Not yet.

The doorway, cut into the far wall of the temple, seemed to open into pure darkness. Merchant’s Son stepped inside and Father Gavrel followed, closing the door and leaving them both blind. The grizzled man sighed.

“Continue into the darkness to find the light within yourself.”

The Father's voice had a bored tone, but then he didn't care much about the ritual or its subject. The boy had always been intimidated by Father Gavrel, ever since he was a child. The Preacher had always seemed like he would be more at home in a smithy or workshop than in the temple, with his hulking frame and long, grizzled beard. But his most daunting feature was the word in front of his title. Adept. There were few other people in the city with a rank that high, even if it wasn't a combat title. One day, the boy--soon to be a young man--was determined to be one of those people. I'll go even higher. I need to.

He continued his forward march, never looking back. He felt the anger, the despair, and the fear melt away into the darkness, leaving him alone with his mind. From what seemed a long distance away, Father Gavrel began an invocation to Nomenadon, but the words were already too indistinct to hear. The darkness around him seemed to press on him, forcing his awareness inwards. As he continued, the sound of the priest’s chanting, of his own footsteps, faded entirely, until he couldn't hear so much as his own heartbeat. Then, out of the silence came a whisper.

Who are you?

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to tell me?” He muttered to himself. And felt a chill creep up his back. Though he knew he had spoken aloud, no sound reached his ears. What is this?

In truth, he had no knowledge of this process--no one did. Even the priests of Nomenadon relied on a secondhand account, supposedly given by the agents of the god, to explain the ritual. But that explanation was heavy on metaphors and flowery language and light on hard facts. ‘Finding the light within himself’ did not sound feasible. Wasn’t the body dark on the inside? If there were some arcane light shining within all people, he would he would have read more accounts of people glowing for no apparent reason. Stop making stupid jokes and focus.

Listen.

He frowned. The voice wasn't entirely unexpected, but the message was. Wasn’t he already listening? Or perhaps… Father Gavrel had almost unendingly extolled the virtues of deep self reflection in search of one’s Name. Though the Merchant's son was skeptical on how exactly that could influence the process, some of the priest's information had to be right. Didn't it?

Maybe this is a test of patience, and I should meditate while waiting for the voice to tell me my name? Or I could be supposed to do something to find it? But what could I do in a place like this? He spent several minutes, taking step after step, debating the possibilities.

He decided that, whatever the method by which his title was granted, there was likely a way to get an even better one. Not only was the god of Names fond of tiered systems--having designed the progression of human titles and skills in such a fashion--but it would explain why different people gained titles of differing power on this day. Perhaps this ritual was really a test of some sort, and the further he got, the rarer his title would be.

If that’s it, then I’m going to go till the very end. He would need every bit of power he could find if he wanted to accomplish his goal. But how exactly will I do that? He had always assumed that he would just... hear a voice that told him his Name. Maybe I just need to listen harder?

He began to consider how he could listen more intently for a voice in his head. Yet even as he had the thought, he could already hear a new voice, like a man speaking from far away.

Maiz. Scholar.

The Merchant’s Son--no, Maiz--jumped at this voice. At first he could only hear the first word--his name. Maiz. It felt… odd. He had never really thought of himself as having a name. His father had always just called him 'son,' and the rites he had just undergone were the first time he'd been called 'Merchant's Son' in years. Gods knew, there weren't many people who wanted to talk to him now, so it had been a while since he'd been called anything. Still, the name gave him an identity. He could think of himself as Maiz. It was not an especially grand name, but it wasn't terrible. Something he could get used to.

Yet he could not stop a wave of disappointment at the second word. Scholar. It might not have been an unfortunate title for him, in the past. He supposed it fit his personality, and he probably could have been happy with a life of reading and study.

But the Merchant's Son--Maiz--couldn’t afford to get a noncombat title. A Scholar couldn't accompish what he had to do.

It was stupid to think that I could change what's happened. He thought of the stolen hours, after days of work, when he would come to the temple and pray to each of the gods in turn. He had been hoping to change the outcome of this day, to change his life for the better. To become powerful, and one day have a chance at revenge.The gods abandoned me two years ago. Nothing I do will change that.

“Wait.” Maiz said it out loud, trying to give himself some hope. It helped a little, but the lack of a corresponding sound still disconcerted him. “I’m not staying focused. I have to keep going.” He refused to consider the possiblitiy that there wasn't a way to change his title.

This time Maiz had to work to hear another voice. At first he tried listening as he normally would, straining to pick up any noise from his surroundings. But he quickly abandoned the method--if he couldn’t hear his footsteps on the stone or his voice as he spoke aloud, he wouldn’t hear anything else.

Instead, he focused his ears… inward. It felt ridiculous, but he felt as though he could hear his own thoughts, racing as he considered the situation, and underneath, voices. A whisper, Listen, and a statement. Maiz. Scholar. He dug deeper, his mind more and more distant as the voices grew stronger. It was strange, as though he was descending into a dark pit, or a tunnel. He was walking away from himself somehow, even as his feet marched onwards.Then the two voices began to fade, and a new one replaced them with a child’s pure tones.

Maiz. Lorist.

Yes! The thought seemed to echo in his head, but he still understood what the voice meant. Lorist was a far more interesting title than scholar--they studied magical objects and history, rather than mundane subjects. Perhaps he could do something... but it wasn’t enough. Not now that he knew there were more. Maiz resolved to continue until the end, no matter how far he had to go.

The next two titles were not much more difficult to hear. Archivist. Sage. Neither was any more appealing to Maiz than Scholar. But now he knew that he could find more and more titles, if he listened hard enough.

He kept going.

Each time he heard one voice another vanished. Yet as he finally broke through into the seventh title, having passed Philosopher without a second thought, something changed. This voice was proclaiming Hedge-Wizard. Interesting, because none of the previous titles involved any sort of magic. But that was not what was concerning Maiz. He could still hear-or was it feel?-- the voice calling Philosopher, though it should have vanished. It was fainter, but certainly still present. Frowning, Maiz continued.

He walked on for an eternity. Each new voice he found only after a long period of struggle, and each only added to the growing cacophony inside himself. Soon, none of the voices were disappearing, and they all seemed to become louder as each new one was added. Maiz hardly cared about the individual titles at this point. He only had to listen to them once to continue onwards. He passed Arcanist, Merchant, Druid, Rogue, Diviner, Smith, Pyromancer, and so many more he could not begin to remember them. At least, not when they were filling him in different tones, volumes, and intensities, to the point of pain. They bounced aroud in the cavern that his mind had become, until he wasn't sure of where his self was. All that was left was his resolve. Keep going.

Somehow, he was still able to hear each new title, but it became more difficult each time. Some seemed more… present than others. He could hear Sanguimancer like the voice was scraping against his skin, making each move forward more painful. Likewise, Prophet seemed to shout above the noise, assaulting his strange new senses. As he struggled forward through the muck of jumbled sounds, a desperate thought arose. Can I take one of those? And then even more prominently, another replied.

No. I can go further.

Maiz was beginning to break. He longed to accept one of the hundreds of titles begging for his attention, all shouting at once. He knew somehow that the agony, and his never-ending journey deeper into the tunnel of his mind, would abate if he did so.Yet he could not stop. There was even greater power waiting for him, if he could remain strong. And he had no other chance to gain that power and enact his plans.

Almost without thinking, he began another push forward, drilling deeper into himself, through the mire of voices obscuring his path. The next one was not like the others. It did not seem to come from within his own head. Instead, Maiz heard the voice of a woman as if she was speaking next to his ear. It was like a splash of cold water on his face, the tone clear but also… excited?

“Maiz. Seeker!”

As he registered the words, the world around Maiz went white.

**************

The left greave didn’t fit right.

As the huge man took a step out of the darkness of the portal, the piece slipped down his shin, hampering his movement. No matter. This Dungeon was a favorite of his, carved into the heart of an active volcano. The cave he was standing in was warmer than he was used to, much warmer than any of the others he visited. That was perhaps thanks to the rivers of molten rock slicing through the stone floor, creating a single lane for battle in the massve room. He rather liked the way the lava looked, glowing and ominous. That was why he had bound it into this Dungeon, containing its heat and guiding its flow to decorate each section.

He reached to adjust the strap on his greave, looking down at the adventurers standing below. They stared up at the balcony his portal had opened onto, standing in the middle of his lava-bound arena and looking confused at his appearance. They were all covered head-to-toe in armor of various kinds, all of excellent quality, and he could not see much of their faces through their helmets. Around them were the broken and scattered corpses of scaled lizards, fiery elementals, and other monsters of this place.

“Four of you?” He extended the slightest bit of effort, borrowing the voice of a thunderbird so that his words boomed ominously. “Did you lose one on the way?”

“No, monster!” A man in plate shouted back at him. He was carrying a massive shield like it weighed nothing, but had no weapons that he could see. “We didn’t need a full party to defeat this Dungeon and kill every one of its defenders!”

The man looked to be about his height. Perhaps this trip wouldn't be a waste of time, then.

“I see. You’ve done well thus far, but then again this place isn’t much of a challenge for you four is it? If you’d lost one I might have let you leave with the spoils.” He called on the grace of a Shadow Fox as he hopped down from the balcony.

“Now it's time for a real test.”

The party of four stared at him, eyes shadowed by their finely wrought helms. Even the most lightly armored of them, a woman in a leather jerkin and breeches, wore one, albeit with a wide visor for better visibility. Smart. “Who are you?” The very same woman spoke shakily.

He gave them a grim smile. Like them, his name and title were hidden to preserve the element of surprise. But he supposed it wouldn't hurt to give up a small advantage. “I am called Shadar. Let’s begin.”

Shadar was aware of his lieutenants’ penchants for monologuing. He himself had no skill in the art, and besides, he was working against a time limit. Instead he raised a hand, activating his oldest skill. Black Dragon Claw. His hand morphed and he felt his mana reserves drop slightly as he leapt forward, relying on his Strength and Agility rather than any skills to cover the ground in an instant. Against so many powerful opponents, he felt almost invincible.

The party of four had scattered as soon as he stopped talking, the man in plate raising his shield as one with a bow retreated and the other two moved to flank him. Excellent. These were strong fighters--Shadar could feel his own power straining at its upper limit as he faced all four-- but power meant little without strategy to direct it. They might pose a real challenge to him.

Shadar landed feet away from the man in plate, then hopped to the side instantly, revealing his feint as an arrow sped through the place he had stood. He turned, swiping his black-clawed hand as the woman in light armor pounced at him from his side. The woman twisted in midair, and a knife flashed towards Shadar as she avoided the blow. He ducked his head down for a moment, trusting his armor to take the attack, and activated another skill. Manticore Tail.

When he had first learned this skill, suddenly gaining awareness and control of a new limb had been disconcerting, but now he was more than used to the feeling, and he instantly snapped the spiny tail towards the man he knew would be coming at his back.

This time his attack struck home, the spines piercing the chainmail the man wore and delivering their venom to his assailant. At the same time, he felt the powerful muscles in the new limb shudder.The man’s armor was cold. As Shadar looked over his shoulder he saw that the adventurer was some sort of ice battle-mage, body shrouded in mist and sword glittering with crystals of ice. Still, the spikes had gotten through the armor and the venom had't frozen, so Shadar paid him little mind. The manticore’s poison was particularly effective against mages.

The man in plate was pushing in between the knife-thrower and Shadar, bashing Shadar with his shield as he moved to defend his ally. Shadar stumbled back a few steps: this man’s Strength was impressive. He quickly reoriented himslf, but didn't bother attempting a swipe against the shieldbearer--he was undoubtedly a heavy armor specialist, and Shadar would not fare well fighting him while he still had allies. Instead he simply leapt, bounding over the man and towards the woman, who was already moving to support the defender. He lashed his tail towards her, a difficult feat midair, and landed as she ducked to avoid it. This time, his claw found her neck, and almost instantly he felt his power drop. She was dead, then. There were already two minutes down.

No time to spare. He dismissed his tail, restoring some of his mana regeneration, as he called on another of his favorite skills. Wyvern Wings. The instant he felt the massive, nearly weightless appendages sprout he jumped, flapping the magical wings to boost himself across the room. There were so many powerful updrafts in the lava-filled cave that he had to take care not to fly too high, and as he jumped he felt his greave slip down once again. Ah well.

A few feet off the ground he dismissed the wings, landing with a thud amongst a cloud of white feathers. The archer, a young man also dressed in leather armor, was staring at him cooly down the shaft of an arrow. He released directly towards Shadar’s visor, forcing him to use another skill to avoid the shot. Breath of the Hydra. A spout of water issued from his mouth with the force of an ocean wave, knocking the incoming arrow from the air as Shadar punched the man, claw easily piercing his armor and leaving a deep gash in his chest. His claw skill would cut through any defensive magic, so Shadar wasn't worried about any spells. As the archer stumbled and fell, dead, Shadar felt his power decrease further. Now he had less than half of his mana reserves left, and his stamina was low as well. He dismissed the claw. No need to hamper his mana regeneration even more. There was not much time left.

The armored man had rushed to the ice mage's side, but it was of no use. The manticore venom had already paralyzed the man, using his own mana to fuel the effect and leaving him easy prey for Shadar later. Using the manticore tail always felt a bit like cheating to Shadar, as it let him preserve his rank for longer against multiple opponents, but Massahn had designed Shadar's abilities himself, so he supposed using them was fair. Massahn was always fair.

Shadar gave himself some time to recover as he considered how best to finish the last opponent. His water breath had created clouds of steam as it flowed towards the lava, providing some cover as he thought. What creatures inhabited this Dungeon again? As he remembered, Shadar smiled internally. Cloak of the Magma Elemental. Suddenly the Dungeon didn’t feel so warm. The temperature had not changed, but Shadar felt supremely comfortable in the heat. Except for his left greave. That was still about to fall off.

This skill had taken almost all of his remaining mana, so he ran back to the armored fighter on his own power, feeling much slower than when the fight had begun. His body was wreathed in molten rock, but he felt no pain. As he approached the adventurer, who was now standing protectively over his companion’s still body, Shadar began to throw punches and kicks augmented by the lava flowing over his body. Shadar had never ranked up this skill, so it was not particularly powerful, but it should do well in this situation. However, to his annoyance, the man skillfully blocked and parried each strike, shield glowing blue whenever it came into contact with Shadar’s molten body. An enchantment. That would explain why they had found this Dungeon so easy. As he fought, Shadar cursed himself for dismissing his dragon claw, which could have dispelled the enchantment, but he made it a point to use at least one skill from the inhabitants of Dungeon when he was avenging them. Now he needed to keep his remaining mana in reserve for a retreat, and he couldn't afforded to use the spell again.

It had been almost five minutes since Shadar had entered the Dungeon. He began to fight more furiously, strikes becoming faster and more powerful. The two remaining men must have been very high ranked, for Shadar to remain so strong with the other two dead. Though his attacks could not do much more damage to the man’s shield than regular blows, Shadar was wearing him down. Most enchantments would have already given out under this assault, meaning that the group had likely enlisted the services of a Master.

There were only a few seconds remaining. Sighing internally, Shadar sidestepped around the defender, the man's armor making him too slow to react, and stomped on the downed mage’s face with a lava-wreathed boot. There was an odd sound, both a crunch and a sizzle, and Shadar felt another drop in his power. Then, wrinkling his nose at the smell of burned flesh, he vaulted sluggishly away from the armored defender. Five minutes were up.

“No, Faruth! You monster, I will end you!”

The man continued making threats as he sprinted--rather slowly--towards Shadar. Shadar ignored him and used his remaining mana to once again call his wyvern wings, dismissing the magma cloak. The heat of the room washed over him once again.

Flying up to the balcony, Shadar called down “You have proven yourself worthy, adventurer. Claim your dead and your prizes and depart. I shall bar your way no longer.” Somewhat archaic, at least to Shadar, but Massahn insisted he say it whenever he left any alive. Landing on the balcony, he exited through the black portal, leaving the heartbroken and thoroughly bewildered adventurer to clean up the mess.

It was a shame--Shadar had been hoping the man’s armor would be a better fit than the last one’s.