Far from the biggest shock of the day, it turned out that millennia old undead necromancers, who have spent at least a few centuries living alone in an underground crypt, don’t make the most natural of hosts. The keeper bumbled around leisurely trying to find his ancient kettle, from which he had to evict two skulls, a rat, and several pounds of droppings. He then filled the ancient cauldron from a stream of mildewy runoff which trickled from the ceiling, which can only have been the blessing of the good Malin. Once complete, and it was not a quick process, the crypt master scooped in less than a palmful of tea leaves that had clearly seen more lifetimes than the mercenaries had moons. When the leaves had thoroughly disintegrated, which happened on impact, the keeper set about making a fire from disheveled tatters of clothing that had long ago rotted from their owners’ bodies.

It took a while to boil.

“You could maybe tell us the story while the tea is brewing?” Gabriel suggested.

“Nonsense. I have read at length of the human custom to present tea to one’s guests. I would not wish for you to feel unwelcome in my abode simply because I am older than Jandrir, and quite dead,” he fixed Gabriel with his hollow sockets, “I will observe your customs, and you will feel at ease.”

That made nobody feel at ease.

When the tea was finally ready, what may have been days or even weeks later, the crypt keeper poured the concoction into mismatched chipped porcelain, which he scattered about the table. The same table that Lance Albright was still merrily decomposing away on.

He looked at them, well, let’s just assume it was expectantly.

Gabriel nodded to his crew, and picked up a cup. The others followed suit.

“Thank you very much. It, err, looks delicious,” the captain grimaced.

“You are supposed to drink the tea.”

“Yes, uh, just a bit hot.”

“Of course. My apologies. We shall wait for it to cool.”

“Oh, uh, maybe it’s not that hot. Let me see. Mmm. Mm, delicious.”

“You did not consume the tea.”

“Yes I did.”

“You spilt it on your chest.”

“No I didn’t.”

“The wet patch is there. Do you see?”

“Oh, how clumsy of me.”

“If I have made inadequate tea then I shall try again,” the crypt keeper said, starting to reach for the kettle.

“Gods, no! No! I mean, uh,” Gabriel stared into the murky pool of disease and sadness, “Screw it,” he said, and chugged the beverage.

In hindsight, it probably would have been socially acceptable to just take a sip.

“Ooooh, gods,” Gabriel whispered.

“You alright there, buddy?” Vish asked, “You’re looking a little… tea coloured.”

“It’s. Just. That. Good,” Gabriel gasped, “Go ahead Vish, try some.”

“Ah, nah, sorry man, can’t. It’s against my cultural norms and all that,” the mind-mapper tutted, “Shame, looks great too.”

The crypt keeper gave a small bow, “I apologise for having offended you. Your customs are not as well known to me. Please do not feel obliged to drink the tea.”

“No stress. You couldn’t have known. So, anyway, how about that story?” Vish said, yawning loudly and muttering something afterwards that sounded suspiciously like, “Sorry, also cultural.”

“You son of a bitch,” Gabriel spluttered, his puce coloured face a perfect picture of betrayal.

“Very well, let me regale you with a tale that has faded from memory, to history, to legend,” the keeper began, “Please, take a seat.”

The mercenaries looked around for chairs, found none, then awkwardly stooped where they were, sat cross-legged on the ground, or shuffled Lance’s legs aside so they could perch on the autopsy table (Vish).

Then they waited.

And they waited.

“Sooo,” Vish prompted.

“My apologies, I am uncertain of where to begin,” the crypt keeper explained.

“I really feel like you could have been thinking about that while you were making the tea,” Gabriel said, rubbing his eyes and trying not to vomit at the very mention of the stuff.

“How about you start by telling us what’s so important about an ancient, dead lizard?” Vish put forward.

“Lizard?”

“Yeah,” the mind-mapper looked at the others for confirmation, “The Order of the Rising Dragon, isn’t it?”

“Ah, I see. You are referring to the Ysffrain.”

“You lost me.”

“Large, early drakes, with four legs and wings.”

“Is that not a dragon?” Lydia asked.

“No, that is a Ysffrain,” the keeper looked around at the blank stares that met him, “I suspect this is going to take rather longer to explain than I anticipated.”

“Yaay,” Vish said.

“Dragons have no fixed shape. They are amongst the earliest products of the aether, generated from its raw essence. They are akin to aether gods, but they have no domain of elemental balance. Their duty, I suppose you would call it, was the domain of conceptual balance.”

“Like the gods of Virtue?” Figo asked.

“Early predecessors. They are sentient, unlike the gods, but unruly. Their power is vast, and their emotion is raw and unchecked. All creatures are of the aether, but the later products are further removed from its chaotic energies.”

“So, humans are like a super refined version of the gods and the dragons?” Gabriel jumped ahead.

“Actually, humans are more like the off-cuts,” the keeper responded, not unkindly, “Your communication with the aether is limited in every conceivable way. Even your channelers have very little knowledge of the forces they tap. A dragon lives and breathes the aether, can even mould it to their will, but I am told that their connection to it is quite,” he searched for the word, “maddening.”

“So they’re psychotic aether gods?”

“I think they would prefer the term ‘passionate’.”

“I can relate,” Vish nodded.

“Why have we always thought of these dragons as Ysffrain?” Figo asked, saying the new word slowly, as if he had not instantly committed it to memory.

“One thing about dragons that cannot be denied is that they are, to a dragon, vain and unimaginative creatures. When the first of their kind began to interact with the physical world, the Ysffrain were by far the most powerful sentient creatures in existence. They were stupid, but powerful. A Ysffrain brain is no bigger than a chicken egg, yet they could level a forest with ease. Since it was only an image the dragons need imitate, the majority mimicked this form, and thus are often depicted as such.”

“That makes sense,” Figo said sagely.

“The names they chose for themselves when they began to interact with the Kaitar followed a similar philosophy. They named themselves after those materials which the Kaitar most coveted: Ruby, Gold, Malachite, Obsidian, Cheese,” the keeper said, perhaps fondly.

“What was that last one?” Vish asked.

“Don’t. Just don’t,” Gabriel intervened, “Who were the Kaitar?”

“Humanoids, you would probably call them, although many of my kin would resent that terminology.”

“Figures. So Ruby is an adopted name, chosen by this particular dragon because it was a valuable asset back in the day?”

“Indeed. His original name translates to something like, ‘The Beating Heart of the Age of the Insurmountable Power of the Everlasting Eternal Children of the Aether, Made Manifest in the Adopted Form of the Mortal Creatures who Dwell in the Shadow of the All-Encompassing Aether and are Subject to its Whim and Mercy.’”

“Oh, that it?” Vish said.

“’Whose Lifeblood is My Lifeblood and Whose Purpose is My Purpose and Without which All are less than Dust.’”

“Done?” Gabriel tried.

“’And for which We must be Ever Grateful and Indebted to, Lest never again Shall we be Joined in Eternal Salvation.’”

They waited to be sure the keeper had finished.

“Right,” Gabriel finally said, “So he shortened all that to the, far punchier, ‘Ruby’.”

“No, that was just the first of his chosen names. He shortened-”

“I think we get the idea.”

“Very well,” the keeper somehow looked crestfallen, “Anyway, of all of the firstborn dragons, only two really took an interest in humanoid affairs. Those two were Ruby and Obsidian. They were fascinated by us mortals and our slow and clumsy development, and thought to, quite literally, take us under their wings. One believed that we should be preserved, and allowed to grow and develop at our own laboriously slow pace, the other thought to pull us into line and propel us to a state where we might make for more useful and dutiful subjects.”

“The former being Ruby and the latter being Obsidian,” Figo said.

“Quite the opposite. You might argue that they were both well intentioned, but having borne the yoke of both in my life and deathtimes, I can assure you one approach was infinitely preferable to the other,” the skeleton didn’t shudder, but it was clear he was chilled by the memory, “Ruby believed in power and domination. Those races he deemed unworthy of his favour were scoured from the earth in brutal genocides. He rallied his favourites, showering them with gifts and promises, and used them to cow their cousins. He was an effective ruler, but a savage one. Whilst Obsidian celebrated differences, Ruby abhorred them. Under his banner there was perfect conformity, and absolute compliance.”

“Is Ruby the one who made you this way?” Figo asked as tactfully as he could.

“Undead? No. This is my people’s natural progression. All of my kind were necromancers. We spent our time as fleshlings procreating, to ensure future generations, but our true lives began in eternal death. At one stage we were the most populace race on the continent, spreading from sea to sea. Our undead elders would tutor the living, and pass on their knowledge. The living indulged in the pleasures of mortality, and sired for as long as they were able. Perhaps it was this unique relationship with death that made us arrogant, made us believe we were untouchable, but that was not the case. Whilst it was tricky for Ruby to annihilate our undead, he had no trouble at all in decimating our living. In an embarrassingly short and decisive campaign, Ruby ensured that my kind would never again bring a natural child into this world. After that, we pledged to Obsidian.”

“I’m so sorry,” Figo said earnestly.

Even Lydia exhaled heavily, before biting off a hunk of Soldier’s Solace.

“It is regrettable that we did not act soon enough to ensure our legacy, but I assure you that we did ourselves proud in the centuries that followed. For roughly thirty human lifetimes we fought back against Ruby’s unwitting thralls. It was slow going at first, but with each of their losses we gained another undead for our necromancers to throw into the fray. Eventually we outnumbered his men of flesh tenfold, sending their own fallen comrades to challenge them on the field. We were gaining ground, and felt for sure that Ruby and his subjects must concede.”

“I’m going to go ahead and guess that they didn’t,” Vish said.

“They did not. Ruby adapted in a way that we could not have anticipated. From the aether, Ruby shaped his own dragons. He built constructs in his own image. These he imbued with facets of his personality, and gave them a bond to the aether so that they might tap its resources like any other dragon. They were architypes of malice, greed, cunning, duty, everything that made him an effective opponent, and they took names to mark them as kith of their creator. There was Emerald, Sapphire, Quartz, aetherlings beyond count. These, these dragon lords, commanded his armies and rallied his people, and together they wreaked havoc across the lands once again. Obsidian, a firstborn dragon though he was, was no match for them.”

“But Ruby did fall,” Gabriel said, “I mean, he’s dead, right?”

“Not dead, but subdued. I mentioned that Obsidian was interested in the preservation and continuity of the Kaitar. To this end, he crafted us a gift – The Crucible of Knowledge. The Crucible had a number of intriguing benefits, not least of which was the ability to strengthen the aether bond between all sentient creatures, and enable us to communicate through this shared channel. It’s other chief purpose was to serve as a melting pot for displaced souls. Whilst the Crucible was operating at its peak, a soul severed from its body would gravitate there, and be preserved. Thus, Obsidian was able to ensure the legacy of the countless cultures and creeds that Ruby had wiped from the land. It was this that would eventually prove Ruby’s undoing.”

“On the day that the two sides would clash for the last time, Ruby, in his hubris, could not resist indulging in the final confrontation himself. He ordered his generals to waylay our armies, whilst he alone would have the singular honour of felling Obsidian. Obviously, that did not go to plan. Obsidian used the last of his strength to hold Ruby, physically, spiritually and mentally. He entangled his essence with the other’s, and locked him in a set place and time. Then, as they had devised earlier, the strongest mage of my kind bound the pair of them to the Crucible, weaving their joint being into the aether signatures of a million lost souls. Ruby did not die, but he became interlaced and suffused with the vehemence, betrayal and despair of the thousands upon thousands he had caused to perish. Their myriad voices, their woe, and their hate, became his. He was driven mad by their constant presence. Rather than suffer them, he chose a form of hibernation, removing his consciousness from this plain.”

Bling was hugging herself very tightly at this point.

“Hey, what do you know, I actually can relate to the crazy dragon guy on this one!” Vish said excitedly.

“Are you the mage who bound him?” Figo asked reverently.

“Me? No. I was in accounts.”

“That explains so much,” Gabriel decided.

“What about Ruby’s other dragons? The ones he made?” Figo asked.

“Ruby’s final order was that they also enter a dormant state. Presumably he feared a future where they existed independently of him. Perhaps he suspected he would not be able to wrestle back control if they were allowed to mature on their own. The majority obeyed, too weak or brainwashed to do any differently. They were his children, after all.”

“That’s incredible,” Figo said, near breathlessly.

“There is more I could tell you, but then I fear the story would be… dragon on a bit.”

Gabriel slapped his forehead, “Please tell me you didn’t make us sit through that entire lecture just as a set up for another bloody pun.”

“I shall not tell you.”

“I would like you to let us out of this skanky gods’ forsaken hellhole now, please.”

“That is not a very nice des-crypt-tion of my home.”

“Now, please.”

“Oh, fine, very well.”