Grand Columbarium, The Rotted Shore1One of the Tomb's most major ports, partially built on fossilized seaweed.
First Dusk of 13 AL
The Mote would have been enjoying a breathtaking view, had its eyes adjusted to the moon's blinding gaze. Massive corridors of market stalls, as far as one could fathom, stacked on top of each other to nearly 100 feet up. One could find nearly anything here, given they had enough ash to trade for it. Small sparks of true life, draughts of true death, and even ashes of the Gods themselves. The air hung heavy with the the smell of soot, the joyous cacophony of commerce inundating every inch of the market.
That is to say, in simpler words: the Mote could not see, hear, or even smell where it was headed. Were it not for the grace of its guides, it wouldn't have realized the party had arrived at their first stop. The Brigand gripped its arm as it began to wander off, gentle but firm.
"You cannae see shit right now, can ye?", they chuckled, before (presumably) tearing a piece off their ragged cloak, fashioning it into a makeshift blindfold. While not the most comfortable thing to wear, the filter between its eyes and the outside world did allow it to get a sense of where it stood. The floral decorations and padded sarcophagi were the telltale signs of an infusion parlor, albeit much more modern-looking than the one it had last been in.
The Theologian strode in from behind a decorated curtain, most of her adventuring attire doffed. She was fairly tan, especially for a woman who went around draped from head to toe in ceremonial robes most of the time. A piercing green eye was the most defining feature of her face; if one didn't count the missing half of her skull to be a facial feature.
"I already paid the fee, while I was waiting for you to guide it here. Hopefully a few more delves into the deep and I'll learn an infusion spell myself, keep us from having to come back to town so frequently. Doubt the service will be as good as it is here, though!" She exclaims, climbing into a lazuli blue coffin, shutting the door behind her.
"Feel free to take whichever one you prefer."- an employee, from the looks of it, wrapped in bandages from head to toe. "Should only take about thirty minutes with the amount you specified. Is there any bone in particular you'd like us to work with?"
"Mandible", the Brigand chuckled, before doffing their helmet and revealing its absence, along with a massive, well kempt mane of hair. "Nae, but really, anywhere's fine."
"I'd like any of the ribs, if possible. They hurt the least", said the mote, eliciting a concerned look from the employee.
"It shouldn't hurt at all. When's the last time you- nevermind. Rib it is. Not my place. Now, get cozy, and I'll get started in just a moment."
The Brigand had already chosen a place to rest during that brief conversation, and the Mote claimed a coffin close to a pot of lavender. Cozy. Taking a deep breath that rattled through its desiccated sternum, it shut the door and braced itself.
What followed was the easiest infusion of its life. The removal of its rib was indeed entirely painless, the knife cutting through tissue like it wasn't there. Rather than the course feeling of the pestle, merely phantom sensations came through as the bone was crushed to dust and mixed with ash. Not unlike a massage, really. It felt like the whole process had only lasted a few minutes. And, as new strength blossomed up in its re-cast bone, it desperately hoped that it wouldn't be mistaken for a ne'er-dead again.
From the reactions it got as it left the coffin, it was safe to assume that it did, in fact, look more like a member of the thinking. Still hairless and gaunt, but a tad less pale, and its movements were far more fluid. The distinctive torn flesh on its face remained- as was usually the case with this sort of thing. How else would someone tell it apart?
"So, now that you look like an actual, sentient thing... lets get you set up with some gear, aye? A spellcasting focus would do you well, and some proper armor- though, I'll admit, that useless tabard is unique enough that I'd probably continue to wear it. You don't see much dungeoneering equipment in pink."
The Mote began to open its mouth in apology; "I have no ash with which to bargain wit-"
And the Brigand interrupted. "You're joining our team, right? We'll spot you for your gear. Wouldn't do to have dead weight when we drag you into the depths."
After a brief meal of algal curry2Mote had to be taught some of the basics of eating again, a trip to the supply store ensued: after acquiring three canisters of lantern oil, a twenty foot length of rope, pitons, caltrops, firewood, an extra bedroll, a bottle of resuscitating ichor, and a warding salt shaker, there were just enough ashes left to afford some basic gear for Mote. Rags were doffed in favor of the fabled tabard, a basic cloak, a toad-leather skirts, and the centerpiece of the collection: a Standard3The Tomb has various focuses for casting spells; The Standard is one of the most unwieldy, but allows magicks that would only hit a single person to instead hit a small area., bearing a petal-weave flag.
"So, do we just... collect some gossip and head to some fell tumulus, now? I must admit, its a bit strange being offered such a frontline position." The Mote fidgeted with its Standard. It had chosen the old crypt for its isolation, so how did adventurer's pick out their targets?
"Not quite yet", replied the Theologian, holding up a glass vial.
"You've yet to introduce yourself to our final member."
