The tiny blue sphinx ponders the meaning of what he has read.
Anicient Osirion History: 21

Thoth hovers closer to the ancient stone. It is worn smooth, the carvings softened by centuries of wind, sand, and silence. Yet the script still breathes, shallow, but not dead. The thoughts of a long-vanished priest, the chisel of a long-buried artisan, these are not mere decoration. They are language. Memory.

For a long moment, the meaning eludes him, as though the words are hiding behind a veil of time. But then something shifts. A pattern reveals itself in the repetition of symbols--the positioning of the falcon, the curl of the reed, the sun disc mirrored beside the eye. And suddenly, like a puzzle falling into place, it clicks.

Behold the sacred stone, seat of power, set
beneath the gaze of the unseen stars.
This is the altar of Nethys, he who speaks the
words that bind and unbind the world.
Here, the breath of life is drawn from
silence, and the flame of the hidden is
kindled.

O you who seek wisdom, kneel in
reverence, for Nethys is the tongue of the
gods, the fire within the name.

The verse appears to be both an invocation and an instruction. According to its terms, one who kneels at the altar, recites the verse, and conjures “flame” or “fire”, would draw “the breath of life” and “kindle the flame of the hidden.” Ancient Osiriani is notorious for its use of metaphors, and these words could refer to any number of things. Fire, however, was often a reference to magic. Nethys, of course, is the god of magic.

Zahara’s expression tightens with every word Thoth speaks. Her dark eyes flick to the altar, then to the others, her posture shifting from curiosity to alarm. She takes a step back, her voice sharp and unwavering.

“No.”

She raises a hand, cutting the air like a blade.

“I don’t care what it promises. We’re not invoking anything. We’re not kneeling. We’re not lighting fires or whispering names better left buried.”

Her gaze lingers on Thoth, not accusing, but firm. “This place has already taken lives. You saw what happened to those travelers.”

She turns her eyes back to the pool, unease prickling at her spine. “Power like this always comes with a price. We don’t know what’s waiting beneath that surface, but I won’t be the next one dragged under.”

"We’ve learned what we can. This place is sacred or cursed, either way, it was meant to be left alone. I say we do just that.”

"Whether it would be prudent or not to explore this further is beyond me I am afraid, but as far as I can see there is nothing to suggest that this altar would offer anything required to complete your mission." The tiny blue sphinx states calmly as he finishes his lecture on ancient osiriani.

Still standing a bit away, his pupil is still quite curious about the altar but says nothing and lets the others decide how to proceed.

Zephirah listens intently to Thoth’s translation, silver eyes widening as each line falls into place. Her memory stirs, conjuring half-remembered legends of Nethys—the all-seeing god of magic whose shrines dot Osirion’s hidden halls and ancient library-domed cities. She’s heard tales of Yamasha, a devout servant of the deity, whose power she admired when she studied the stories. A faint thrill flickers through her—a mixture of awe and caution.

“Nethys is… not exactly predictable,” she says at last, recalling how the god’s dual nature can either uplift or obliterate. “He’s as likely to grant you unimaginable power as he is to twist it back on you. What blesses one might curse another.” She shifts uneasily, casting a glance at the dais’s worn hieroglyphs. “If this place is part of what we’re after, we can’t dismiss the possibility it holds answers about the reappearance of that pyramid. But lighting a torch for Nethys—literally or figuratively—when we’re not his faithful? That’s a gamble with no fixed odds.”

She exhales, plucking a sharp, discordant chord on her lyre, a sign of her own inner conflict. “Zahara might be right. This altar’s already claimed lives. And trust me, with a god like Nethys, any boon you gain now might demand a hidden price later.” She looks to her companions. “Your call, but if we set foot on that dais, let’s not pretend we don’t know the stakes.”

"Proceeding does seem risky. I'm curious, but it's unclear what the reward could be," Satina says. She takes just a small step back from the pool of water. "I guess if anyone personally wants to take in the risk, I'll stand at hand to help."

As Thoth translates the eon-worn hieroglyphs, the ever-present dark whispers that lap at Ophelia's psyche like ripples rise to the roar of a towering tsunami.

... That which dies is not forgotten and reanimated it shall walk the world in the bliss of not-knowing, and then there shall be a fire that knows the naming of you, and amidst the lone and level sands, ITS DARK FLAME SHALL ACQUIRE EVERY PART OF YOU THAT REMAINS!

Gone is her stumbling, uncertain gait, her distracted, upturned gaze, and her singsong tone.  Ophelia's eyes blaze a deep purple as she moves swiftly to the altar as if driven by an unseen force, not so much kneeling as falling to her knees with an audible slap of kneecap against stone.

Head bowed, her voice resounds in the desert's stillness with urgency and need as she, unless otherwise impeded, solemnly intones the translated verse with which Thoth has gifted her, and adds the deity's name (Nethys) as a hushed epilogue for good measure.

While she speaks, from Ophelia's hands, outstretched and palms up, a torrent of flame shoots upwards into the wide blue sky (Sorcerous Burst).

Zahara recoils as the flames erupt from Ophelia’s hands, a gasp torn from her throat. The fire licks the sky like a signal, a summoning, and something in her gut twists—tight and cold.

She stares, eyes wide in horror, at Ophelia kneeling at the altar, the ancient words still echoing in the air like a curse flung open. Her mouth works, searching for something—anything—to say, but nothing comes. Nothing useful. Nothing that can undo what’s been done.

Her gaze whips around the oasis, darting from the still water to the sun-bleached stones, to the shifting sand beyond. Something will answer. Something always does. Magic like that—old, buried magic—doesn’t go unanswered.

“No,” she breathes, voice barely more than a whisper. “You shouldn’t have said the name…”

The air feels heavier now. The light different. She takes a step back, then another, as if the very earth might open beneath them. Her knuckles whiten as the grip on her staff tightens.

“I told you,” she mutters, almost to herself. “You don’t disturb places like this. You don’t wake what’s meant to sleep…”

She turns to the others, voice rising with tight urgency. “Get ready. Or get out. Because something heard that.”

Satina shakes her head at Zahara's mutterings. While Ophelia's actions had been sudden, she had already said she'd be at hand to help if anyone tried to speak the words. She was still there, not far from Ophelia. 

Zephirah’s silver eyes flare wide at the sudden burst of flame erupting from Ophelia’s outstretched hands. Her pulse thrums with a jolt of exhilaration—fear mingled with a performer’s undeniable fascination. She steps forward rather than away, the hush of shifting sand beneath her feet swallowed by the crackling roar of flame.she props her viol against her shoulder, striking discordant notes that bleed into a suspenseful, pulsing melody. The tension in the air becomes a stage, and she will not abandon it.

“Ancient god or sleeping giant…” she murmurs, half to herself, half to the looming desert. “Now that’s something worthy of a story.” Her voice quivers with a heady mix of alarm and fierce anticipation. She keeps playing, each bow stroke layered with a prickly sense of dread, underscoring the sheer weight of this moment. She won’t run. She won’t let fear swallow her curiosity. After all, legends are born in acts like these—and if the desert demands a price for this audience with Nethys, she intends to at least witness the final bow.

Ophelia’s words come pouring out, as though pulled from her by forces unseen. Her arcane offering bullets into the sky above.

The sun, hanging low on the horizon, is a dying ember sinking into the sea of sand. The desert is bathed in flame-kissed shades of molten gold, crimson, and burnt amber stretching across the dunes. The air shimmers with heat, and the light catches the mirrored surface of the oasis like fire on glass. The reflection seems to ignite the water, as though the two elements converge. Together they form a dazzling display of light. As the sun kisses the horizon, their union is complete.

The placid waters of the pool began to tremble. Ripples fanned outward in perfect circles, silent at first, then pulsing with power. The blue-green depths churn and darken as… something… stirs within. A low, resonant hum fills the air, like wind through hollow stone, or the breath of some great being caught in sleep.

The water twists upward, not splashing, but rising, coiling like serpents of liquid glass. It spirals into a column, dancing in the sunset light, glowing from within with a silvery-blue shimmer. From the heart of the vortex, a shape emerges.

It rises with a terrible grace.

Its form is tall and sinuous, ever-shifting. Humanoid only in silhouette, its body is formed of water. Streams of liquid flow where limbs should be, glowing runes pulsing faintly beneath the translucent surface. Its face is half-hidden by a veil of mist, eyes deep and ancient, reflecting the color of the oasis and the dying sky. Around it, the oasis blooms with energy. The reeds straighten. The palms flower in moments. The air grows cooler. Moisture laces the wind like a forgotten dream.

It looks upon the crouched figure of Ophelia, cloaked in dust and shadow, her skin marked with arcane energy. And then it speaks. A man’s voice, one that ripples through the air like thunder.

"It has been so long since I was called… and longer still since I was honored.” His voice is lamentful, almost pleading. His large form floats closer to Ophelia. “You bear the touch of Nethys, the All-Seeing Eye, the Rift-Walker. Magic flows through you like the river through the valley."

He raises his hands, and droplets float upward like stars being born.

"Hear me, child of duality. I am Nahlun, The Veiled Current. Bound in silence, sealed by fear. But if you come in the name of balance, of mystery and magic… Am I to be called anew, as a tide returning?"

As the final rays of the day’s sun illuminate the dunes, the veil of mist around him thickens, and the waters at his feet glow like moonlight in the light of day.

Actions?

Zephirah’s fingers falter upon the viol, the final chord echoing like a breath caught in her throat. In that moment, she is all wide eyes and parted lips, transfixed by the living current’s emergence. Her heart thrums with the same tremor that ripples the oasis. Tail curled close against her leg, she cannot help but lean forward, spellbound by the ancient power before Ophelia. A thousand melodies clamor in her mind, each vying to capture this marvel—yet for now, she only watches in hushed wonder, awaiting Ophelia’s next move.

Zahara stares, frozen in place, her staff gripped so tightly the carved wood creaks in protest beneath her fingers.

This is wrong.

The desert is not meant to bloom at twilight. Water does not rise without wind. Voices do not emerge from forgotten pools unless something ancient has remembered you.

She doesn’t speak at first—she can’t. The words lodge in her throat. Her golden eyes flick to Ophelia, still kneeling, wreathed in arcane shimmer, and then to the towering figure now uncoiling before them.

Nahlun.
Bound in silence.
Sealed by fear.

This is no god of mercy. This is a being who was sealed, not forgotten. Chained for a reason.

Zahara steps back instinctively, her staff lowers—not to strike, but to touch the earth, grounding herself.

Then, with a piercing look to Ophelia—tinged not with anger, but a desperate fear disguised as command—Zahara adds, “Whatever you think you’ve done, unmake it. Now. Before it answers in full.”

Nephthys takes a step back, and then another one, watching in absolute awe as the watery entity emerges and rises from the pool. She had heard of Marids, genies of water, could this be such a being? Even her wise and calm mentor watches in fascination from above the massive watery inhabitant of the oasis. Neither of them would interefere with what Ophelia would do next. 

Ophelia's head remains bowed and voice solemn as she kneels before Nahlun, the Veiled Current.  Though she does heed (nor even seem to notice) Zahara's dire warning, for once, the she-elf finds that her mind is clear enough to remember a transmutation of the words she had sung but two days back in response to the tiefling druid asking her what the winds whispered to her.  What indeed?  Wind and water rise, flowingly, flowingly, before me now...

She raises her eyes to meet those of the elemental spirit, a quaver in her strained melody.
"Now dies the day, all shall be free,
Even you and even me,
Soon dawns the day when all may die,
Never you, yet surely I."

Tone steadying and deep purple gaze fixed on Nahlun, Ophelia squares her shoulders and swims onward, speaking from the heart.

"You speak true, spirit of air and water, I sense Nethys' deep current within me.  Wildly turbulent as if coursing through caverns measureless to mortals, whispering in arcane tongues I scarcely comprehend.  I lack all balance, yet I seek it.  Balance for myself, for my companions, for this land.  If you would rise again like the tide after a new moon's ebb, I beseech you, rise not to scour and destroy as the khamsin does, but to bring the balance you name."

"And to guide and protect my companions.  As I would."

Ophelia pauses, chest heaving, gazing into Nahlun's eyes.  Searching for answers.  "Of me, take whatever you wish in return."

She bows her head once more.  Ready to accept the Veiled Current's will.  She smiles.  Come on, mad Ophelia.  You always knew it would end this way.

They bore me barefaced on the bier
Shining witness, the stars above
And in my grave rained nary a tear
So fare thee well, my desert dove.

Satina had stood steadfast even as the spiraling vortex of liquid rose up from the pool.  Not that she wasn't concerned, but she felt she should not back away when Ophelia was still here exposed to this being. She had no idea what to make of it, nor anything to compare it to in her experience.  Perhaps the others knew she thought. But now was not the time to ask. 

Instead, she focuses on the words from Ophelia. Not that those made her feel much better. She speaks of death saying 'surely I'. Then speaks what seems far more clearly than most of the time she has known her - of sacrificing herself for all of them. Though she hardly wants to interrupt, Satina feels compelled to speak. Her voice is hardly more than a whisper. "Ophelia, I hope the same that Nahlun will grant us aid. But you offer too much." 

“No!” Zahara’s voice cracks through the quiet like a desert lightning bolt. She turns sharply, eyes burning with disbelief, fear, and something too fierce to name.

“Enough with riddles and farewells,” she hisses, stepping into the glow cast by the water spirit’s shifting form. Her voice is low. “You speak like the end has already come—but it hasn’t, Ophelia. Not yet. Don’t you dare write your own epitaph while we still stand beside you.”

She faces the elemental now, chin raised, the staff in her hand no longer grounded but upright, though not aggressive. The blue shimmer from Nahlun dances across her burnished skin, painting her in wavering hues.

“You say you were sealed by fear. Then hear mine now,” Zahara says, voice trembling but steady. “I fear what you’ll take in the name of balance. I fear the cost of what she’s offering. And I fear you, if this is what you require of those who would call you.”

And then, more softly, her voice cracking at the edges:

“Don’t trade yourself away."

Zephirah’s breath catches as Ophelia offers herself so freely, and a chill settles beneath her copper skin despite the desert heat. She meets Zahara’s fiery gaze and gives a small nod, heart pounding at the thought of where this is all headed. Words press against her throat—some plea, some half-formed reassurance—yet she holds them, for now, unsure if they would save or doom them all.

Still, she cannot let Ophelia vanish into some ancient bargain without protest. Her viol hangs at her side, half-forgotten, but her mind churns. If Nahlun’s demand grows too dire, she is prepared to act—words, will, or flight if it comes to that. But for this taut, trembling moment, she can only stand by and observe the situation evolve.

The surface of the water goes glass-smooth, reflecting the moment as if it were already memory. Nahlun’s form ceases its constant shifting. He grows still, solemn, immense. He speaks with gravity, like the deep tide pulling at the bones of the earth.

"No, child. I am not a god of blood. I do not drink the lives of those who kneel. I remember when offerings were made of songs, of rivers redirected, of rain called down to nourish the hungry. What you offer is heavy. Beautiful, in its way. But you misunderstand the current."

“Long ago, in an age when the desert winds carried secrets and the stars spoke to those who listened, this site stood as a sacred threshold. It was a liminal crossing between the Material Plane and the endless, churning depths of what your common tongue calls the Elemental Plane of Water.”

"Here, beneath the burning sun and pale moonlight, priests of Nethys raised an altar upon the edge of a crystal-clear oasis. They carved a summoning circle into the stone. Their purpose was to call forth a mighty water spirit from the deep currents beyond the veil. Not to enslave, but to bind it in sacred accord, a guardian sworn to keep balance and ward the passage between worlds.”

“They named me Nahlun, and sealed me in trust within a shrine beneath this very oasis. Around this pact, they built a sanctuary. They worshipped here, poured their magic into the earth, and in doing so, wove the place itself with a tapestry of divine and arcane energy. The waters thrived, luminous and pure. The desert, for once, knew the gift of life.”

"But the currents of history are cruel. The priest who summoned me sacrificed his life in the pact, and his body was buried below, his essence fueling the binding lock that keeps me tethered not only to this plane, but to this oasis. Now, the priests are long gone, their names swallowed by time and dust. Raiders came. They were faithless women and men driven by greed and conquest. They tore through the sacred site with no heed for the gods, no care for the binding circle or the spirit within. They shattered the temple above, scattered the bones of the faithful, and left the oasis to be forgotten.”

“Yet the altar has endured. The seal has held. Worn by the years, half-buried beneath sand and water, it still hums faintly with the memory of its purpose. I, too, endure, bound within its waters by a sacred charge to protect. But… The waters are receding. The oasis is dying, and with it, so shall I.”

“Unless I am released. I am magically bound against approaching the seal. The ancient shrine lies beneath these waters still, sunken and silent. If you would aid me, you must descend, uncover the truth of the binding, and face what has twisted in time: wards gone haywire, and a corrupted echo of the guardian priest’s essence, warped by centuries of solitude and the unraveling of the seal.”

“If you succeed in releasing me from this oath, I will gift you a token of my essence, a blessing born of the deep: a fragment of elemental power, as eternal as the tides and as fluid as magic itself. But time is running out. The water drops. The seal thins.”

"I have been bound too long to accept chains in another’s name. If you would honor me, then live. Restore the balance they broke when they buried me."

"Your sacrifice is not in dying. It is in living with purpose."

From the dimlit halls of her mind, Ophelia becomes aware of the others beseeching her, beseeching the elemental spirit, as if they are birds fluttering insistently outside a closed window.  She is astonished to discover tears brimming unshed in her shimmering violet eyes that her companions... care.

Yet, she has already made up her mind.  She had been ready to die, for of what import is her own life when she had never hoped to leave the desert alive anyway, only to find the source of the mystery and the magic that drew her like a moth to a flame.  Yet Nahlun asks her not to die, but to live purposefully.

Ophelia is not unaware of the two corpses arranged by the pool, and what their ominous import might be.  Yet she does not ask about them.  She glances a brief apology to the others, then bows her head once more to the Veiled Current.  She will go into the depths.  With her companions or alone.

"No end, you ask, but a pact restored
O ancient current, living fountain
To live, yet bring back what came before
Seeking balance, my soul to tether
Duty weighing more than a mountain,
While death floats lighter than a feather"

By the last light of the setting sun, Ophelia stands and steps towards the water.