The brain is a marvelous, ineffable entity that is greater than the sum of its parts. And it is fallible. And it knows when to shut down, when to check out. Some indeterminate period of time after the battle with the beastmen, Dorn and Aele's brains began to take tentative sips of the that complex brew, Reality.

"Ughhh..." Dorn groans. "Exie? Exie, are you o— Recollection smashes into Dorn's brain and it gags and reflexively jerks away, and Dorn gratefully embraces blackness again. Aele looks over at his unconscious friend with remorse, with compassion, and yes — with somewhat of a fatherly affection for the younger man. "Old friend, I am so very sorry. Sorry for your loss, and sorrier still for the battle ahead of you. Exie was my newfound acquaintance, but very clearly she was your everything."

Beyond the depths of Arden Vul, dawn is breaking upon the Surface world; but in the subterranean environs of the dungeon, cycles of day and night become distant concepts. Here, it is sameness: cold, damp, uncomfortable, dangerous. Violence and death live here. Nine hours have passed since a force of myconid men ambushed not only Dorn and Aele, but also their beastmen foes.

Dorn has a headache, but he is sitting up, drinking water from his own waterskin, digging a biscuit from his own pack. He looks over at Aele. "They didn't take our stuff?" he asks, stupidly.

"No, and we seem to be in an old abandoned storage room." He indicates the closed door with a gesture. The door is of wood, banded in rusty but still very strong iron.

"Are we prisoners?" Dorn asks. He can faintly perceive the door. Luminous lichen provides some illumination.

"There are six myconid men beyond the door. Ask me how I know that..."

"How do you know?" Dorn asks.

"Because they very roughly insisted I stay put when I tried to open the door and take a stroll. It seems we are being held for some reason."

"I lost consciousness," Dorn says. "Near the end of the fight, when we were about to be killed. I seem to recall seeing you unconscious too, before I collapsed."

"You did. Somehow they rendered us unconscious. Us, and the remaining beastmen too."

"They killed them, I suppose?"

"No actually. They are being kept somewhere close by. I very clearly heard their howling and bleating an hour ago."

"These ... myconids. What are they? They're obviously intelligent."

The priest considers. "Indeed. That they have left us our weapons and other supplies seems to suggest that they perceive us to be of little threat, and that perhaps we'll be released soon. We can hope, anyway."

"All my hopes for the future have fled."

Aele squats down next to the fighter. "Dorn, listen to me. There are no words adequate for your loss, and I will remain your staunch friend, whether you rage or weep. But you must not give in to despair or apathy. Guard yourself against these, my friend."

Silence for ten heartbeats. "It is sage advice, old friend, and I take it to heart. I will rage and weep, perhaps both at once, but despair? Never. I will see Exie avenged. If we escape this present situation with our lives, I will make it my purpose to absolutely eradicate these beastmen. I will carve such a swathe of destruction through Arden Vul that they will sing about it when our bones have long since turned to powder."

A deep, resonant voice booms thunderously. "Bring me the Interlopers!" Aele and Dorn get to their feet as the door to their impromptu holding cell is opened. A man stands there — except, this is no man. This may once have been a man, but what stands silhouetted in the door frame is now something ... other. A bloated, grey-skinned corpse, covered in shelf mushrooms and pulsing white mycelium, beckons the two adventurers to leave their pen. They smell of damp earth and rot is strong. Worms wriggle through the wet, glistening compacted compost innards of this Fungal Servant.

It beckons, but it does not speak — probably cannot.

"Don't have to tell me twice," Aele says, and he adjusts the mace looped through his belt as Dorn follows him. They find themselves in the incomprehensibly vast cavern that is home to an entire fungal forest. Everywhere, there are luminous lichens growing on stone walls, while black, rich loam compresses under each footfall.

"Follow!" a bass, commanding voice says. Dorn cuts his eyes to Aele and they share a look. They've both realized it at the same time: the voice is in their minds. This vegetative abomination hasn't spoken.

"Lead the way, Cabbage Patch," Dorn says, and as they fall in behind Sir Slime the priest comments, "You do a disservice to cabbages everywhere." They are led for a couple minutes down a path that parallels a stone wall, part of the massive cavern itself. The ambient light from mosses and other biolumenescent organisms is considerable, perhaps comparable to a full moon on the Surface. They pass toadstools tiny, man-sized, and huge. The thing that leads them turns, taking a path through a forest of mushrooms a dozen feet high. Vines growing along the ground visibly move and slither. Here and there are groups of brightly glowing shrooms in clumps, sucking nutrients from the loam.

They pass phalanxes of mushroom men, seven feet tall, marching in the opposite direction. "How did they knock us out, I wonder?" Dorn says. "Poison? I don't recall any darts or —"

"— spores, most likely," Aele answers. "I imagine that—"

—"Be silent!" commands the deep, resonant Voice.

Now they turn a bit more rightward, perhaps moving closer to the center of the great forest. A shambling mound of vegetation blocks the path ahead, but moves aside — with a sound like a felled tree being dragged through a cornfield — after a few seconds of non-verbal communication with the heroes' fungal tour guide.

The air in the Fungal Court is heavy, tasting of damp earth and an overwhelming, bittersweet musk of ripening spores. As Aele and Dorn are ushered into the central cavern, the bioluminescence shifts from the faint green of the tunnels to a throbbing, rhythmic violet.

Massive, shelf-like fungi protrude from the walls like the balconies of an opera house, packed with silent observers. Myconid guards clutch spears of sharpened obsidian, their caps scarred and weathered. Slumbering in the shadows are bloated, beetle-like monstrosities and shambling mounds of sentient lichen that pulse in time with the chamber’s light.

At the center of the hall, rising from a throne of calcified puffballs, is The Sovereign. It is a titan of decay, standing twelve feet tall with a cap that spans the width of a small cottage. Its "skin" is a mosaic of peeling ivory and deep indigo veins, and long, translucent filaments drift from its gills like a ghostly beard.

The violet pulse of the chamber intensifies as Dorn and Aele are brought to the center of the court.

The Sovereign does not move, yet as the heroes approach, a pressurized hum vibrates behind their eyes—not a sound, but a psychic weight.

"Soft-fleshed walkers... you bring the heat of the sun-lit world into the cool silence of my garden. I am the Root, the Rot, and the Rebirth. You stand in the heart of the Mycelium. Speak your intent, before your breath becomes the very air my children drink."

Aele catches Dorn's eyes and the priest very deliberately draws forth the silvered ankh of Thoth, laying a finger aside his nose with a wink that communicates 'follow suit...

The rhythmic thrum in their skulls grows sharper as the heroes are forced to a halt by their myconid escort. To the left and right, the beastmen they were battling only hours ago are no longer the frenzied predators Dorn remembers. They are lashed to pillars of giant stalk-wood by thick, emerald-green vines that pulse with a sickening, peristaltic rhythm. The beastmen strain, their muscles bulging, but the flora holds with the strength of iron.

Above them, small, pale myconids drift like nursing ghosts, dusting the captives with a fine, shimmering powder. The Sovereign looks down at the struggling creatures with a cold, detached paternalism.

The Sovereign’s psychic projection shifts from a hum to a resonant, echoing baritone that smells of ancient papyrus and desert dust.

"Do not envy them, little strays. They are the fortunate ones. Their chaos will be pruned; their discordant screams will soon join the harmonious silence of the Great Compost. They go to a higher purpose—to serve the Root as they never could serve themselves."

The massive entity leans forward, its translucent filaments brushing the floor.

"You woke only because I willed it. You breathe only because I allow it. I am the end of all things, yet I remember the beginning. I remember the gilded halls of the Great River and the secrets of the Ibis. I am Lycandrus, returned from the soil of ages."

The psychic weight becomes a crushing pressure, and the heroes are forced to their knees.

"Give me your names, your purpose, and your absolute fealty. Tell me why I should not plant you alongside these beasts and watch you bloom in the dark."

Aele catches Dorn's eye once more before turning his attention to The Sovereign. The priest holds forth the silver ankh, cutting his eyes briefly to ensure Dorn is doing the same. "Great Lycandrus, we are humble acolytes of Thoth, assaulted without provocation as we sought to make pilgrimage to this hallowed forest, to offer our obeisance to you."

Ask the Dice: How well do the heroes sell this? Each burns a Fortune Point to gain advantage as they make checks against their Charisma. Answer: They sell it more than adequately. Dorn rolled his Charisma score, but Aele got a 4. Very convincing.

The crushing pressure of the telepathy immediately lifts. The Sovereign’s "voice" loses its abrasive edge, replaced by a haunting, scholarly curiosity. "We are pleased that you sought to make this pilgrimage. As Thoth's chief servant, I foreknew your peril as I saw you journeying from afar. Long have the servants of Thoth been menaced by the bestial once-men. Not to worry. They are being processed and will soon join my numerous Spore Servants. Long have these vermin troubled us."

Aele lets his head hang forward, eyes downcast in obeissance. Then, he slowly draws forth the necklace from beneath his hauberk, displaying the holy symbol of Thoth. "I have served Thoth for twenty seasons of the sunlit world. But this youngling by my side is a recent convert. He is overcome by your august presence, which accounts for his lack of speech. Great Lycandrus, your servant humbly requests your leave to briefly depart this hallowed place in order to take our fallen comerade to the Surface. We wish to resupply and then return to this realm, to fight your enemies."

The Sovereign’s massive, fungal bulk tremors, its cap tilting back as if gasping for air it does not need. The numerous myconid guards lower their obsidian spears in a synchronized, swaying motion.

The voice of The Sovereign is no longer a command; it is a trembling, ancient resonance, heavy with the weight of centuries.

"The Ibis... the Quill... the Infinite Librarian. That sigil... it is a spark of the Great Sun in this tomb of rot. Aele, is it? You carry the mark of the Master of Words. I see the ink of the Thothian scrolls in the marrow of your soul. Forgive the coldness of my welcome; the soil has made me forget the warmth of the temple fires."

The Sovereign—the spirit of Lycandrus—lowers its head in a slow, creaking bow.

"We are kin in the Great Work, Priest. You serve the Knowledge that creates; I serve the Knowledge that decomposes. Both are written in the Ledger of Thoth. Your request is granted. But first, while my servants collect valuables of the beastmen for your use, join me in the Ceremony of Decay."

As the Sovereign addresses Aele with newfound warmth, he gestures dismissively toward the bound beastmen. The "grace" he has shown the heroes is not extended to them.

The transformation is a slow, agonizing symphony of biological horror. The emerald vines aren't just binding the beastmen; they are feeding. The heroes watch as hair-thin tendrils, white as bone, begin to burrow into the beastmen's tear ducts, nostrils, and ears.

One beastman tries to scream, but only a thick, grey cloud of spores escapes his throat. His jaw distends as a shelf of orange bracket fungi bursts through the skin of his neck, hardening into a natural collar.

Their muscles don't just weaken; they begin to slough beneath the skin. The outline of their ribcages shift as the internal organs are slowly digested and replaced by a dense, fibrous mycelium.

The frantic terror in their eyes begins to glaze over, replaced by a dull, rhythmic violet glow. Their twitching limbs settle into a terrifying, mechanical stillness. They are no longer creatures of flesh and blood; they are becoming living compost, their nervous systems hijacked by the Sovereign’s hive-mind.

"Do not look away, Priest," Lycandrus whispers. "Observe the ultimate library. Their memories, their strengths, their very essence... it is all being indexed into the Forest. Nothing is lost. It is merely... archived."

Lycandrus leans his massive, shelf-like cap toward Aele and Dorn, the movement sounding like the rustle of ancient parchment. The violet light in the chamber dims, focusing into a tight, conspiratorial amber glow around the heroes.

The Sovereign’s psychic voice drops to a dry, raspy whisper, the mental equivalent of a scroll being unrolled for the first time in millennia.

"Because you carry the Ibis, I will give you a truth that the mindless crawlers of these halls have forgotten. You seek the deeper descents, do you not? You seek the heart of Arden Vul, where the stone remembers the stars."

He extends a long, spindly finger—more a cluster of rootlets than a hand—pointing toward the damp, crumbling floor of the court.

"Below us, where the Great Pipe heaves the breath of the mountain, there lies the Hall of Records. The beastmen and the scavengers think it a tomb, but it is a vault. There is a stone door there, marked with the Feather of Truth. It will not open for blood, nor for iron."

The Sovereign reaches into a cavity in his own chest—a hollow filled with a glowing, bioluminescent nectar—and withdraws a small, calcified object. It is a fossilized scarab, turned to translucent green agate by the fungal enzymes. He offers it to Aele.

"Take this. It is a fragment of my own calcified heart from the life before. When you reach the door of the Hall, place this within the eye of the Ibis carved upon the lintel. It will recognize the resonance of a true Priest of Thoth. But heed me, Aele: the secrets within are guarded by those who died refusing to forget. They may not recognize your face, even if they recognize your god.

He places the scarab gently in to Aele's quivering, outstretched palm. "Here, guard it well, loyal priest. My servants will escort you to a place where you can leave these Depths. Come to me upon your return, that I may learn of recent happenings in the Surface world and my task you with a special mission for Thoth."

Only a few hours later, Dorn and Aele stand in Burdock's Vale. They have fashioned a travois to bear Exie's corpse. They set out for Newmarket, each heeding the worries and broodings of a sorrow-laden heart.

P.S. this info not kept online, just locally: it's likely that the heroes at some point will use the Heart-Seed Scarab to access the Hall of Cylinders (i.e., the Hall of Records). The Sovereign will certainly attempt to manipulate them into doing so, for he cannot breach that location himself.