Ramanda

When the monoliths of The Crystal Highlands of Armaria hummed their quietest song, Ramanda pressed their face against a humming crystal not for knowledge, but for an audience. The energy that answered left a searing mark from temple to jaw, a price for a forbidden introduction. The wizards called it a madness, a psychic injury that explained the vacant, possessed stare. Ramanda encourages this diagnosis. The absurd slice of cake they wear is a perfect distraction. No one looks past its frosted shell to see the glyphs hidden beneath, or to notice how their eyes glow with borrowed light as they whisper to something reflected in the polished obsidian walls. They are a trainee, but their master is the hungry silence between the monoliths' songs.