They say if you act a role long enough, it becomes a reality. I can confirm. This is perhaps the most insidious and soul-destroying aspect of spy craft.-RedactedSakra Krii'ari ka Norgard stood atop the frosted hillside overlooking the campsite. The soldiers were complaining, which was a good sign. About the cold. About the wet. About the fact that they were facing elusive burrowing monsters. Really, the subject of their complaints didn't seem to matter much. By Sakra's experience, it was when soldiers stopped complaining that things were really taking a turn for the worse.The Ranger contingent gathered in a loose circle a ways off from the main camp. Their newest member stood smack dab in the middle of the ritual. Silas' father's eyes were closed, with his hands clasped behind his back and his head tilted as far as it would go.Arcane power thrummed in the air as the seven Rangers channeled their wills. A tall spear of mana rose above their heads, its tip hovering a handspan above the frozen earth as if to threaten the very land itself. Seven stabilizing columns jutted out from a bulbous arbor that supported the main shaft and slowly rotated the entire construct to the Rangers' wills.Even as she watched, three arcane fins unfurled like spring flowers above the great construct. Hair-like tendrils trembled within the great sails, reflecting the microscopic, arcane perturbations occurring in the area. In the Fabric, as the driders would speak of it."Clear!" Ranger Illudra called in a strong, clear voice, causing the encamped soldiers to instinctively duck and curse.Medlas's will flared, and the massive piledriver rocketed into the earth. A subsonic detonation radiated outwards, washing over Sakra like a hungry predator intent on snuffing out her will. She casually redirected the pulse, weathering the storm with practiced ease. The amount of complaining and cursing among the soldiers spiked, however. (...)