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We know not when Ukaezai first tired of her duty and began eliciting her entertainment from unsuspecting Mer. Perhaps it was a passing fancy before its culmination. If it was, this went undetected by her masters.
In monsoon season, when the Strid was full and even the Graht Oaks fought to keep the soil beneath them, the master of archives and half his assistants opened the mighty doors to the reliquary.
Taking flasks from their hips, they drank deep, turning to stone in the threshold. Propped open by their petrified forms, there was nothing to stop the rain. Eight months of wet and exposure to the elements found even our best kept tomes bobbing like lillies, awash in a paper-strewen sea.
When asked what led her to forsake her duty, Ukaezai laughed and dismissed us as fools.
As punishment, we stripped her of her physical shell. She would no longer freely tread our halls, with knowledge to keep her occupied. By the Heart of Anumaril, we bound her in our deepest vaults, where she must be content to watch, to listen, and to serve.