It was a good year.

The High Holy was tired.

This year had been trying. The city of Torm openly violated church decree, opening its gates to the forsaken. Spire's political unrest and subsequent violence cost a hiearch their life. According to rumors, a terrible Unshaped named "The Queen of Weeping Shadows" had enslaved the ghosts of the southern ruins.

With a weary sigh the ancient raised a pale hand, tracing an unseen sigil into the air. There was a brief hiss, not dissimilar to the sound of air rushing out of an opened window. A small orb covered in eyes emerged, hovering inches above the the High Holy's palm. 

"Yurn, feeble thing that can never look away..." The pale being spoke with lazy, assumed authority. "...show me the progress of the potential keys."

Yurn's many eyes opened wide as a series of images entered the High Holy's consciousness. A tenebrate woman weeps softly as she raises her heart's blade against an unrelenting foe. A chib searches his pack for something to save his friends. A warmechanoid lumbers alone, without purpose, somewhere beneath the surface.

Yurn was dismissed with the being's ancient smile, evaporating to that place between reality where it belonged. Five keys had already been claimed, only six were needed - and the High Holy had their choice of three. Perhaps all this hardship was not in vain.

"Next year then." They said, finally allowing themselves the luxury of slumber.