“What is it thou craves?”

“Sustenance!”

Dirge snorted and shook his head in annoyance. The pots had no eyes yet he could feel their gaze, the gentle sound of dry clay rotating on the dungeon’s brick flooring echoing off the walls. They had been amicable enough, if a bit loud and unknowable in their desires as enchanted objects.

“Ye must be more specific, if thou art to aid you.” He tried again. He was sympathetic to their wailing of abandonment by their master, as strange as they were.

Clattering seemed to work like whispers between the creatures, their lids shifting about and bodies clinking as they huddled together to further discuss. 'It will take them time to consider, no doubt,' Dirge thought idly, enjoying the warmth of the ash and cinder piled in the corners of the room. Most of it had spilled in excess over the large, ever-burning copper brazier in the middle. The smoke from the fire swirled and disappeared above them, the ceiling nowhere in sight despite the room's illumination. There was some kind of magic to the flames, stalwart enough to be smelled if one had the nose for it - he did not, but he had seen his mother use magic like this plenty of times before in the dark crypts of home.

His ears swiveled as the pots seemed to come to a consensus and dipped his head in curious acknowledgement as they approached as a group, like a flock of birds.

“Would thou be agreeable enough to offer these forsaken beings sustience, we yearn for flecks of rotted iron, the soil clinging to thy hooves, the dust settled in thy coat.” One pot - large, diamond-shaped, spoke after some time. It paused, and rattled anxiously as it chose its next words. 

“A taste of thy hair, perhaps.” It finally rasped. A chorus of excited clinking rose up around him. Dirge considered the pots for a moment, mulling over their words, though it was mainly to have them hold whatever breath an animated pot might hold. He smiled gently as they rattled in anticipation.

“Thy request is a humble one.” He spoke gently. “Ye shall have it all.” 

A small chorus of cheers and jubilant clattering erupted into the room. He did as they had requested, tapping the dirt and flecks of ore from his weary hooves, shaking a great cloud of sweet sediment into the air from his coat. He eyed his tail - overgrown as it was, dragging along the floor uselessly - and with some tactical flair, cut it with a sharp blade.

He watched with curiosity as the pots gathered up locks of hair in their own way, bringing them to the main brazier and leaping into it, one by one. The smell was atrocious, but not one he was unfamiliar with, working in his family’s catacombs. The pots rolled with the strands, flames and ash, and came out new. Long, swirling, inky lines melded to their surfaces, and they seemed pleased by their new designs and assumedly full bellies.

He barely understood the manner of their being or pleasure, but felt some sort of fondness in his heart for the odd creatures. Though quick to request aid, they seemed entirely distracted by the offerings and forgot their guest after some time, but Dirge did not mind. Instead he sat and continued to absorb the cheer of the creatures and the tender warmth of the room for a while longer, and once the feast began to die down, there was an exchange of well-wishes before he slipped back into the cold darkness of the dungeon.