...The mundane aspects of the embalming rituals are perfectly straightforward. Indeed, sufficient archeological evidence exists that shows these rituals have not changed in centuries and are still practiced by a few fringe groups in modern Osirion. The embalmers used razored hooks to siphon the brain out through the nose. Lateral incisions hidden on the sides of the body provided the means to hollow out the lungs and liver. Precisely eleven layers of linen strips cover the skin, glued together and hardened with a resin. The resulting shell protects the body’s exterior to safeguard its soul for the journey to the afterlife.
But while the mundane process remains largely unchanged, what is missing are the subtle and delicate strands of power woven into the cloth. For all our study, our research, and our endless fascination with mummification, the most potent secrets of these ancient embalmers still elude us. The brand of necromancy they practiced in those days has no counterpart in the modern world...
***
He had explained the situation in brief: shifting sands in the Osiriani deserts have uncovered a score of tombs and pyramids, some major and some minor. The Pathfinder agents already in Osirion have been busy: teams have gone to all the tombs, often to profitable results, and often to only pick up the leavings that other scavengers have left behind.... but it was business as usual until a Pathfinder Agent named the Mithral Scarab submitted a report directly to Valsin himself.
The Society's highest-ranked operative in Osirion, a woman who goes by the moniker of 'the Mithril Scarab' is an accomplished robber of tombs... and other things. She'd said she had a very important lead, and requested the resources of the Pathfinder Society in the form of a full team of trained, expert cryptbreakers.
"Unfortunately," Valsin had said wryly, "I've got you two.
"Seriously-- we're strapped, at the moment. There's few agents in Osirion who haven't yet been assigned... you'll be fleshing out their numbers. One's an alchemist, name of Vorthos-- a little bit of an odd duck but what alchemist isn't, eh? The other man you'll meet is a native-- not truly an Agent of the society, but there as... oh, eyes and ears of the crown, I guess you could say."
"Together, you four will meet with the Mithril Scarab, and serve as the team she's requested for whatever this 'really big deal' is... damned secretive woman. You'll report to her primarily.
"Your ship leaves in two hours. Make what purchases you need, and be on your way. Here's your slips for your berths on the ship. Vorthos and the other fellow, Seferneru, are to meet you at an inn called The Dung Beetle-- I couldn't make this horsepuckey up-- at dusk on 12 Desnus, and every day after that until you make contact. I imagine they'll be hard to miss-- the Osiriani is supposed to, uh... look... very... Osirian.
"The Scarab said not to flash around that you're Pathfinders... she plans to attend an auction of relics held by some chap called the Kemeserian, a broker and dealer in antiquities. She suggests you attend the auction and place bids on an item in increments of eleven gold pieces--" Valsin's face is fixed in the deadpan expression of a man who considers what he's saying to be ridiculous, but who will indulge someone else's mad whim, "--so that she may recognize you. She'll take it from there, supposedly.
"Play it safe. The Scarab's keeping everything hush-hush-- even avoiding the usual channel of Amenopheus, in case some spies have gotten access to his records-- and who knows what threats are lurking for you. If it's a crypt-breaking, well... you're liable to run into things that ought to stay dead. Thus, your presence, Abram. Lyrian-- well, it's not the first time we've sent you into Osirion, is it? I'm sure you'll perform to expectations.
"Any questions?"
That was four days gone. Since then, the fast cutter Undine's Pearl has taken you the hundred miles from Absalom to legendary Sothis. The Black Dome of Sothis shines like obsidian beneath the mid-day sun, dominating the otherwise blank desert horizon from miles away. Up close, the city and its dome are no less overwhelming: Sothis boasts a hundred thousand souls living within its narrow, cramped streets. The shell of a truly titanic scarab beetle forms the dome, and in its shade all the better people of Sothis live-- including the Ruby Prince himself, Khemet III.
Hawkers shout at passers-by in Kelish, Taldane, and Osirion, the languages mingling into a white noise of trader's cant. On every corner, it seems, canny-eyed Osirians are selling maps of the pyramids, or scarab charms to protect from curses. The streets are busy with outlanders such as yourself-- men and women whose heavy backpacks, ropes, picks, and other tools suggest they too may be part of the 'gold rush' for Osirion's buried wealth.
The locals of the infamous Malhitu Bazaar have given you directions to The Dung Beetle...
***
Paying off his debt to the Society has been lucrative enough for the alchemist-- and more importantly, perhaps, it's offered opportunities for the application of his intellect. The Society passes him this or that puzzle to be solved, or requests for brewed potions-- and sometimes, they even let him back in the field. He has learned something of the other agents stationed in the country: especially a woman called the Mithral Scarab, whose knowledge of tombs and Osiriani history is said to be vast, although it seems that few enough agents have ever actually met her. Certainly Vorthos has not, to the best of his knowledge.
But all the same, there had been a note under his room's door, the night before...
Vorthos-
I've had my eye on you for a while. You do decent work. An opportunity's arisen for field work, and I'm assembling a team. If you're in to learn more, be at the Dung Beetle at dusk tomorrow night. You'll meet with two out-of-town agents, coming in to fill the gap with all our local agents out cracking the newly discovered tombs. One's a paladin of Pharasma. Don't know much about the other. There's also a local who's not formally with the Society-- a Sphinx-chosen.
Once you've made contact with them, you should all adjourn to the auction the Kemeserian is holding tomorrow night-- I trust you know of him. Once there, bid on an item of your choosing, in increments of eleven gold. I'll know this as the signal to meet with your group, and tell you the job. Burn this note.The note is not signed, but there is a small stamp in silver ink in the shape of a scarab...
Vorthos certainly does know of the Kemeserian-- an antiquities dealer with a reputation for selling the real thing at his auctions: no cheap knock-offs or forgeries to be found there. He has a day to mull over the note, and the next night leads him to the drinking-house and inn known as the Dung Beetle...
***
For a long moment, the sage studied you in silent scrutiny, then nodded to himself as if satisfied.
"I am Amenopheus, a servant of the Prince like you yourself," he said in a voice dry as all the sands. "You have distinguished yourself by your dedication to the Forthbringer-- but you know this, as your flesh bears the mark of that distinction." The old man's shrewd eyes flick to the ka stone briefly, then back to Seferneru's face.
"But now, an even greater honor awaits you, soldier. There is a task at hand which, if my suspicions are correct, may prove vitally important to our mighty land, and to your holy sovereign. You are aware that, of late, our exceptionally violent khamsin season has uncovered any number of tombs in the deep desert-- and the vultures descend from all the lands of the world, to pick Osirion's history clean."
Amenopheus tsks, then dismisses this with a wave of his hand. "Yet repugnant as this practice may seem on the surface-- as disrespectful as it may seem-- the greatness of our past serves us in the present, as well. The Ruby Prince receives the just portion from all such finds, after all, and the gold of foreigners flows into our country like a river. Even in death, our ancestors provide for us. Osirion shall rise again, on such wealth, and those who thought they robbed our bones shall realize they only sharpened our spears.
"But enough rhetoric. I speak not of what may be, but what is: there is a Pathfinder agent in our city who calls herself the Mithral Scarab. She believes she has found some expectional lead. I have my suspicions on what it may be, but I will not speak them there. She has requested of the Pathfinder Society that agents be sent to follow this 'lead' of hers.... I have petitioned that you be among them, as a condition... for who better to accompany the Society than a native son, whose loyalty to the Ruby Prince is beyond question?
"It is the desire of the Forthbringer that you accompany this expedition, for several reasons. One: to be certain that the Society does not cheat the crown by, shall we say, creative reporting of whatsoever they might find. All recovered items must be faithfully listed on the report to our Prince, may he live forever. And two: if, as I suspect... this expedition will lead into the depths of one of the greatest periods of our nation's past... then there must be someone who understands how vital it is that our past remains our past."
Amenopheus steeples his fingers before his face, his eyes hooded, then speaks again. "The legendary pharaohs of days gone by were great men and women, yes. They also sought power above all, and did not temper it with the wisdom shown by holy Khemet III. Even beyond death, they grasped for power, and went unwillingly to the next life and their kingdom within it. Should these great rulers wish to... renew their reign over the mortal world, then the guardians of the kingdom must stand between them and this goal, and see to it they cannot reach for the throne of holy Khemet. This is a sacred duty."
The sage clears his throat. "You will seek out the Pathfinders at dusk tonight, at a drinking-house called The Dung Beetle. One, Vorthos by name, has dwelt here some time, although he is a foreigner. The others are also outlanders-- I am told one serves Pharaz-Mat, the Goddess Who Judges at Death and Decides the Afterlife. From there, your group will make contact with the Mithral Scarab, and she shall further inform you of your task. Have you any questions, servant of the Pharaoh?"
...
As a native of Sothis, the great Black Dome holds no novelty for you, although it may still awe you. Surely nowhere in all the world has sights like mighty Sothis. You are able to make your way easily enough, come dusk, to the drinking-house the sage spoke of, and to the destiny that awaits.
The Dung Beetle is doing a brisk business, this Oathday night. Perhaps half of the patrons at the tables are Osiriani natives: the other half all appear to be foreigners, and many are exotic by Sothis's standards. Halflings, gnomes, elves, and stranger races liberally fill out the tables. Even the snatches of conversation that can be casually overheard will quickly reveal that many of the people here are would-be tomb raiders.
The gossip that fills the air is of a score of freshly uncovered tombs, revealed by the shifting sands. It has set off a gold rush, of sorts: the foolish and the wise, the amateurs and the professionals, all rushing to plunder Osirion's past before anyone else can get a chance.
Lyrian Arkwright arrives at the Dung Beetle headfirst. He crashes through the wooden lattice that covers the window and drops heavily onto a table, dashing food and drink all over the patrons seated there. Wiping blood from his mouth, he staggers to his feet in time to face the hulking half-orc who threw him, squeezing in through the window after him.
Lyrian seizes up a bottle and smashes it against the half-orc's forehead. The big antagonist just growls and stretches its thick, corded neck muscles from side to side. Lyrian smiles apologetically and dodges out of the way of the huge meaty fist as it plows past his ear and strikes instead the man who had been seated behind him.
Soon, a brawl is in its beginning stages and Lyrian is crawling under a table unnoticed. He pauses for a moment to admire a pair of enticingly shapely female legs from that unique under-table vantage. Just as he is about to get going again, the half-orc seizes him by the ankles and pulls him back into the brawl.
Lyrian seizes a chair and breaks it over the half-orc's head, which only makes it angrier. The two brawl across the main room's floor using chair legs as makeshift weapons. The half-orc strikes Lyrian a solid blow that sends him flying backwards, crashing into a table and landing in the lap of the half-elf whose legs he had earlier ogled. He smiles winningly and then slides off just as his antagonist shatters the table and his makeshift chair-leg weapon.
In the moment when it seems Lyrian might get away, the half-orc's arm shoots out and grabs the archaeologist by the collar, hauling him close. The huge yellow tusks gleam dully in the lamp light half an inch from Lyrian's eyes. Murder lurks in the half-orc's own eyes and things look dark for our hero. Then Lyrian seizes up a bowl of spicy ground pepper from the bar and blows it into the huge half-orc's eyes. The villain howls and lets Lyrian go as it grabs for its eyes and flails around blindly. Lyrian grabs a wooden trencher and slams it hard across the half-orc's face, laying him out cold on the floor.
As all eyes in the place watch him, Lyrian sheepishly searches through his pockets and finally pulls out several gold coins, laying them on the bar. They are far more valuable than the wooden furniture broken and food spilled. "Whiskey," he says.
Abram walks through the front door, just a few moments after his companions rather more... notable entrance. As the fight seems to pick up and spread, Abram moves towards the bar with a slow deliberate pace. A large man, wearing armour, and packing a sword as tall as he is himself, not a single blow is directed his way and he walks through the maelstrom as if it were not even there.
A leather skinned chap, a sailor by the look of him, and a half-elf by breed, jumps up on a table next to him as he nears the bar. The sea-dog raises a tankard in his hand like a club and coils his legs to leap from his table to another, right across Abram's path. At the last moment, the man catches sight of the large dark skinned man crossing his path and risks a glance up at his face, his legs still springing him into action. However, when he sees the face and demeanour of the man beside him, he stops mid leap, putting a foot down on the edge of the round table and thereby tipping it, himself, and several pitchers of beer in various stages of emptying onto the floor. The man lands unceremoniously on his chin, legs up in the air. Knocked senseless by the fall, he just lies there. Abram steps over him without glancing down.
Abram, for his part, is somewhat lost in thought. Some of it on the antics of his travelling companion, but most of them on being back in the country of his birth. Home. Home? I suppose it's as close to home as anywhere. At least it is familiar. The heat feels good and I've missed this dry air.
Abram is a man of only average height, or maybe a little more, standing at about 6 feet tall; he is however nearly as wide as two other men abreast and has arms as thick as a man's legs and legs more suited to tree trunks. His garb is a bit out of place in this tavern, not by virtue of culture, but merely by placing. His skin is dark, like his eyes, and when he speaks, his accent will reveal him to be a native of the area. That he carries weapons and armour marks him as a bit out of place, but given the late influx of adventurers to the area does not draw as many glances as it would have a year ago. His plate is burnished black, and a large swirl indicating the goddess Pharasma is hammered into the breastplate and blued compared to the black of the other plates.
He moves up to the bar and takes a seat just as his companion is managing to pull himself up to a stool. He motions to the bartender to get his attention. "Wine. Something red, the darker the better; and dry." He follows by dropping a few coins on the counter.
Not turning to look at Lyrian but addressing him all the same, Abram remarks plainly, "You didn't have to insult his mother you know. With a half-orc? You know that's going to be a soft spot no matter what his story. Cut him that deep and he might just have well drawn steel as throw you through that window."
"I didn't know she was his mother," Lyrian says. "Auset and I are old friends. How was I to know she was no longer in the business?"
He probes a loose tooth with his tongue. "Kid's got a right cross like a titan's hammer."
"You see these two we're supposed to meet? 'Looks like an Osirian', he said. Like looking for a needle in a stack of needles."
|
Seferneru gets to the Dung Beetle at dinner-time, after taking leave from Amenopheus. He has no wish of indulging in late-night drinking, and the tavern would not be his place of choice for meeting the group. Nevertheless, without letting any emotion show on his stone-like face, he gets to the Beetle.
Unfortunately, as he is about to enter, he notices some sort of brawl going on. The fight is unskilledly performed and unpleasant to witness.
The half-orc is too fat for half the techniques he is trying to accomplish. He may be drunk, too. He hammers around like a madman, while his adversary is unfocused on the battle and takes it like a joke. He gains the upper hand in the end, more because of the half-orc demerit than because he really deserved it.
After the brawl is over, Seferneru enters the joint. He endures the disgusted stares the heavy drinkers at the counter give him when he orders fresh water. When your poisoned bodies start to fail at a later age, you will remember of the wisdom of the Sphinx Disciple he is about to say, but lets it go, not wishing to start another altercation. You come wishing to loot our past, but you should instead try to make yours the teachings of our present guardians.
Looking around, he sees the armored man wearing the symbol of Pharaz-mat. With a contained sigh, he laso notices that he is sitting with one of the brawlers.
This is unpleasant. he walks over to them, then puts down his cup of water near their alcoholic beverages.
“The blessings of the Gods and of our Ruby Prince upon you” he salutes them “I am Seferneru and I carry the Mark of the Lodge.” he shows his wayfinder to Lyriam and Abram. “Am I correct in believing you will be my fellow Pathfinders in the meeting with the Mithral Scarab?”
"That's us," says Lyrian, eying first the Osirian and then his cup of water. "I'm Lyrian. This is Abram. Have you met our fourth?"
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Pulling himself up from a "quiet" corner of the bar where he could observe all the patrons and take notes. Vorthos sighs and scribbles last minute notes comparing the three sitting at the table.Before shuffling them into a tidy stack.
Walking up to them looking at each directly for an appraising moment then flicking pages and gaze to the next he plops down. " Was that really quite necessary?"He states while preening his robes for dust.
Without waiting for a reply he quickly jots down copious notes......
Looks at the young Aasimar and writes a few more before looking at the group expectantly.
"I am Vorthos." he simply states.
He looks at the rather aggressive young Musetouched and scratches out a whole paragraph angrily.
Before he carefully pulls out his Society token from one of his numerous pouches. Places it on the table, turns to the Paladin and states "I have never had the chance to study a devotee of Pharasma let alone a warrior in a their god's name you shall be interesting. I look forward to expanding my syllabus on the peoples of the Society. You shall make a fine paragraph."
Looking at the obvious Osirion he notices the lack of drink before him. Giving that a questioning pause. He appraises the gigantic man before writing one sentence on the sheet of papers before him.
Stand behind the walking mountain if battles ensues.
"You're damned right it was necessary," says Lyrian. "The next time I get thrown through a window by a bruiser out to kill me, I'll try to cause less of a disturbance, your highness."
"Let's get this show on the road. I don't want to be here when he wakes up."
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Vorthos not noticing the sharp tone turns to Lyrian saying "Thank you but Vorthos will do " taking a moment to suck in a breath he obliviously pulls out the scribbled note from The Mithril Scarab.
"I have deduced the bidding ..." He states as he points to the sentence instructing him where and when. "Should be on items garaunteed a high price. A bid of eleven on several, The Scarab shall see and know these bids as the instructed amount. With no possible chance of passing as confirmation. I do not wish to foolishly waste coin on things i have no wish to carry with a successful bid."
"Let us find the auction house then. The sooner we find this Scarab, the sooner we can determine the purpose for which we have be gathered."
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Seferneru is appalled by the behavior of the new arrival, who presented himself as Vorthos. He lacks restrain, and awareness of his surroundings. He is probably hard to predict, which could be a double-edged blade. If this is the sort of people the Pathfinder Society usually employs, they shall soon crumble to the ground.
“Who among us knows the whereabouts of this Scarab? He or she should be quite notorious, for deserving such an immodest nickname.” says Seferneru as he follows the others to the action house.
In more 'recent' eras (aka, the last few millennia), Osirion's glories have dwindled somewhat. Qadirans conquered the land in the 1530s, and mighty Osirion became but a satrapy of the Keleshite Empire. Worship of Saranrae was introduced at this time, which led, ultimately, to a line of independent Keleshite Saranrae-worshipping sultans of Osirion.
But in very recent history, the Osiriani have reclaimed their nation. Three generations ago, Khemet I led an overthrow of foreign rule. This descendant of the Pharaohs of old has brought the nation back to independence from the outside world... and his grandson, the current Pharaoh, the Ruby Prince, continues to plan Osirion's return to a position of true power and prestige among all the nations of the world. In pursuit of this, he has opened the land to explorers and archaeologists, such as the Society-- under the condition that the crown has first right of claim over what is taken from the ground, and may tax at its discretion the export of Osirion's history to other lands.
***
For whispers of the Mithral Scarab, though-- well. You have kept your ears peeled, and you have heard whispers, yes...
"...The Scarab to be at the Kemeserian's next auction... in the guise of an old crone..."
"--nonsense, I've heard she's been hanging around the south side of the Malhitu, harassing some blind beggar--"
"--don't know why everyone wants to pretend the Scarab is a woman. Finest cat burglar in the city wouldn't be no girl! It's clearly a man-- an elf, probably-- but a man, to do a man's job--"
"Come over here and say that to my face, you chauvinistic swine..."
And so it goes. Nobody seems to know exactly who the Mithral Scarab is, but many people have opinions. She (or he) is rumored to be a master of disguise, a skilled tomb robber, a scholar... some of the more outlandish whispers say she is not truly alive-- that she was a tomb robber who fell to a deadly trap, but whose will to rob the tomb was so great that not even death could keep her from completing her mission.
The Malhitu Bazaar is an overwhelming warren to those who are not prepared for its chaos. Few solid storefronts exist in its depths, but an ever-changing parade of tents, many quite large and elaborate, are the houses of business here. The city guards make half-hearted attempts to keep order, but pragmatism restricts them to dealing with the most egregious assaults-- violence and egregious theft-- and such small details as 'zoning regulations' go out the metaphorical window.
Accordingly, people stake their tents, or carts, or impromptu booths, wheresoever they can set them up-- on any unclaimed bit of ground, leaving just enough room for their tourist prey to walk.
Your ears are assailed by merchants hawking you everything from supposed tomb maps to the fabled elixir of Thuvia (which looks suspiciously like the thick beer that had been served back at the Dung Beetle, mixed with some red dye). Fortunately, between Vorthos's knowledge of the city's 'gray market' of antiquity dealing, you are able to reach the tent of the Kemeserian without incident.
The auction house is a large white pavilion, hidden among dozens just like it, each contributing to the endless maze of tents littering the Malhitu Bazaar. Inside, rows of brightly woven carpets encircle a wooden stage topped with a garish podium.
Two bare-chested, muscular guards stand at the tent's entrance and keep the obvious riff-raff out, but they give you only nods as you enter-- one man's eyes widen slightly at the sight of the ka stone on Seferneru's head. Inside is a press of people-- some of whom Lyrian and Vorthos recognize, given their past dealings in the subculture of Osirion antiquities.
A tall man in Osiriani dress who wears a smooth mask of polished gold over his face, and who carries a staff topped with a crook, is called (shockingly) the Crook Bearer. He is rumored to be a nobleman, whose obsession with collecting relics by any means is not entirely accepted by his peers... hence his semi-anonymity. Seven strong-looking men guard him, and a lockbox that most likely contains the wealth with which he intends to bid tonight.
Glaring daggers at the Crook Bearer is a thin, elderly Osiriani man whom Lyrian would definitely recognize-- the well-dressed figure is the Arch Docent of the Sothis Exhibitory, the city's museum. The two have a long history of squabbling over choice antiquities, with the Crook Bearer often outbidding the museum's funds via his personal fortune. The Arch Docent, Imhokep by name, is flanked by two burly servants of his own.
A young woman in somewhat-threadbare scholar's robes tries to make room for your group as you enter.
Standing sullenly against the back wall is a hulking half-orc who looks to be bigger than even Seferneru. He's kitted out fully in soldier's gear scavenged from what seems to be ten different armies.
A halfling with a shaved head and a top-knot is eyeing the belt-purse of a woman who is veiled head-to-toe in a white robe, in the Kelish fashion; the muscled bodyguard at her elbow does not seem to have noticed the halfling edging closer. The woman's eyes are fixed solely on the auction block.
At the front of the room there's another large group-- a tall man with the coloring of a Chelaxian, pale skin and dark, neatly-trimmed hair. The man is very richly dressed, his robes worked with delicately-embroidered symbols of Asmodeus. He holds himself with haughty arrogance. At his side stands a lean, rangy man who throws suspicious glances around ever so often. Seven soldiers dressed in the livery of Cheliax ring this man, whose attention is also absorbed by the auction.
A servant takes the podium. "The bidding shall be starting soon, good people! We thank you for your interest!"
Vorthos's eyes are watchin' like a hawk! He sees the halfling glance to left and right, surreptitiously, then sidle one step closer and flick a tiny blade into his palm. His hands move very deftly, and very quickly-- if Vorthos were not watching so closely, he might miss it-- the halfling slits the bottom of the belt-purse with a masterly touch, and starts easing gleaming coins out from the cut.
The woman still seems focused on the auction, shifting a little, impatient, as if waiting for bidding to begin.
A lean, middle-aged Osiriani with his eyes heavily lined with kohl finally takes the stage, to murmurs from the audience. By the whispers, this is the Kemeserian, the auction's host.
"Good evening, distinguished visitors... welcome to my humble establishment," he says in flawless Taldane, bowing slightly to those assembled. Gold winks at his ears and fingers.
"Let us begin with this set of golden coins, from the Age of the Black Sphinx. Marked with the heads of the Four Pharaohs of Ascension, these coins are dated by my personal scholars to six thousand years old... note the excellence of the workmanship, the fine detailing and the utter lack of tarnish... it is likely these coins never saw use in the marketplace, but were taken from the mint directly to the tomb in which they were found..."
Various of those in attendance begin to offer bids.
Vorthos and Lyrian, you are able to tell that if the coins are genuine, they should fetch a fair price of four to five hundred gold. Two Osiriani noblemen take a quick lead in the auction, bidding with each other at fifty gold, sixty, seventy-five...
Utterly without tarnish? Lyrian thinks. Then either they aren't genuine or some idiot cleaned them to 'improve their value.'
Nonetheless, he chooses to bid on this item, bidding eleven gold more than the previous bid. "Eighty-Six!" he shouts.
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"Hrmm..." Vorthos wonders..... "if untarnished and never cleaned this might be possible if they are pure gold and completely non alloyed ......and if they are genuine. That's too many "Ifs" for my liking."
After ruminating on the properties of gold for a few seconds he seems to finally notice Lyrian's bid.
Which he acknowledges with a slight nod and even fainter smile.
All the while another simultaneous thought runs through his head.
I wonder which of these patrons is the Mithril Scarab, or if the Scarab is outside the auction eavesdropping. Guess the best decision is to make a few bids in the correct increments and watch everyone's reactions......
Abram stands impassively next to his comrades, noting that Lyrian has started the signal,he turns his attention more to the chamber and the audience. As he often does when standing in large groups, particularly where mixed company is involved, he starts searching the room for evil auras.
Wow, Osirion has an awful lot of evil people around! Or perhaps, Osiriani auctions (at which ancient relics are being sold to an audience of largely foreigners, many of whom are interested in the necromantic rituals of long-dead pharaohs and who are, by merit of their presence here to bid on such relics, generally tacitly endorsing the act of tomb robbery inasmuch as it leads to them getting their hands on things they want) have an awful lot of evil people around.
Some specifics.... the man at the front, wearing the robes embroidered with the symbols of Asmodeus, pings strongly as evil-aligned. (Shocking, I know.)
The rangy man accompanying him also shows up as faintly evil.
The elderly man, whom Lyrian may whisper is the Arch Docent of the museum of Sothis, reads as faintly evil to you.
One of the muscular guards standing at the podium's base near the Kemeserian pings as faintly evil.
Directly in front of you, an old woman wearing heavy robes pings as moderately evil.
The Kemeserian acknowledges Lyrian's bid with a tip of his head; the nobleman who had placed the last bid turns to give the copper-skined foreigner a dirty glare before raising it to a hundred.
Vorthos, if you continue to observe the halfling, you notice him discreetly stuffing coins from the white-shawled woman's purse into his own shirt, then turning to sidle off into the crowd.
The woman never takes her eyes from the auction block. Her guard looks bored.
Barring more bids from Lyrian, the auction eventually concludes with a final price of four hundred going to the Chelaxian in front row, who almost lazily outbids everyone else.
"Thank you, sir," the Kemeserian says with a bow. "Next, we have this charming statuette, of late Middle Dynasty craftmanship..."
The Kemeserian gestures and murmurs, and an image fills the air before the crowd: an enlarged and enhanced depiction of the small statuette he is holding up.
All four of you notice that the young woman in the shabby scholar's robe who is standing a few feet away from you bears a marked resemblance to the face of the small figurine. Her brows are furrowed, but there is no look of recognition or shock on her face.
Lyrian is unhappy that such priceless treasures are being sold to private owners rather than being placed in a public museum, and despises the entire process. Therefore, he finds the young woman and her likeness to be far more interesting. He approaches.
"It looks like you," he says, indicating the Middle Dynasty statuette. "Maybe you had an admirer in a past life."
Abram keeps an eye out for the next piece to enter the block, and looks around trying to spot anyone who might have noticed their bids of eleven. He keeps Lyrian in his peripheral vision, trying as best he can to eavesdrop in the noisy tent.
The young woman starts at being addressed, her attention wholly absorbed by the auction. She turns to look at Indy, I mean Lyrian, then back at the statuette, then back at him with a bit of a blush starting in her cheeks.
"Oh. Oh no, sir. That-- that is a work of art. Note the workmanship-- you see the naturalistic pose and the organic curve of the branches? That is Middle Dynasty, yes, but the auctioneer overgeneralizes-- it is specifically from a narrow period of about ten years, in which the Storm Pharaoh had instigated an artistic counter-culture that--"
She cuts herself off with a sheepish duck of her head. "That is to say, it is art, sir; you over-praise me to say it resembles me. I am sure all Osiriani women look similar, to those from other lands."
A few heads turned at your initial, odd-numbered bid, but you think it might be only due to the slightly unusual amount of the bid more than anything else. The old woman before Abram (who had detected as moderately evil) turns to stare back at your little group, a corner of her withered aged lips rising as if she finds something amusing, before she looks forward again.
A few bids later, and the Crook Bearer takes the small statuette for two hundred gold.
"Now, for this antique set of senet pieces..." As before, the auctioneer creates a phantasm of an enlarged view of the item on display. This is a set of eleven carved marble pieces, each roughly the size of a man's thumb. They are carved of a pale green marble, shot through with darker verdant streaks.
"Sadly, the board that accompanied these pieces was made of wood that has long since rotted, but the set itself remains quite lovely. The signature veinstone of which these pieces are carved was quite prized by our ancestors; today it is considered a semi-precious stone due to advances in mining and the ease of obtaining it, but in the days this set was crafted, this veinstone would have represented a substantial amount of manpower to extract from the White Mountains... yes, thank you, fifty gold is the opening bid, very good sir, do I hear sixty-- to the gentleman in the front! Excellent, sir, do I hear seventy--"
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Our heritage, our history, our art. These people are giving our glorious past to foreign collectors in exchange for money. Seferneru sternly looks at the auction, saddened at the display of greed and yet in perfect control of his expression. Some items are secrets that should be left buried, and the others should adorn the Palace of the Prince. Neither kind should be in foreign hands.
If he stood near the auctioneer, he probably would have been sold too.
“This seems pointless, and somewhat unpleasant.” he says to his companions. “I am happy you are enjoying youself...” he stares for a second at Lyrian “but I would rather make contact with this Scarab and leave.”
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Pondering to himsellf the myriad of experiments and history lessons to be gained from acquiring these items, Vorthos smiles.
"I'm so glad this auction has brought other enlightened and knowledged minds" He quips with a nod to the woman Lyrian is interacting with."The impressive techniques of the Ancient Osirioni must be shared and preserved with all enlightened minds. To lock it hidden away , or worse used as a mere bauble in someone's palace tis a crime!"
With that he beams at his companions and nudges his head to encourage Lyrian's next bid.
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Seferneru slowly tilts his head towards Vorthos. This shows his great anger towards the alchemist. “Many have hoped to reach enlightenment through ancient artifacts retrieved from the tombs of our past. Most found our past not so different from a “bauble in someone’s palace”; others, less lucky, found despair and curse instead.” he says, very matter-of-fact. “We wish to keep them from outsiders not for greed, but for the protection of the man who has a willpower weaker than his coinpurse.”
“Believe me, I have no hate for these people” he indicates both auctioneer and bidders “Just sadness, and a touch of pity. It is not ancestral relics the secret to a better self: it is control over your limbs and emotions, exercise to shape your body and a just belief to drive it forward.”
The young woman listens to the debate going on, and looks to Seferneru with what seems to be a wordless apology in her gaze before she drops her eyes deferentially to the floor.
"....I would that these treasures remain among our people as well," she says quietly. "But I long to see them-- to see the beautiful things our ancestors made... perhaps that is wrong of me. Perhaps I should be happy they exist in their crypts, as their owners desired them to do. But the chance to a get a window of insight--"
She cuts herself off as another item is being auctioned (the Crook Bearer won the auction for the senet pieces). These are a collection of faded scrolls which are very carefully unrolled by servants.
"These star charts consist of detailed observations about the ringed planet known as Aucturn, created by an unknown astrologer of the past. Theories abound as to the gifted astrologer who recorded his observations; we have dated the scrolls to the era of the Four Pharaohs of Ascension, but cannot provide solid confirmation as to the authorship. The bidding starts at--"
"Hold!" calls the Chelaxian, raising a hand. "I've an interest in the era. I would examine the scrolls to see if they are what you claim!"
The Kemeserian looks rather piqued that someone would challenge his reputation, as well as interrupt him, but steps back with a wave of his hand towards the scrolls. "As you will, sir."
The Chelaxian makes a show of inspecting the scrolls through a jeweler's glass-- obviously aware he has the eyes of the crowd on him, and enjoying the attention. At length he straightens up and snaps the glass back into a sleeve of his robes.
"Clear fakes," he says shortly, to shocked murmurs from the audience. "I wouldn't think that one such as you would be taken in by the oldest tricks of tea to age the pages, but a rudimentary inspection of the brush stroke styles indicate these scrolls could not be more than a decade old. Shameful."
More murmurs and whispers around the room. The Kemeserian seems briefly shocked, then anger tightens his face. "In the twenty years I have been selling antiquities, sir, I have never been found to be selling forgeries!"
"Never found, yes, I see," the Chelaxian says with a bored wave of his hand. "Do get on with it. I am interested in your genuine goods only."
The Kemeserian sputters and glares, but finally clears his throat and resumes the bidding, telling everyone that the man's claims are utter nonsense and that the scrolls are the real thing. However, after the display, nobody seems eager to bid.
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Sighing and pulling an Iron Vial from his bandolier he quaffs it in record time. Followed quickly by a second he swishes in his mouth and spits back into the vial. (Alchemical Allocation and Elixer of Vision +5 Perception for six hours.)
Vorthos will offer both to Abram or Lyrian if one of them wants but only one sorry this will leave him with three second level slots.
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" These items seem authentic to me, there are no pause strokes, by that i mean they look up to view the original n place their brush slightly further than previous, the bristles used seem correct for the period i can't without a closer look guarantee but these seem genuine, anything with no bidders a solid bid of eleven on these seems wise it's a paltry sum n if im correct could be sold for profit"
" These items indeed do seem faked to me, there are pause strokes, by that i mean they look up to view the original n place their brush slightly further than previous, the bristles used seem incorrect for the period i can't without a closer look guarantee but these seem forged. Any ways with no bidders a solid bid of eleven on these seems wise, it makes the bid obvious and it's a paltry sum"
Lyrian eyes narrow slightly as he listens to the woman, and then the Chelaxian. He wonders just what is going on here.
(Is she as humble as she she seems?)
{Does he really believe the scrolls are fakes?)
Lyrian senses a set-up by Chelaxian, possibly an attempt to drive down the bidding. He wonders if the Osirian girl is a deliberate distraction.
Vorthos-- due to your extensive knowledge of Osiriani relics and artifacts, you are able to correctly identify that these scrolls are either the real deal, or so close that you think there is no expert in the world who could tell the difference. The Chelaxian is lying through his teeth.
You quickly whisper all of this to your colleague!
Lyrian-- you glance from the young woman to Vorthos and his multi-lingual recitation of details about the scrolls. Clearly the Chelaxian is a smooth operator, for you wouldn't have known his falsehood if not for the barrage of counter-facts that Vorthos presents. (The girl seems to have no hidden belief in her own exquisiteness.)
The Osiriani girl seems distracted by idea of the Kemeserian selling false goods, and stands on tip-toe trying to get a better view of the scrolls in question.
"The Kemeserian's goods are never false!" she says to those close enough to listen, her brows knit in consternation.
Nobody else seems to be willing to offer a bid, however. Vorthos' assessment seems correct-- even a small bid here could net you the scrolls, if you wished them.
The next auctioned item is a bound portfolio of charcoal rubbings of hieroglyphic inscriptions. Even the rubbings seem old, the parchment crackling with age as the auctioneer carefully shows off the a few choice examples. The young Osiriani woman bids for the first time-- in small increments that seem in keeping with the shabbiness of her robes-- and the Chelaxian offers her a thin, mocking smile over the heads of the crowd as he casually doubles her last bid, making it forty gold pieces. With a sigh, the young woman returns to her notebook.
"Going once... come, good citizens and visitors, get in your bids; we have but one item remaining after this... going twice..."
"Finally, for your pleasure, citizens and visitors, this superb sculpture..."
The auctioneer reveals a six-inch tall bronze sculpture of a muscled man with a cobra's head and a serpent's tail. Vorthos, the workmanship is very fine-- you would wager the piece is worth an easy four hundred gold.
The Crook Bearer and the Arch Docent enter into a bidding war over the small statuette.
With servants busy collecting payment and delivering items, and the majority of people who did not win items in the auction clogging the exits on the way out, the pavilion is briefly packed with elbows. The halfling is no longer anywhere to be seen, but his mark, the woman in white, is studying a map with furrowed brows, trying to avoid the jostle of the crowd. When you make to pass by her, she says in Kelish-accented Osiriani to Seferneru--
"Excuse me a moment, warrior. I see you are a native, and I am new to your land. Might I trouble you for directions, to this inn?"
She shows you her map of Sothis-- one thin finger pointing, not at an inn, but the map's compass rose, and the delicate working of a Pathfinder glyph of the open road that nestles within. Briefly, her kohl-lined eyes dart to each of you, then towards the pavilion's exit.
Lyrian bids for the scrolls, but he can't go higher than the 63 gold he's got on him. And because he's bidding by 11's, he won't go above 55. If the bidding goes above that, he shrugs and walks away.
He clearly can't afford any of the other offerings.
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Lyrian watches the interaction between Seferneru and the woman he presumes to be the Mithral Scarab, but remains apart for the moment.
"Eleven gold," the Kemeserian says in disgust, when nobody else bids after Lyrian's opening bid. He glares daggers at the unperturbed Chelaxian for driving down the auction's price. "The scrolls are yours, sir."
A servant comes to collect your payment of eleven gold-- he says with a slight smile, "One gold for each scroll, quite the bargain, sir."
He hands over the scrolls with a bow.
A perfunctory examination of the scrolls reveals that they do appear to be old, at least, and are filled with circles of planetary orbits and hundreds of tiny hieroglyphic symbols. The script is, technically, archaic Osiriani, which Lyrian has studied, but it's all mathematics and abbreviations, a scholar's notes to himself, and the true meaning cannot be deciphered at a quick glance. Perhaps when you have an hour to sit down with the scrolls, studying them might tell you more.
Abram notes the Pathfinder's glyph on the map, but says nothing; maintaining his impassive exterior instead.
Lyrian collects his scrolls, gives the Osirian woman a final smile and heads over to join the group.
He looks from the woman with the chart to Abram and back. Then, with a shrug, "So standing here is getting us anywhere. Nice to meet you," he says to the new woman.
"I think I can show you the way," he adds. "Why don't you join us and we'll walk you there?"
The woman in white inclines her head politely to Lyrian. "You are most kind to a woman in a foreign land. Thank you. Achmed, come, please," she says to her bodyguard, who follows mutely.
Once outside the dense pack of the pavilion, the woman walks along a hundred feet following her map and asking questions of the direction, before stopping at a busy intersection of several aisles of the Bazaar.
"Ah, good; the halfling is not following us. Thank you, Achmed. You are dismissed."
The warrior gives her a small bow and wordlessly walks off into the crowd. The woman in white lifts her veil enough to give you all a glimpse of delicate half-elven features and the coloring of a Katapeshi native.
"I apologize for all the secrecy, but I assure you that this find merits it. Walk with me, my friends."
She leads you a criss-crossing path through the warren that is the Malhitu Bazaar, talking as she walks.
"Nicely spotted, with regard to the scrolls. Perhaps they will offer you some insight into the task ahead. As you have no doubt guessed, I am the so-called Mithral Scarab; I fear it is the only name that I may offer you.
"Some of you have come a long distance to be here. For others, this is your homeland," and she inclines her head slightly toward Seferneru, "and thus you, sir, may most keenly appreciate the significance of what I am about to say: the Pyramids of the Four Pharaohs of Ascension have been found.
"The battles between the spirits of earth and air have been especially fierce, this season. The shifting sands have revealed the funerary complex of the God-Kings of ancient Osirion: figures who come to us as more myth than men."
The Four Pharaohs of Ascension were Anok Fero, the Cerulean Pharaoh; Hetshepsu, the Fiend Pharaoh; Ankana, the Radiant Pharaoh; and the Pharaoh of Numbers, whose true name is lost to time. Although each brought different strengths to the union, all were equal.
Legends say the Four Pharaohs of Ascension were bound by a magical pact that intertwined their fates: they lived together, ruled together, and were fated to die together.
The Pharaoh of Numbers was both an astronomer and an architect. His passion was his study of the distant planet Aucturn, and some legends claim Aucturn inspired the magic that fueled the pharaohs’ binding pact and its influence infused the design of the pyramid that now entombs the bodies of the four pharaohs.
As the Mithral Scarab speaks, she leads through ever-more-narrow alleys and increasingly shabbier tents and booths.
"More accurately, it is one pyramid. But the complex appears rather differently to those who do not have the key. Even now, a score of would-be treasure seekers are thronging the funereal complex... to no avail. Gods willing, and with a bit of luck, you will be the exception to this. You see, my own researches have led to a bit of insight which I believe gives us an edge."
The Scarab stops walking. You stand in a cramped, twisting pathway that leads now between heaps of rubbish. Mud dirties the bottom hem of the Scarab's stark white robes. A stray dog sniffs at a pile of refuse. An old woman with a wooden hook for a hand digs between the trash for anything of value. Thin, hungry-eyed children watch you warily from in between makeshift caverns in the refuse around you. You have definitely left the better parts of Sothis behind.
The Scarab lowers her voice. "This is not the first time that the tomb of the Four Pharaohs has been exposed. Fifty years ago, the fortunes of sand and wind similarly conspired. A team of experts was secretly assembled-- as the throne of Osirion was less tolerant of... shall we say visitors... in those days, and they pierced the mystery that obscures the crypt.
"Only one man ever returned. His name is Raegos. For five decades he has lived haunted by the things he saw in that tomb. The rest of his story is his to tell you, but I have convinced him to meet with you on one condition only: you must not carry anything with writing on it, into his presence. Scrolls, books, holy texts, maps-- anything of that nature.
"You do not know how many years I have coaxed this man to be willing to speak of these things at all. Are you willing to hear what he has to say, and to abide by his condition?"
Abram looks to the others for a moment before answering, but confident of their answer he responds for the group, "We will abide. Are we to meet him now, or will the meeting occur at another time?"
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Local superstition, HA! To be fearful of knowledge how does, i cant even comprehend this man. He must be simple or "touched".
Scowling, Vorthos crosses his arms and takes in a mighty breath to fuel the history lesson about to come.........
As he recites a basic encyclopedia of knowledge with enough obscure facts to obfuscate the topic (Including daily rituals, sermons, common meals, Jaywalking Penalties, from the time of the Pharoahs of Ascension.)
His eyes light up when he speaks of the Pharoah of Numbers, and he pauses for a moment head tilting slightly as he peers intently at Lyrian before finishing his diatribe.
"Lyrian i must insist on inspecting those documents at a later date." he adds finally, running out of air from his single breath.
Lyrian frowns at Vorthos's "insistence". Still, the man is an Osirian polymath. His assistance might possibly be worth suffering through his arrogance. "We'll look at them together. Before we enter this pyramid."
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Seferneru is saddened in seeing the hungry children. Silently he takes all the food he has in his backpack Dry fruit, dry meat, unleavened bread. Dry food of substance, like my land he lays it down in front of the children “The day will come when the River Sphinx will bring back abundance to our land. For now, the Sphinxes themselves watch over you. Take this and share it with your friends.” he whispers to them without changing his serious stone-like expression.
He returns to the Scarab ad his companions “This man braved the tombs, and came back insane. Maybe the Throne was wise to forbid any undisciplined adventurer fresh off a boat from entering the Pyramid the first time” he replies to the woman. “I have no troubles abiding his conditions – we will need information, even from a madman, if we wish for this expedition to be a success.” he looks at the children once more “it is time for prouder days in our history.”
Abram looks on impassively and observes Seferneru's actions, of which he neither approves nor disapproves of. He sees the starving kids and sees only the balance to the other side of the scale. Some children have far more than they need, and others have less. Both will die, sooner or later, so the details of their lives in the meantime are somewhat inconsequential.
The children stare wide-eyed at Seferneru-- but only for a moment, before their hands dart out to snatch at the food. One wiry girl lingers longer the others, her eyes fixed on the ka stone embedded in his flesh.
"Yes, lord," she whispers at last, before running to join her fellows and split the food.
The Scarab nods at Abram's words. "Today. He dwells here." She indicates one of the nearby tents with a tilt of her head.
"I am willing to stay outside and hold any written items that you possess, or, if you find it more preferable, one of you may stay to watch them."
Once a decision of where (or with who) to leave the scrolls has been reached, the Scarab moves to the door of a dingy tent, though not past the opening.
"Raegos," she says softly. "The visitors I spoke of are here."
A pause, and there's the sound of hesitant footsteps within the tent hovel.
"No writing? They haven't brought any?" comes an old man's quavering voice.
"No, Raegos. No writing."
"Come in, then... I, heh, I must... warn you to watch your step..."
The tent flap is pulled to one side. The first thing that greets your eyes is... string.
A dozen white strings are threaded through metal rivets in the canvas wall, and disappear into the dimness of the tent. The form of a hunched old man hobbles away, one gnarled hand following one of these strings as he quickly (for an old man) skitters out of sight.
The interior of the room is rather larger than might be thought from the outside. The reason for this is quickly evident: the old man has been digging, expanding his home past its original dimensions, down into the sand and clay of Sothis. Wooden and brick posts support tent roof and the sandy walls. Scavenged wooden slats help buttress the pit from collapsing in on itself.
There are no holes for light, and no lamps. The air is thick and musty, stale, smelling of old food and an old human's particular odors.
And everywhere there are the strings. They criss and cross in a maze whose pattern becomes evident only as you watch the old man move among them like a spider through its web: he uses them to navigate around his strange hovel.
The reason for that is clearer once your eyes adjust to the dimness, and you can see that his eyes are heavily swathed in a thick and crusty blindfold that must block all sight.
"Sit. Sit. Find a spot. Don't touch the strings, yes? No words, no pictures, you've brought none? I don't mind visitors, no, no, nice to have visitors, but no words and no pictures, they won't get me, friends, no indeed, I'm still alive..."