As Kheled approaches the floating figure he feels the air cool considerably. A feeling of raw power thrums in his chest, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up.
Mektep-Han does not respond to the question posed and stares at Kheled blankly.
At Pherenike's comment, the ghostly apparition turns to face her, his blank eyes staring down at her. It is true I set the trap, but it was he who failed to overcome it. He who rushes in unprepared is unworthy of claiming the prize. One must pass many tests in the pursuit of knowledge. The traps in the entry passage were but the least of many.
"A Soulwrought Echo, he called himself? I don't believe I have ever heard of such a thing. I would think a manipulation of the soul like this would be mentioned in the holy teachings of our Lady of the Graves." Tariq says softly to Kheled, but loudly enough to be overheard.
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At Pherenike's comment, the ghostly apparition turns to face her, his blank eyes staring down at her. It is true I set the trap, but it was he who failed to overcome it. He who rushes in unprepared is unworthy of claiming the prize. One must pass many tests in the pursuit of knowledge. The traps in the entry passage were but the least of many.
"Where I come from, it's not polite to speak ill of the dead," Pherenike answers back. "And I've no intention of dying for your amusement. I had never heard of this riddle before I stepped in this place, and I have no interest in having my mind unbound." She resheathes her falchion.
Mektep-Han does not take his gaze off of Pherenike as he responds to Tariq, I am here before you as a result of my commitment, and my sacrifice, in the name of Nethys. Worry not, however, follower of Pharasma, for she has been appeased.
Back to Pherenike, the towering translucent figure replies, Death comes to most all of us. Sometimes we control the manner, sometimes we do not. Mektep-Han's tone remains neutral as he continues, None of this is for my amusement I can assure you. If you do not wish to continue with the tests, you are free to go. Continued ignorance is always an option. Even preferred by many.
Others will come to claim the riddle now that the Sphinx has been found...
The Professor weighed up the words of the spectre for some time before eventually, with a heavy sigh, turning to address his companion. He moved over to her and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. He spoke quietly to her, not whispering but quietly enough that the conversation was clearly somewhat private.
Pherenike, your under no compulsion to accompany me; and I understand your hesitance. But mind unbound or not, my... our... quest has led us here. The Venture-Captain believed Safan's dig site was relevant to our goal. I cannot turn back now. The knowledge I seek is too vital to my family. Perhaps it is contained within this riddle. I am sure that this... soul exaggerates, and attaches greater import to its role and what lies here. I will not allow your mind to be "unbound".
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"And yet if it weren't for his traps," she responds heatedly, "you could have asked the man himself what he knew. Who is he to claim to judge people's worth?" She gives the soul another angry glare. "I'm a soldier, not a gladiator. Only barbarians force people to fight unnecessary battles, which is undoubtedly why your empire collapsed. But fine: You want to play with people's lives? Show me what you're going to try to kill me with." She draws her falchion challengingly.
Mektep-Han does not react to Pherenike's brandished steel and his voice remains completely devoid of emotion as he speaks. I never claimed to judge his worth... and I do not force you to do anything. Much like the man killed by the trap, you were not invited here, and yet here you stand and there he lies. Whose fault is that? Did you both not force your way into this place? Are you both not responsible for your actions? Your fates?
Scanning the others he continues, By my count I see at least three good sons of Osirion. It seems the ones prone to exaggeration stand before me. He looks from Pherenike to Aristedes and back again as he says the last bit.
Finally acknowledging Pherenike's sword he finishes, I am beyond your ability to hurt and I have no interest in killing you. If you seek that which lies beyond, proceed. If not, leave. I care not which, before vanishing.
"Well," Corven quips as soon as the specter vanishes, "all things considered, that did not go quite so badly, did it now?" His attempt to lighten the general mood even a little not withstanding, his eyes turn from one door to the next, his expression one of thought mingled with anticipation.
"So," he continues, "am I the only one curious to see what lies beyond the doors? The only question is which one do we open first; the Necromancer, the Evoker or the Diviner?"
"If I should guess, I would think the Necromancer is the test of combat, the Evoker is the test of magic, and the Diviner is the test of wit. Perhaps it would be best to begin with the test of combat, while we are all fully rested and uninjured?" Tariq says, indicating the west door with his spear.
Fine with me, lets be done with it and find out what manner of undead lies beyond.
He will recast the same spells. Resistance and guidance on himself, then prepare to cast Bless on the group once we see what lies beyong the door.
Having quietly watched the apparition speak it's words and weighed them, Mus'ad shifted his feet and mused "Mus'ad does not want to chase a mirage into the desert only to die of thirst. Safan is dead, he does not need his journal... and both it and the where of this place have value." stroking his beard "Also maybe better that secrets stay buried no? Mus'ad has no need to unbind the world..." clearly unconvinced of any need to move further.
The words of this displaced soul means nothing. We still have a holy duty to ensure that the taint of undeath does not linger in any of these rooms. Ready yourselves or leave. I'm opening the doors.
Mus'ad backs away as the fanatic advances upon the doors.
Tariq approached and shoved upon the doors, which opened easily, breaking the still intact pitch seals and revealed yet another hallway. Comprised of black basalt, like the chamber of Mektep-Han, and similarly devoid of markings, it was thirty feet in length terminating in another set of double doors.
The second set of doors, the same as all the others save that they were marked in ancient Osiriani with the phrase, "Only blood can extinguish the flames of unlife.”
With some of the group refusing to proceed any further, or face the tests within, the group split. Those that ventured on, faced and defeated the three tests in order, retrieving pieces of the tablet that comprised the Third Riddle of Nethys. Upon acquiring the last piece, the tablet fused into the completed artifact.
As the group returned to the central chamber, Mektep-Han appeared and congratulated the group on overcoming the tests before delivering a dire warning about the power of combining the three dread riddles of Nethys. As he finished speaking and faded from view the Sphinx began to shake and rumble. Cracks appeared and it became obvious the place was collapsing. Dashing for the exit, the group dove out into the sand just in time as the Ravenous Sphinx collapsed into ruin and rubble behind them.
As the dust cloud cleared, and the group picked itself up off of the ground, they came face to face with a large group of armed soldiers, weapons leveled. The commander, revealed himself to be a Risen Guard in the service of the Ruby Prince Khemet III himself, called down to the group from atop his camel informing them that he had orders to take possession of the Third Riddle. With the group heavily outnumbered and resources severely depleted by the tests, the group had no choice but to comply.
Taking possession of the tablet, the commander thanked the group for service to the pharaoh and to Osirion. He tossed them a purse of gold coins to compensate for expenditures and suggested a group as obviously talented as yourselves should seek further work in Wati.
By the royal decree of Khemet III the local authorities and church of Pharasma have been ordered to open Wati’s necropolis to exploration for the purpose of discovery, study, and economic stimulus. The priests of the local temple of Pharasma, the Grand Mausoleum, have been tasked with assigning sites ready for exploration to adventuring companies in a lottery.
One simply has to register as a group at the Grand Mausoleum and you will be entered into the lottery. With your success here, you seem to be just the type of group they seek.
The soldiers then formed up and moved off in the direction of Wati. With nothing left to do at the Sphinx, the group quickly packed up and made for Wati themselves.
The Tooth & Hookah Inn, Wati, a few days later:
Myron pushed back his plate and drained his cup of the last few drops before fishing the worn book out of the satchel on his adventurers' sash. The deep brown leather binding was as familiar to his touch as the skin of a long-time lover. On the title page, the words "TOMB OF THE VERMILION PHARAOH AND OTHER ADVENTURES: THE COMPLETE ACCOUNTS OF THE TRAVELS OF PATHFINDER CHANDIRA AL-BESIR - A PATHFINDER CHRONICLES ANTHOLOGY" were printed in a flowing script.
Flipping through the pages in search of Al-Besir's essay on the various techniques used by ancient Osiriani tomb builders to conceal lock mechanisms for secret doors in religious carvings, Myron reflected on the many different ways the book was directly and indirectly responsible for him being here now.
When he had first discovered the volume in Master Phandros' private library back in Westcrown, he had only meant for it to serve as a brief distraction from his daily hardships as house slave. However, once he realized that not only was Chandira Al-Besir a halflig like himself, she had also begun life as a slave in Katapesh, his interest flamed into full obsession.
Soon, the book fueled dreams of a different life, free from the dreary toil halflings faced in Cheliax. Myron read it as often as he dared, and even begun practicing some of the same skills Al-Besir used, twirling kitchen knives and picking up the Osiriani language from sailors on his trips to the docks.
It was all elaborate daydreams, of course. Until the day the head butler found him in the linen cupboard, book nestled in his lap. The binding still bore the marks from being smashed into the man's head. Pausing only to snatch up the butler's keys and helping himself to a few choice items from the silverware cabinet, Myron bolted from the house, the precious book clutched tightly.
Fortunately, just a few months past, another halfling he met while out on an errand had discreetly told him that if he ever found himself thirsty for the taste of freedom, he should drop by the Bell of the Sea Tavern and ask for a Tiller's tankard.
After the Bellflower agents helped him to Andoran, it was not long before he heard the news that the Necropolis in Wati was to be opened for exploration. He immediately used the remainder of his funds to buy himself equipment and passage to Sothis.
He was scribbling notes about how the head of the blue scarab symbol of Khepri often could be pressed to activate concealed mechanisms, when he heard the snippets of conversation form the adjacent table. Familiar words made it to his keen ears over the background noise. "Ravenous Sphinx....riddle of Nethys....Risen guard...". This was the third or fourth time he had heard of the expedition, but this time he heard something new. "Professor Aristedes...lottery...recruiting".
Myron swiftly packed away his book, left a few coins on the table and moved up to the bar, another coin ready. He had the name of just the right kind of prospective employer. Now he just had to find him.
Mus'ad shifted slightly at the Professor's side. After the tomb he had seen the pathfinder's remains returned to Wati... and promptly found himself out of a job. It had not taken long for the Professor to find him again and offer an equal share in his next venture. Pragmatic to the future Mus'ad did not need long to consider before accepting. He had since been at busy leisure within Wati, waiting for the culmination of the Professor's search for adventuring company - and the lottery to begin.
Kheled grinned at the professor, So you are planning to go into the tombs. Not looking to live a long and uneventful life huh? Good...me neither. Count me in...I am up for sharing in some treasure and some excitement.
Although he had been loathe to give up their prize, Aristedes shrugged off the disappointment pretty quickly. He had, after all, found two things of great value. The loss of the zealot Tarik to an especially powerful zombie and its minions had saddened him despite his dislike of the man; but he had died well defending the delvers and his sacrifice had turned the tide at a critical moment. The Professor imagined that the man's spirit was pleased with how he had died and he was sure Pharasma would judge him worthy for his noble deed. Nevertheless, a not-so-small, pragmatic part of his conscience noted that his own goals had not aligned especially well with the organisation known as the Voices of the Spire. Tarik may have had to have been sacrificed in due time anyway, should he have been interested in the group Ahkenaten was putting together for the Necropolis in Wati.
The first thing of great value consisted of the allies he had now gathered around himself. The quiet Pahmet was highly capable and Kheled's mastery of positive energy would no doubt prove powerful in clearing the no doubt infested Necropolis. His faithful companion Pherenike had proved herself over and over despite her reluctance to delve the ruin. Her strong sword arm and level head had been the only thing preventing the Professor's demise after Tarik had fallen; his own, slightly humiliating clumsiness with the crossbow quite quickly proving that physical combat was simply not going to agree with him. While the trio proved a good complement to his own leadership and scholarly skills, he knew the group still needed some form of arcane mastery amongst its talents; his own limited grasp of enchantment was not nearly sufficient. He had put out feelers for such an individual in Wati, but had not yet been approached. He also made it known he was looking for another warrior to join their number. If another "Tarik-like" situation arose, he would not have Pherenike be the one sacrificed.
The second thing was far more subtle; it was information. He had quietly taken a rubbing inside the Ravenous Sphinx which indicated that the answer to his family's problem lay somewhere inside the very Necropolis in Wati. The information was frustratingly vague; a single promising passage in an inscribed paragraph with little relevance to his family's plight. The Professor was loathe to put any faith in talk of fate, but he could not help find the co-incidence a little disturbing when the Risen Guard informed them of the opening of the Necropolis, so soon. Fortuitous, but disturbing.
It was now the day before the group were due to register at the Mausoleum. Aristedes hopes that suitable candidates would soon join up. Judging from the flood of adventurers to the town, it seemed like he would soon get his wish.
The Professor, and the others who wished to accompany him, approached the imposing edifice of the Grand Mausoleum. In front of the structure an immense awning has been erected between decorated pillars in the Sun Burst Market to provide shade for the priests of Pharasma overseeing the lottery. Beneath the awning, two urns sit atop a table elevated a few feet above the ground on a wooden stage constructed for the event. A priest sits behind the table, while two acolytes sit on either side. One has a long length of papyrus rolled out, upon which is a list of names, while the other has a stack of clay tokens in front of him.
The priest greets you as you near the table, Come to register for the lottery? You are just in time, the ceremony is tomorrow. All we need from you now is the name of your group, and the names of your members.
The acolyte with the scroll dips his quill in ink and waits upon your response...
Aristedes first gave his name and let the others do the same.
Hmm... Perhaps just "The Delvers" as a placeholder. I think taking an ostentatious name before we've actually survived a foray is premature.
When his time came, the Pahmet gave a short bow and quietly worded "Mus'ad"
As approached the table and stood on his tip-toes to be fully visible over the edge, Myron once again thanked his halfling luck. Not only had he successfully located the professor, he had also managed to secure a place in the group he was assembling, ahead of several other would-be tomb raiders. This was the beginning of a great adventure, he could feel it in his gut.
When his turn came, he politely said "Myron....with a "y"..."
The loss of the zealot Tarik to an especially powerful zombie and its minions had saddened him despite his dislike of the man; but he had died well defending the delvers and his sacrifice had turned the tide at a critical moment. The Professor imagined that the man's spirit was pleased with how he had died and he was sure Pharasma would judge him worthy for his noble deed.
My only regret is that I have but one life to give....!
A recent arrival to Wati, the elf walks the city's streets casually, seemingly lost in thought. He had heard of the city's necropolis and its many tombs before, of course; what self-respected scholar and seeker of knowledge -and the power that usually comes with it, he adds in his mind- would not have? Still, it was not until a little more than a month ago that he decided to actually act on that information and see for himself what secrets such a place might hold. Still, after finally arriving, even he did not expect that there would be so many people, adventurers and treasure hunters and archaelogists and more, that had the same thought as he did. Soon enough he learned of the reason and it all made sense, more or less; there were humans involved and sense seemed so often a luxury where they were concerned. There would be a... well, a lottery, of all things.
A lottery will be assigning tombs to groups, he ponders as he turns a corner. Although he looks like as if he is on an idle walk to take in the sights of the city, that is hardly the case. Quarterstaff in hand, the elven man has little in the way of weaponry, other than a dagger sheathed by his left hip. However, the pouch of spell components hanging from his belt, as well as the spellbook carried within his well-made backpack, mark him as a mage, and one such as he has no need for mundane weapons. And it so happens there is a man, a Professor by the somewhat complicated -at least, for a human- name of Akhenaten Unsu Aristedes, that is putting together a group and is in need of someone of Aerathiel's particular talents.
Turning another corner, he looks around, and then a smile appears on his face. "This seems to be the place," he mutters softly to himself.
"A name for our group? How... quaint," the elven wizard quips with a little smile, his eyes moving from the priest to Professor Aristedes and then back to the acolyte writing down the names. Proceeding to introduce himself, even offering to correct the man when he makes the inevitable spelling mistake regarding his given name, Aerathiel then moves to the side, allowing the rest of his associates to do the same.
Kheled whispered something to the professor, his hood was drawn and his face mostly hidden.
Best is you just give them my first name. I have history with the temple...it isn't bad but they don't care for their members turning treasure seeker. Best to not throw it in their face.
He then turned and stayed in the back.
The acolyte begins to dutifully add the group's name to the scroll while the priest offers, I admire your restraint. So many others seek to oversell their prowess with intimidating monikers or grandiose embellishments. It is refreshing to hear some are still capable of humility.
You are able to make out some of the other names on the registration roll.
- Cryptfinders
- Daughters of the Desert
- Scorched Hand
- Sand Scorpions
I look forward to reading a report of your first foray.
After everyone had given their names, the other acolyte selected a pair of matching tokens from the pile and handed one to the Professor and the other to the one scribing the scroll. The symbol from the chit was added to the roll and then handed back to the first acolyte for placement within one of the two large urns.
The senior priest then instructed that the draw would take place the following day at high sun and wished you a good day.
Judging from the preparations being undertaken all around the market between the Grand Mausoleum and Abadar’s Sanctum of Silver and Gold, it promises to be quite the event.
A moment later a halfling, leading a dog larger than he is, approached the table. As the priest began to greet him, the diminutive man cut him off, I heard what you told the tall fellows here. Dog Soldiers is our group and I am Marrn. I'll be joined by Fisk, Tippin and Lorn. And our dogs of course, but I doubt you want their names. 'Tis a shame. They are usually more useful than most people I know.
Taking his token he looks to the group of you and smiles, Perhaps we'll see you on the other side of the wall! He turns to leave. Come on Grinder. Big day tomorrow. The potential for lots of old bones to chew on! he adds with a sly grin and a wink over his shoulder.
"Some of the other groups do not share your modesty, Professor," Aerathiel comments as he manages to sneak a peek at some of the other names the acolyte has written down so far. "The Cryptfinders, the Daughters of the Desert, the Scorched Hand, the Sand Scorpions... I do admit that I am torn between the last two as to which one is my personal favorite," he says with a smirk, his tone intentionally mocking, if only by a little.
The Professor had hoped not to bring the moniker here from Taldor, but Pherenike and Aristedes had already slipped up too many times. It seemed he was going to be referred to as the Professor for the entire duration of his trip.
Ahkenaten smiled at the halfling and his rather large dog, kneeling down to better interact with them both. He attempted to exchange pleasantries with the leader of the Dog Soldiers and as a finishing touch to try and leave a good impression upon the potential allies, he made a fuss of the mutt. If Marrn did not discourage him, Aristedes stroked the beast.
A fine companion you will surely be, Grinder. I know I would certainly appreciate a powerful jaw. Best of luck to you Marrn. Stay safe.
"You get it," the wizard addresses the halfling, referring to what he said to Aristedes but a moment earlier. "Nothing quite so pretentious, unlike some other entries. Your group's name is simple, yet to the point. Concise. Much like ours; no unnecessary pomposity, no silly attempt to sound fearsome."
"Perhaps we should talk again, Marrn," he adds, affording the Professor a sidelong look and a smile. "I am sure our group and yours will both do splendidly and we will have many an anecdote to share."
"A group all of halflings, and their four-legged friends, out to show the tall folk not to judge everything by stature. I'm sure you will do splendid." Myron adds, honest admiration in his voice.
We are sure you will do well dog soldier. May your travels be swift and your pockets be filled with the spoils of good hunting!
Aid another
Perception:
Mus'ad waits until the small folk with the dogs have left before shaking his head. Muttering half to himself he speaks "Never liked dogs... too loyal."
Marrn nodded his permission for Ahkenaten to pet Grinder while replying to Aerathiel with a smile and a mischievous tone, We are but simple folk. The dog was extremely well behaved and lapped up the attention.
I ran into some of the other groups earlier this week. Most seemed decent enough. For tomb raiders anyways. Didn't care for the group calling themselves the Scorched Hands though. Altogether too tightly wound for me. Lead by a severely serious woman named Velriana. I get the distinct impression they think they are better than everyone else.
You fellows seem all right. Better to be on friendly terms I think. Never know when the need might arise to lend a hand or work together on the other side of the wall. I'm sure there is plenty to go around for everyone.
We will absolutely have to get together for a drink and share the stories of our exploits.
Marrn then returned your well wishes, wishing you all the best of luck in return and bid his farewell, Until tomorrow gentlemen. M'lady.
Yes better to have fewer enemies than more. The creature and trials we will face in the tombs will be enough for us for now.
I suppose we should rest until tomorrow.
Aerathiel, do you know anything about undead? trying to start a conversation with the Elf...
The following day, the group made for the market for the ceremony arriving just before high sun.
The bustling desert city of Wati is near bursting with excitement. Adventurers from every corner of the Inner Sea region have assembled here beneath the hot Osirian sun to explore the tombs of the city’s necropolis, waiting only to be assigned their first sites for exploration. Surrounding the participants, the public has gathered to observe the ceremony as well. There is a festival-like quality in the air, and numerous street vendors are hawking goods and refreshments to participants and spectators alike. Some merchants have even brought what
can only be considered adventuring gear to sell as last minute convenience items to explorers, while others advertise that they’ll buy recovered treasures and antiquities from those who visit their establishments.
Under the shade offered by the massive awning, sit the assembled priests of Pharasma overseeing the lottery. The two urns sit atop an table a few feet above the ground on a wooden stage constructed for the event. The high priestess of the Grand Mausoleum, Sebti the Crocodile, sits behind the table, while various other priests and acolytes confer with her on either side.
A large crowd is already in place. Numerous adventuring groups stand in small clusters near the stage, made up of multiple nationalities and races. Most keep to themselves, but some teams engage in quiet conversation with other teams, mostly speculating about what they’ll likely face in the necropolis.
You spot Marrn and his halfling companions and he gives you a friendly nod.
You also notice an all female group, with a red haired Ulfen woman, an apparent priest of Iomedae, a wild looking woman with a great sword and a set of identical looking women wearing gauzy veils.
Marnn nods his head in the direction of another group and then makes a face, scrunching up his face and sticking out his tongue before laughing. The group in question appears to consist of a pair of native Odirion men, a half-orc woman and a Taldan woman in a large brimmed hat that is all the rage in Absalom currently.
All of the group, save for the half-orc woman, openly wear symbols dedicated to the god Nethys.
A moment later, the ceremony begins when the high priestess of the Grand Mausoleum, Sebti the Crocodile, rises to her feet and looks over the crowd. Sebti seems surprisingly young to hold such a distinguished position, but she has a confident air of authority. After calling for silence, she begins with an invocation to the Lady of Graves, followed by a brief history of the founding of the necropolis.
In –1608 ar, Pharaoh Djederet II ordered the construction
of a grand city to mark the birthplace of the Osirion’s
greatest natural resource: the River Sphinx, springing
from the confluence of the Asp and the Crook. With its
early foundations magically laid by the church of Nethys,
the city sprang to life within just a year. Named Wati, the
riverside town soon dominated trade across southern
Osirion. Hardwoods and spices from Katapesh and the
Mwangi Expanse bound for Sothis, and manufactured
goods and luxuries from the nations surrounding the
Inner Sea bound for Osirion’s southern territories, all
paused long enough in Wati’s warehouses and markets
to make its citizens famously wealthy. For centuries, Wati
endured through political upheaval and the births and
deaths of entire dynasties as it dominated its younger
sister cities of An and Tephu.
But Wati’s destiny was forever warped in 2499 ar, when
the cult of Lamashtu unleashed the Plague of Madness
among the city’s thriving populace. Many of those whom
the fever did not immediately kill were driven to murderous
insanity, and within months, more than half the city had
fallen in painful, anguished death. Most of the survivors
fled Wati to make new homes elsewhere, but a stubborn
minority remained behind, determined to reclaim their
city. But even once the plague had run its course, their
livelihoods collapsed as An and Tephu took over Wati’s once
exclusive trade routes, and their floundering community
struggled against recurring outbreaks of the undead from
the city’s many abandoned buildings-turned-tombs.
It took almost half a millennium for Wati’s fortunes to
reverse thanks to the church of Pharasma. With the tacit
permission of Osirion’s Keleshite sultan, a Pharasmin
priest named Nefru Shepses marched on Wati in 2953 ar
with a small army of alchemists, masons, and morticians
under his banner, intent on consecrating the entire city
to the Lady of Graves, beginning with a new, monumental
temple to Pharasma called the Grand Mausoleum.
Over the next 30 years, Nefru Shepses and his followers
recovered the bodies of those slaughtered in the Plague
of Madness from their hasty, makeshift graves and the
Pharasmins walled off that portion of the city that had
been abandoned, transforming it into a metropolis of
makeshift tombs. Thousands of corpses were given formal
burial rites and reinterred in this dead copy of the living
city, which continues to serve as Wati’s necropolis today.
The consecration of the city and its necropolis revitalized
Wati, and though it never reclaimed its dominance among
the cities of the south, over the next 1,700 years Wati grew
until its necropolis—once more than half of the city—
took up less than a quarter of the city’s total area. Today,
long after the necropolis's completion, Wati continues
to produce a great variety of grave goods for Osirion’s
honored dead. A steady stream of burial figures, canopic
jars, embalming fluids, prayer books, and sarcophagi sail
downstream on the Sphinx, outpacing Wati’s crop and
textile exports. Even Wati’s criminal underworld revolves
around death, as competing gangs regularly raid the
necropolis for valuables and even human carrion.
Sebti concludes by saying, Let the lottery begin! Although many of you have requested specific sites to explore, we must leave these matters to fate. The Lady of Graves is a far better judge of destiny than we of this mortal sphere. The gates of the necropolis will open at sunrise tomorrow. Use this evening to prepare yourselves for the task ahead. Let these rules guide you in your endeavors in this holy place: remember how this came to pass, every slave’s hut is a memorial, and honor the departed. May you go with the Lady’s blessing.
After Sebti returns to her seat, two acolytes take turns drawing a token from each of the urns on the table. The first token identifies the adventuring group, matching the token that group received when it registered for the lottery. The second token determines which tomb is assigned to that group. A single representative of the chosen group is then summoned to the stage to present the token his group received at registration to one of the acolytes. Once the group’s identity has been confirmed, Sebti shows the representative the location of that group’s first exploration site on a map of the entire necropolis. She also gives the representative a smaller, sketched map that shows the site’s location in relation to the necropolis gates. Once a group has received its assignment, the process repeats with a new group.
After a few drawings, it was the Delvers turn to be called. Aristedes approached the table and received the groups assignment. Sebti handed the Professor the sketched map (location 23) telling him that your group had been drawn to explore a tomb that predates the Plague of Madness, located in the city’s original cemetery in the eastern section of the necropolis: The Tomb of Akhentepi.
Along with the map was a list of rules pertaining to the exploration of the necropolis.
Remember How This Came to Pass: The Plague of Madness was unleashed upon the city of Wati while religious authorities were engaged in infighting. This rule is a reminder that the necropolis remains a holy place, and those who engage in needless conflict and banditry are not only criminals, but accursed.
Every Slave’s Hut Is a Memorial: Every structure within the necropolis is a testament to the people who lived and died in the city. Explorers must not desecrate or vandalize standing structures and tombs, but preserve them as the memorials they were intended to be. Some structures may be trapped or decrepit, but willful and unnecessary destruction will not be tolerated.
Honor the Departed: The dead should be treated with dignity and respect. If the interred need to be disturbed to recover an antiquity or relic, they should be returned to their resting places carefully. It is understood that the ancient dead are often brittle, but there is no need for the contents of a sarcophagus to be summarily dumped on the ground. This rule does not apply to the undead or other abominations.
Failure to comply with these rules can result in, but is not limited to, expulsion from the necropolis, a ban on continued exploration, seizure of recovered valuables, and arrest and prosecution by local authorities.
After all of the groups had drawn their assignment, the ceremony ended with the instruction that the groups could begin their explorations as soon as the gates open the following morning. Once completed, groups can return for reassignment to other sites.
The crowd them began dispersing into the surrounding market and the vast number of vendor's stalls...
Perception:
Content to scan the crowd as the lottery takes place, Mus'ad looks for any other dwarves taking part (Pahmet or otherwise) and also takes note of any groups that are exploring locations near to where they will be.
The tomb of Ahkentepi... the Professor said softly to his companions as they gathered around the map.
Myron stands among the rest of the Delvers, furiously scribbling in a newly purchased journal, determined to document his own adventures into the ancient tombs.
He glances over at the other teams, and gives a short cheerful wave at the Dog Soldiers.
"That group over there with the woman wearing the big hat must be the Scorched Hand. We'd better watch our step if we run into them. I wonder what the other teams are called. Anyone see any identifying markers?"
Once they have their assignment, he asks "Any of you know anything about this Akhentepi fellow? Might be worth doing a bit of research, if we're going to be poking around his last resting place"
"My particular area of expertise is arcane and planar lore, I am afraid," Aerathiel answers Kheled. "Necromancy and undeath, unfortunately, are not. However, I am fairly certain I shall be rectifying that in due time considering what probably awaits us."
"What about you though? You are a priest of sorts, after all?"
"I can only assume that the group of women must be the Daughters of the Desert," the elf offers. "And as for the Scorched Hand -for that must indeed be them, if Marrn's charming little expression is any indication- they appear to be devotees of Nethys. At the very least they openly wear his symbol, with the exception of the half-orc woman."
"My particular area of expertise is arcane and planar lore, I am afraid," Aerathiel answers Kheled. "Necromancy and undeath, unfortunately, are not. However, I am fairly certain I shall be rectifying that in due time considering what probably awaits us."
"What about you though? You are a priest of sorts, after all?"
"I can only assume that the group of women must be the Daughters of the Desert," the elf offers. "And as for the Scorched Hand -for that must indeed be them, if Marrn's charming little expression is any indication- they appear to be devotees of Nethys. At the very least they openly wear his symbol, with the exception of the half-orc woman."
[dice=Perception]1d20 + 8
My path here is a little different...while most "priests" of Pharasma pray for guidance and receieve their power from Pharasma...I seem to be different. My spells just are part of me. It was many times a point of contention with my brothers. I was stronger than them in the powers I do have but much more limited or focused. It was siad there are others like me...just not many.
How about you, what brings you here?
"What brings me here?" The mage echoes the question, smiling. With a shrug, he continues, his tone casual, matter-of-fact. "I am a wizard, a scholar, a seeker of knowledge. Of long-lost spells and artifacts." He pauses, his smile widening ever so little. "And of the power their discovery more often than not promises."
After the excitement of the draw has died down a bit, Myron turns to the others.
"So, we have some time before we go in. What should we do with it? Get to know our competition a bit better? Do some research on the tomb we are set to explore? Grab a round of drinks? What do you think?"
Mus'ad was disappointed that he could not spot any dwarves in any of the other groups, but he wasn't able to lay eyes on every group.
The only thing that came to the Professor's mind was that Akhentepi was the name of a celebrated military commander who presided over the troops garrisoned in Wati prior to the city’s downfall.
Early the next morning the Delvers joined numerous other groups at the western gates that grant access into the Necropolis. Curiously, neither the Dog Soldiers nor the Scorched Hand seem to be present. A priest of Pharasma accompanied by a number of soldier's is on hand to open the gates. The gates will be closed after you enter, but can be opened again to allow exit. He unlocked the large doors and pushed them open.
All of the other groups set out immediately, spreading out, and heading to their own assigned locations.
As you stepped through the high stone walls inscribed with prayers and blessings that separates the Necropolis from the rest of the city, you are greeted by the sturdy stone buildings that were once part of the living city. Even now some could still be mistaken for apartments, estates, shops, or tenements if not for the faded paint and desert sand piling up in the streets.
Just inside the gate you come across a notable landmark: Pharasma’s Needle. A sacred obelisk capped with a distinctive black capstone.
Soon after the Pharasmins arrived in Wati to rebuild and consecrate the city, a burning rock fell from the sky into the River Sphinx where Bargetown now floats. Nefru Shepses took this as a sign of approval from the Lady of Graves, and ordered the black stone dredged from the river’s depths and carved into a capstone for a sacred obelisk, erecting the monument just inside the gates to the necropolis. Today, mourners interring their loved ones inside the necropolis still stop at Pharasma’s Needle on their way to the gravesites to gain the goddess’s blessing for the deceased’s journey to the Boneyard.
Just past the Needle, the group turned to the north and went a block before turning onto a wide street running eastward. The streets are quiet and the group has no trouble traveling the length of the district, almost all the way to the far east wall.
With a short detour giving a notorious landmark a wide berth, the Umbracene Well...
This deep shaft carved into the bedrock beneath Wati existed even before the city’s founding, covered by an immense stone plug crafted by unknown hands. In the worst throes of the Plague of Madness, the well became a makeshift pauper’s grave, and corpses by the hundreds, if not thousands, were cast into its black depths, which showed no sign of ever filling. Locals believe the well is bottomless. The stone plug that originally covered the well is long lost, and residents of Wati, avoid the site.
Sages speculate that the shaft likely connects to the Darklands, possibly plunging as deep as the Vaults of Orv.
...the party arrives at its destination, a rectangular stone mausoleum sits alone in what appears to have once been an actual cemetery. The trunks of a few dead trees poke out of the sand around the tomb, and a hot breeze whistles through their desiccated branches. A set of massive stone double doors is affixed to the northern side of the structure, beneath a facade bearing the likeness of an Osirian man. Windblown sand is heaped around the crypt, partially burying the doors that lead within.
The name Akhentepi, is engraved upon the doors in Osiriani, along with the dates of his birth and death, indicating that the deceased was born in 2416 ar and died in 2488 ar, 11 years before the Plague of Madness decimated most of the city.
The doors are 10 feet tall and made of solid stone, with no visible handles or hinges. A large amount of sand has drifted up against the doors.
The doors are on concealed hinges and swing outward. There are also telltale traces of mortar along the seams and jamb that has since crumbled or been chipped away, indicating that the doors were meant to be sealed permanently and not intended to be opened again.
You see signs of a crowbar or similar tool having been inserted between the doors at some point.
Mus'ad checks the doors and believes that they are not trapped...