The halfling smiles a tooth-ache sort of smile back at Lyrian, ginger and pained, and gives him a small nod as Lyrian slides off the stool.
"Message received," he mutters, and knocks back what's left in his drink. The halfling exits the tavern quickly after Lyrian departs
"Ohhh, yes, the church! Of course, of course. Well, well, if you don't want to tell Aunty your business," and her eyes gleam as warm as a crow's, "Aunty needn't say all she hears, either."
The young scholar-woman seems to have been turned down by the Mwangi warrior and her shoulders slump dispiritedly. Looking around, she sees Lyrian and Seferneru and brightens up, clearly recognizing them from the auction.
"Sirs! Do you require the services of a translator or scribe?"
Abram, do you wish to address the old woman's calling-you-out on your mistruth, or simply let her go her way?
Lyrian or Seferneru, you feel that you have a fine handle on the languages you are likely to encounter. You say as such to the young lady, who looks disappointed but wanders on to search for other employment offering her services.
Upstairs, Vorthos is busy studying the scrolls...
He is a scholarly savant, it seems, and shortly thereafter bursts down to the common room, eager to beckon all of you up to discuss the findings in the scrolls.
The alchemist delivers all of the following info in a rapid-fire delivery, clearly pleased with his own intellect.
Though it is a large planet (twice the size of Golarion), it is rarely visible to the naked eye due to its vast distance. Its atmosphere is poisonous to most humanoids, and its surface is bitterly cold...
Though the scrolls speak of beings from Aucturn, the scrolls discuss this almost in quasi-religious, quasi-poetic terms, as if speaking of gods or demons rather than merely something foreign: there are references to visitors... the 'Dominions of the Black'... and "gifts of mind quakes / when favor is found and obliteration / when it is not."
Vorthos recalls fractured mentions in the Pathfinder Chronicles to Aucturn being a dwelling-place of horrors alien to the mind of man: home to such creatures as the whispered shoggoths and gugs... skinless hunters, and the so-called denizens of Leng. The landscape of Aucturn is a cracked and shifting nightmare, and what few names reach Golarion read like a madman's gazzetteer of euphemistic locales: The Loving Place. The Tower of the Midwives. The Well of Purple.
Aucturn features in the symbolism of the Dark Tapestry cults... and every fifty-six years, it swings in its orbit, closer to Golarion, and Golarion likewise swings out at its most extreme to meet the Stranger.
According to the scrolls, the influence of Aucturn at its closest has a strange effect on the elemental spirits of the deep desert-- creating especially violent battles between earth and air. Such as the storm season you are currently in...
Furthermore, one of the pages of dense hieroglyphics turns out to be a highly accurate chart mapping out these 56-year cycles for thousands of years. Though the chart stops short of the current year, Vorthos is able to compare the diagrams of the night sky to the stars that currently hang over Sothis... and believes it is a safe bet that one of these 56-year cycles is happening now.
The author of these scrolls was clearly a man of formidable genius, bordering perhaps on obsession with Aucturn and the 'visitors' of which he speaks. However, historical Osiriani academic treatises always begin with a dedication to the ruling Pharaoh, whosoever he or she may be, and the text from that point on is usually liberally interspersed with such references. This document is completely free of any references to ruling kings.
To recap:
-You have a possible lead in the golden funerary mask (the supposed key to the pyramid complex) being held within the Exhibitionary of Sothis, a museum presided over by the Arch Docent. It is currently after hours at the Exhibitionary, but some staff might still be on the grounds. This information comes to you from the old woman with whom Abram is speaking.
-You have been told of the four runes of the pharaohs, and cautioned that any soul who sees all of them will be slain by the pharaohs' curse.
-Lyrian has confronted, and had a Nice Chat, with the halfling who was at the auction, stealing from the Mithral Scarab, and tailing you. Lyrian seems to have given him a great deal to think about.
Do you intend to pursue the matter of the mask tonight, or to sleep on it it? We'll say it's about nine o'clock in the evening.
"The mask could be moved at any moment, and once it's into the Pyramid, we won't be. I say we move on it tonight."
"Yes, the church. I always take great interest in any object that might have an interesting history. You look hungry; perhaps you can tell me what you recall of this one over a meal..."
Abram accedes to the woman through a knowing glance that his interest may run deeper, but maintains the outward affectation of indifference, allowing the story to become accepted metaphor, as opposed to literal truth.
The old woman seems more amused than anything else by your assessment of her as 'hungry', and your offer of a meal, but she deigns to sit with you.
"I hunger for mysteries, not meat. My flesh is well taken care of," she says with a harsh laugh as if she found that idea particularly, if morbidly, amusing. Her gnarled fingers drum on the tabletop, and she squints narrowly at Abram and the others for a long moment before appearing to come to a conclusion.
She leans in close to whisper to him, her eyes gleaming and her breath smelling of sour wine and a faint hint of decay.
"You're seeking a tomb, aren't you," she chuckles. "Everyone here is, after all. Oh, I know you won't tell me what tomb... probably wise if you don't, and you're a wise one, aren't you? Hard-won knowledge behind those eyes...
"What I told you is true, Pharasman. A mask such as you describe sits in the museum. But..." she taps the side of her nose with her finger, slyly, "it's not the real one."
"Auntie knows. Auntie's old enough to remember it being sold. It's a forgery. I'll tell you where the true one lies, but there's the price of more than a meal in it. Do I look like a beggar to you? I want things from tombs that rarely turn up on the market... not even in the Kemeserian's auctions.
"Bring me a pound of dust from the ancient dead, and I'll tell you what I know of the true mask."
She grins at Lyrian with a gold tooth flashing. "Let others chase forgeries, young one. Truth is always buried under shifting sand."
Lyrian is both fascinated and suspicious. Does she seem to be telling the truth?
<- I guess he believes her.
|
Seferneru leans forward towards the old woman talking to Abram. “Madam, your wise appearance is in stark contrast with your request. Someone as knowledgeable as you must know how dangerous disturbing the dead of this land must be. May I have an answer as to what you wish to accomplish with the reward you asked us to bring you?” Seferneru makes a point not to sound threatening – which usually doesn’t really manage to pull off, emotionless as he appears “I would be a poor guardian for this lands if I were to allow a greater danger trying to prevent a tomb robbery. I trust you understand my position.” the warrior emphasizes the Ka stone in his forehead, believing it to be justification enough.
Lyrian and Seferneru, you both feel as if she is being truthful about knowing something about the mask that she is willing to bargain for, and that she is being truthful regarding the museum's copy of the mask being a forgery.
She eyes Seferneru sharply at his question, her lips pinched into a thin line.
"I seek to cause no danger from my studies. I am a scholar. There is much to learn from the material remains of our ancestors... the methods of their embalming, the psychic resonances and lingering auras thereof.
"And you mean to disturb the dead anyway, unless I miss my guess. Such people as these foreigners--" she looks at Lyrian and Vorthos, here, "come to our land only to enter our graves.
"If you don't wish to meet my price due to your forebodings, then I wish you a good day."
Between Abram's earlier detect-evil and her particular request, it is reasonable for Seferneru and Vorthos to believe she might be some sort of necromancer, or at least have a passing interest in the arts. She seems to be telling the truth for a given value of 'the truth' -- in that she intends to do no harm to living people, with the dust of the dead, but wishes to study it.
|
|
“I choose to embark in this expedition for several reasons; an important one is to make sure that the breaking into the tombs of our ancestors is done with as little disturbance to the dead as possible. You are scholar, you say. I do believe your interest to be deep enough to try and get that bone dust in other ways, should I say no.” Seferneru’s expression never changes. Never.
“But if I supervise the operation, I can try to ensure minimal disrespect to the dead. My colleague” he nods towards Vorthos “possesses a wide knowledge of embalming fluids. However, maybe Abram” he nods towards the paladin “would not be willing to disturb the dead. I do not command this expedition, I can merely express my vote.”
Abram retreats into the memories of his lessons for a moment, trying to think of any nefarious uses such powder might have.
Lyrian simply believes the woman is trouble, and after his encounter with the halfling is doubly suspicious of helpful strangers. However, he says nothing and allows Seferneru to handle the matter.
Abram, you believe that there are possible spells that the dust of the ancient dead could be used as a focus for-- spells to look back through time to the era the dead came from. Which would be useful for a scholar of the history involved, or of the lost embalming processes.
In short, while you highly doubt she intends to use the gravedust for anything good, you know of no particularly awful or undead-animating ritual that she could do with the dust.
The old woman nods thoughtfully at Seferneru's words. "The techniques they used to preserve the dead so long ago are lost to us now. If you lot are going crypt-wandering, you'll no doubt see them close and personal, ha."
Her beady eyes dart over Lyrian's coppery face, Vorthos's pale one, and come to rest finally on Abram's sober eyes. "Have we a deal, oh preserver-of-the-dead's-peace? Or shall I see if anyone else in this crypt-hungry town wishes to hear of masks?"
"I am sure we have a deal," replies Lyrian on Abram's behalf.
His face a bit of a scowl at the prospect, but unable to think of any solid reason why he should not, Abram nods, giving his reluctant accent.
The old woman smiles, gold teeth glinting. "Excellent. So, then... the true mask was sold to a man now dead... he, in turn, sold a replica to the museum, but the mask it was modeled after? He kept it for himself. He is now dead, but his son has inherited his father's passion for collection... and you already saw him once tonight."
She chuckles at her private joke. "Can you guess? No? The one they call the Crook Bearer! It is half the root of the quarrel between him and the Arch Docent, that the Crook Bearer's father wouldn't sell the museum the mask, only the replica."
She shakes her head with another chuckle. "I can tell you where to find the Crook Bearer's home, where he keeps all his treasures of the sands, but beyond that, you must find your own way to deal with him. Chase the true mask, while your enemies pursue the false, eh? Clever little desert foxes."
The old woman gives directions to the Crook Bearer's estate, and whispers his actual name for free: Chetsu.
"The father wouldn't sell it. The son might," the old woman says as a final warning. "Do as you will... but bring my dust, once you've been to visit the old dead. Ask for Auntie Niut in the bazaar, when you have what I wish."
"If the Crook Bearer intended to sell, he would have sold to the museum or the Arch Docent personally," says Lyrian. "Trying to buy from him will only put his guards on alert. I say we break in, take it and return it after we leave the pyramid. Surely that is the highest use of the mask!"
It is near midnight by the time you follow the old woman's directions to the part of Sothis where expensively-irrigated gardens bloom from the desert sands. The streets here are broad and smooth, and the homes of those of prosperous merchants and renowned sages... and some members of the aristocracy, as well. Date palms provide shade by daylight, but now their palm fronds only whisper in the night wind. The homes here are spacious and luxurious, with tended grounds and pools of water for the rich to enjoy.
Guardsmen walk the streets in pairs of two, their lanterns bobbing ahead of them. Despite the lateness of the hour, many windows in this part of the city are still lit, and the sounds of drinking, eating, music, and conversation waft on the night air. The foot traffic is light, but still present: as a desert city, Sothis doesn't truly come alive for pleasure until dusk anyway.
A wall of stone encircles the Crook Bearer's estate, the gates topped with a symbol of crossed crooks. There are lights inside the large low house beyond, but no sign of a current party or feast.
Glancing through the gates surreptitiously, you can observe three distinct buildings: the large bulk of the manor house, a less decorated building that could be the stables, and, beyond that, a building that gleams under the moonlight in the shape of an ankh. It appears to be faced with polished black stone, and the moonlight catches on a disk of glass or a similar material-- perhaps a window.
Map of the Crook Bearer's estate
The enclosed grounds are 200 x 400 feet. The wall is ten feet high and topped with what might be shards of broken pottery. You can perceive that two guardsmen also are wandering the property inside the walls, as well as the city guardsmen who are ambling up and down the outer avenues.
Questions?
Seferneru, it is perhaps morally permitted to see that a treasure of the Osiriani people is not held by this or that single individual, but instead returned to the greater glory of your nation, and the Ruby Prince...
Lyrian tells Seferneru, "Look, we're not here to loot. We'll take nothing else, not if a fortune in gold is laying there for the taking. We can even return the mask when this is all over. But the greater good does not lie in allowing questionable parties to arrive at that pyramid first and releasing the curse. So we get in, get the mask and go. Fair enough?"
"I suggest we simply scale the wall in the northeast corner, climb the reliquary and descend in through the skylight, then leave by the same course."
"That sounds reasonable. If we intend to enter by stealth, I will have to remove my armour. I do not like being without my armour. In either event, moving silently is not a well practised skill of mine, so suggest another takes the van, so as to determine when observers are actually present, and silence is crucial."
"Gosh," says Lyrian, his face deadpan, "who're we going to get for that part of it? Luckily, I know a guy. Come on, let's get to it."
Vorthos nods crisply at Abram's words. "Yes, you would be heard from miles away. Let those best suited to it serve in matters of subtlety," the alchemist says with blithe arrogance, including himself in that, obviously.
"We shall scout ahead and ascertain the circuit of the guards, then signal you with the hoot of a desert owl to proceed. Or perhaps the call of a jackal. Ah, no, the night sand-hawk--"
Eventually he can be dragged off by the sleeve and nudged into slipping ahead, silently.
Vorthos and Lyrian slip off to a point at which they can observe the circuit of both the guards on the street, and the guards within the perimeter. After several minutes of observing the passage of the guards' torches they have their window-- Vorthos makes a noise that you suppose could be taken as the hoot of a desert owl-- to signal that the guards are on the far side of the property, and that now is the best moment to make the attempt.
After picking a spot well-sheltered by palms and groomed shrubbery, Vorthos and Lyrian set to climbing the wall...
The wall is not too terribly hard a climb, as long as you don't have dogs yipping at your heels or something similar-- taking a few seconds to be careful, Lyrian and Vorthos are able to avoid cutting their hands on the pieces of glass that stud the top of the walls. Vorthos, however, catches his cloak on one of them-- as he moves to climb down the other side, the cloth rips with a loud tearing noise and he hurriedly yanks it free even as he falls off the wall and lands flat on his face with a loud thump.
Lyrian is no doubt face-palming as he seeks cover behind some shrubbery, but after a few tense seconds with no cries of alarm from any guardsmen, it appears that the night has swallowed up the sounds of the less-than-graceful progress.
Hoot-hoot, goes the alchemist. Abram, ready to follow?
Lyrian is already looking for something on the roof of the reliquary onto which he can hook his grappling iron.
|
|
Seferneru looks for a second with a stern face as the condescending Lyrian climbs the wall. He had a point. Even if he hadn’t, he was going in anyway, and at least by being with him he would make sure that this so-called “son of angels” would stay true to his word of not looting the place.
He jumps, grabs the wall border ignoring a few scrathces on his fingers, and pulls himself up effortlessly. Then, trying to make as little noise as possible, jumps down landing behind Lyrian and Vorthos “I am not comfortable with this. But then, I am nothing if not flexible.” he says to the bard. It is meant as a joke. But with his face not even trying to change expression, it might be hard to tell.
Before approaching the wall, Abram removes his armour, and bundles it tightly, working his cloak and bedroll in between the plates to ensure it is silent as he carries it.
When he gets to the wall, he waits for the others to go first, and once given the all clear to do so, jumps up and climbs quietly over.