"May I see the clue, friend?" Bonewright asks politely, his discomfort evident from his language.
The scratches on the back of the medallion make more sense to the Bonewright. Indeed, they are the first examples he has seen of the original language, rather than precious copies painted on hides, passed down from Master to Apprentice over the generations. They are Ancient, the secret language of the ancestors, usually known only to shamans, oracles and others who had dealing with the spirits. The runes here invoke the spirits of the Earth, and the Auroch Spirit, asking their blessing and protection on the wearer. Indeed, the shape on the front might be an auroch, although it is badly worn.
Wheatbeard advances beyond the range of the torchlight, his dwarven vision allowing him to see into the next chamber.
It is roughly the same size as the current one, but without niches on the walls. Three great stone sarcophagi, made roughly from great, flat pieces of slate, are arrayed equally across the center of the room. Beyond them is another archway, presumablz into another chamber, although this seems to have been bricked off, in much the same way as the top of the stairs had been.
Moklik bristles, his senses tingling at the thought of being in such a long dead place. He follows Wheatbeard closely, trusting the dwarf to know what he is doing.
Bonewright approaches the first of the sarcophagi
"Apologies honoured one, but I mist see if you will talk to me."
Words done he starts to push on the sarchophagi.
The trouble it would take to create such a vessel for the dead surely denoted their importance; Wheatbeard moved forward to check the stone sarchophagus with patience. Perhaps marking on it could detail whomever lay within its protective walls - or the people from which he/she came.
The construction of the stone sarcophagus - simple sheets of slate, with none of the elaborate carving and decoration that a dwarf would wish for in their family crypt. But to the people who built them, mining and transporting such large sheets of rock would have represented a large investment of time and effort - probably indicating the rank and status of the one interred here.
Wheatbeard crouches down, casually noticing the quality of the toolmarks on the stone.
And then Bonewright begins to push on the lid of the tomb.
There is a terrible scraping of stone on stone, as the magician manages to lever up the corner of the sheet of stone forming the sarcophagus. Then, he looses his grip, and with a loud crash it slips sideways, crashing on its edge to the stone floor, sending echoes reverberating around the chamber.
There is a rush of air from the tomb, heavily scented with spice and dust. Inside the sarcophagus, the bones of a tall warrior lie, well preserved, a bronze breastplate across its chest and a great stone spear clasped in its bony fingers.
That is all that Bonewright and Wheatbeard have time to notice, before fell red points of light begin to glow in the skeleton's empty eye sockets, and the ancient bones begin to move...
Moklik feels the spirit of the beast rise in him and his claws unsheathe as he dives forward to protect the dwarf and the Bonewright.
Busy looking at the fine details, Wheatbeard's heart nearly leaped out of his chest as the explosion of the stone slab hitting the floor startled him.
"Careful!" shouted the Dwarf. Height (or lack thereof) handicapping him and his eyes elsewhere though, he was not immediately aware of the skeleton at hand ...
Caedmon jumps when he hears the crash. Then his hunter training kicking in on what weapon is the best choice for any potential prey. With that in his head he puts his Axe away and draws his hammer. Now with a Torch and Hammer he walks closer to help the others with any tasks he needs to."If we encounter any Undead they most likely are skeletal. We would have an easier time smashing them rather than hacking and poking."
Why do we disturb the demonic dead when we could be hunting orcs? Growling in distaste Tupilek rushes forward with his greatclub.
With Caedmon's mention of undead, Wheatbeard backs away from the yet-unknown skeleton's resting place. "You mean in here? Surely there wouldn't be such a demon within; the bones outside were harmless."
Bonewright felt his jaw drop in awe as the dead man rises.
He had heard stories of this, but only stories. Magic beyond the ken of all but the most powerful could keep life in dead bones. Magic that could make all the difference in this coming fight. He had hoped to learn of a weapon - but here was a warrior risen to help!
Nervously he steps backwards, rushing through the same words in every language he knows
"Honoured one. The Orcs come. Help us! Please!"
The skeletal figure rises to its feet, hate blazing in its eyes and the great stone spear clutched in its fingers. It surveys the group as they variously advance, and prepares itself for battle.
Bonewright babbles frantically in a variety of tongues, trying to placate the risen dead, but seemingly to little effect. The skeleton lunges forward with its spear
and then halts, stock still, tilting its head as if to listen.
"Τιμήθηκε ένα, έρχονται τα ξωτικά. Βοηθήστε μας παρακαλώ." repeats the Bonewright, silently wishing he had paid greater attention to his lessons in this tongue.
The figure turns its head to survey the group, pausing to stare a while at Wheatbeard. Then it turns its blazing eyes back to Bonewright, and tilts its head as if wanting him to continue.
Whoever thought I'd need to speak ancient.
Turning to Caedmon Bonewright hisses "Go get an Orc head - now!"
Carefully Bonewright puts down his weapon and speaks to the Ancient and then his friends
"Honoured one. We know your people fought the Goblins and..." what's the word for won... "Were victorious."
"We need to know how to win the Goblins kill. Then going we will be."
Caedmon goes to get a head.
Tupilek steps back, but his club is still in his hands.
The skeletal figure pauses again, as if in contemplation. It stares in turn at each of the group, finally settling its gaze on Asheru.
The shaman blinks, then utters a few unintelligible words.
"I can hear him in my head" he finally whispers, his voice carrying in the dry air of the tomb. "He wants to know if the Burning Terror has returned, as was foretold?"
Wheatbeard stood in awe of the exchange. It was one thing to converse with spirits, but quite another to bring the dead to bear and have a chat. His magics must be powerful indeed, thought Wheatbeard of Bonewright. "Can he describe it? It's been so long since he was among the living, he may have a very different idea of what a burning terror is than you or I."
The Dwarf did not like the way the skeleton stopped to look at him though. He did his best to remain eye contact, however. If he can talk, better keep things polite. The druid bowed low before the skeleton in respect - not a difficult task at Wheatbeard's height - and awaited further talking.
Asheru pauses for a moment. "Garrilk spoke of a Burning Lord, who will rule with fire and terror." he whispers, his eyes almost rolling back in his head as he communes with the dead. "Whatever it is, it has returned. Brother of Secrets, please tell him that the Burning Terror is returned, and the tribes are sore pressed."
Moklik keeps his guard up, clearly unnerved by the dead thing's motion and speech. He casts sidelong glances at Asheru and the dwarf, his muscles tensed and ready to spring.
Caedmon returns shortly after leaving. His manner denotes he is not used to "dungeons"."Is the Head still needed? I can't remember where the dead are."
Caedmon then has a sudden memory but stops and lights a new torch with his current one just before it dies out. He then heads to the bottom of the pit and uses his axe to sever an Orc Head.
Bonewright looks into the glowing points of light.
What is Life? What is Death? His Master had learned about anatomy and medicine. So easy to think of life as simply a complex process. So easy to ignore the soul. Then to see it like this. Bare bones animated by magic and soul. Life in death.
A Miracle.
Faithfully Bonewright relays his message as best he can
"η καύση τρόμου επιστρέφει, και οι φυλές είναι επώδυνο πατημένο."
The skeletal figure stands in silence, the blazing fires in its eye sockets casting a baleful light in the gloom of the chamber.
Then, raising its spear, it strikes the butt end three times upon the stony ground. The blows echo like drumbeats off the stony walls, and as they die away they are replaced by the scraping of stone on stone. The lids of two remaining sarcophagi tremble, and then are pushed slowly aside from within by bony hands.
Two more skeletal figures rise from their tombs. The one on the left wears a gleaming bronze breastplate, carved deeply with swirling, abstract patterns, which it slowly unbuckles. The one to the right bears an ivory bow, its curves glinting creamy white in the torchlight.
Slowly, the three figures extend their fleshless arms, and offer their treasures to the group.
Bonewright feels his heart stuttering. Different actions flit across his mind, but he cannot focus.
He looks briefly to his companions for guidance.
The exchange a bit macabre for him, Wheatbeard did not reach forward for any of the items. Though the craftsmanship on the breastplate interested him greatly, these living dead unnerved him moreso; his heart skipped a beat when the other two rose up.
Bowing once more, he said out of the side of his mouth to the group: "I've had my fill of this place."
"Thanks." Tupilek says, grabbing the club and breastplate. "We use these smash burning lord."
Moklik, clearly trembling at such an unnatural display, bows to the ground, his head touching the stone, in front of the skeletons. He remains there for three breaths, then stands and salutes the warriors.
"We will fight. Like you, we will triumph."
Then, uncomfortable at such a display, he steps back.
The central figure turns slightly and points at the archway that leads further into the catacombs, and then shakes its head.
Asheru, his voice still faint and distant, speaks again.
"What lies in the chamber beyond is forbidden to us, until the omens are right. We may not pass."
The skeletal figures stand still for a moment. In the flickering torchlight, a momentary illusion cloaks them - they seem less skeletal and more like ancient warriors - proud, fierce, undaunted, and yet with an air of tragedy and doom about them.
Then the illusion passes. The ancient warriors are nothing but bones and dust, lying scattered and decayed in their sarcophagi. The ivory bow lies at the foot of one of the stone coffins, it's soft undulating curves gleaming in the light.
Asheru's head snaps forward, his eyes clear, and he looks around him, disoriented and confused.
Tupilek grunts. Holding up the armor and weapon he asks, "Who use?"
Though the solid plate of bronze would offer him protection, the Dwarf had his own ways of defending himself. And in the wet areas, that armor could be more a curse than a blessing. He was not of strength to be swinging a club, the point of his spear providing the damage he needed with much less force.
Shaking his head, "Not me," came his reply. "Some of you huntsmen are stronger and may make better use."
It wasn't every day one encoutnered such warriors from the world beyond. "We need to get out of here, tell of what we know so people can act. We are but few." Though it wasn't their original purpose, they did possess some valuable information now. "What should we do with the Elf-woman?" inquired Wheatbeard as he bagan to trace their steps back to the surface.
Bonewright examines the swirling, abstract patterns of the breastplate as if entranced "Ancient craftsmanship - to survive all these centuries..." he mutters, then struck by a suspicion opens his inner eye
The Bonewright examines the items, his sight enhanced by the secrets of his Order, the better to find out the secrets of others.
Firstly, the spear. Made, blade and shaft, of a single, smooth piece of stone, without markings or toolmarks, it should by rights be both heavy and fragile, and yet as he handles it, he has no doubts that it is both light and strong, and lethal in skilled hands.
The magic within bears the aura of the Conjuration school, but it will require further study for him to determine its secrets.
Next, the breastplate. Formed from a single piece of bronze, carved and marked with abstract swirling patters, and straps of some form of leather that is unfamiliar to him, it is a fine piece of craftsmanship. He concentrates...
Frustratingly, the secrets of this item lie just without his immediate grasp. It bears Enchantment magic for sure, but everything beyond escapes him.
The bow is a single piece of worked ivory, of a bone type even he is unfamiliar with. It is light and supple, even given its age, and flexes easily but with strength in his hands.
The secrets of this item come more easily to him, although they are of a subtlety and grace he has never previously seen. Embued with Divination magic, the bow knows its target, reaching and seeking for it, yearning to strike true.
The Bonewright's vision fades, and he feels weariness wash over him.
Bonewright touches the items reverently
"Such craftsmanship... and power. The Bone Bow could have been made by the Order - or the ones who became the order. With this bow a man could shoot a thousand feet, and still hit the target. It is beyond price. Brother would kill brother for this."
He pauses
"Perhaps this is the bow spoken of in the legends?"
Was thinking of trying to learn the name. Perhaps something in greek? Philoctetes maybe?
Many of the Stories concern great archers, often as companions to heroes. Their names and deeds change in the telling, usually to flatter the local chief, who will claim ancestry from one hero or another.
The most famous is a wild tale of one Jint, who hunted a great winged monster through the woods. Seeking to escape its pursuer, the monster flew to the red moon to roost, whereupon Jint drew his bow, took careful aim, and shot the creature with an iron arrow. It took the monster three days to fall to earth, where Jint was waiting. He made a new bow from its wingbones, and a necklace from its teeth.
Bonewright relays the story
"Jint'sbow? I think it might be."
AS they gather the things and prepare to leave, Wheatbeard gazes at Bonewright. He knows more than he's said. "What is this Order's purpose?" First the dead rise, now the show hand of some organization was found in the tomb. Oddly, even though back under the gruond, Wheatbeard felt oddly vulnerable here. It was time to leave.
Asheru lifts his head from his hands, where it had been buried since the spirit had released him. His body seems his own once again, yet he stands with a markedly uncharacteristic resolution. As he walks toward the sarcophagi, a breeze glides through the cavern, swirling the fur of his armor and tossing his matted locks about his face. Carried on the breeze are indistinguishable whispers, so faint as to cause one to question their presence. The whispers persist however, uninterrupted by footfall as the shaman steps silently forward. He stops at the foot of the central sarcophagus, with a final breeze lifting his hair upward; which immediately drops lifelessly about his shoulders. The other sounds cease just a swiftly.
"Thank you." Asheru mutters, his voice shakey but his own. "Thank you for your boons. And we apologize for disturbing you." The shaman's voice grows shakier as he continues. "But you will not find rest here..." A whimper can be heard beneath his words now. "If you want rest... then you should come with me"