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The glyphs are faintly magical but only to cause them to appear and glow. Otherwise, the box has no magical aura about it. The horns have a moderate divination aura.
When Shin picks up a horn, he has a sudden vision, a memory entering his mind that feels like recalling an event that happened long ago, but was significant to the point of being able to recall it exactly.
The woman stands surrounded by the aftermath of a great battle in the desert. She examines the wounded and dying with interest, ignoring their cries for help. She kneels by a dying man, places her hand on his forehead, and says, “Were you one of ours? One of theirs? It matters not. The Plague loves all of you the same. Do you feel it? As your body dies, does your mind cling to life? Yes—I sense it. Wonderful! I must try again. Soon even the Lady of Graves will have no hold over my fate.”
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Mehku laughs at Andor's suggestion as he peruses the runes, cross referencing them against a couple of pages of notes in his book.
"These are ancient Jistkan by the looks of it," he says, snapping his book closed and stowing it in his bag. "They describe a woman - Aryana Tahari, Mistress of the Dungeons of the Ever-Dying, Handmaiden to the Lord of all Divs, High Priestess of the Usij, Creator of the Night Plague, and Sage of Onyx. I assume she is the figure depicted in the mosaics in the previous chamber."
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The Dungeons of the Ever-Dying and the Sage of Onyx are not recognizable by any among you, although you might guess that the last could be connected to the Jeweled Sages in some way.
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"I wonder whether we are in part of the dungeons referred to," Mekhu muses. "This Aryana was, I recall, a high-ranking priestess of an Ahriman-worshipping cult, presumably allied with a number of his div servants. The Night Plague was the catalyst for the downfall of the Jistka Imperium many thousands of years ago. This woman was very powerful indeed, but I'm not clear on the connection to Set."
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Ecthelien hesitates before accepting the horn and seeing the vision Shin experienced.
Fascinating. Some sort of historical archives in the guise of simple horns.
He will turn to the other horns and pick them up one after the other (unless he is rendered unable)
Interesting. I cannot say I condone their methods. But effective as a means to convey messages these have been.
He offers the others to any who will use them.
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Those experiencing the second vision notice that the halls in that vision look distinctly different from those here. Maybe the other hallway in these ruins leads to a differently constructed area, or maybe it was in a different place altogether.
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The next room is small, with a set of stairs in the northeast corner leading up. A battered chest sits in the room's western alcove.
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Intriguing. Another chest. I wonder if it also contains historical horns from a far off place and/or time.
Ecthelien will try an open/close cantrip on the chest unless it is obvious to be locked or barred. In that case he quietly waits for someone stronger or more skilled in locks to take a crack at it.
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Kridash walks into the room after Ecthelien, and notices him attempting to mess with the chest. He observes the item to find any dangerous mechanisms, and then pulls out a set of tools to get through the lock.
"Hmph.", he grunts quietly. "Just some stones. Someone with an affinity in the arcane could look at them, perhaps?", he steps away from the opened container and observes the room itself.
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Mekhu stands back and lets Ash work, noting down aspects of the half-orc's technique that could improve his own lockpicking abilities. As Ash steps away he peers into the chest, looking at the stones.
"These stones," he says, gathering up the grey stones, "look to have been used as part of some kind of magical ritual or casting. These ones look unused," he adds, scooping up four chunks of onyx and examining them closer.
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The stones are soft and brittle, dust crumbling a bit from their edges as Mekhu lifts them to examine closely. Strangely, the dust falls into patterns of Ancient Osiriani hieroglyphics, although not enough to make out a complete message -- perhaps more dust would produce more? It feels like even your fingernails are hard enough to scratch these stones.
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Ecthelion detects a very faint aura of necromancy on these stones.
At one point, while producing dust, Andor incautiously puts a finger to his lips and transfers some dust. He discovers that the dust tastes, inexplicably, like screaming.
As more dust is produced, it forms into more hieroglyphics on the floor.
The heiroglyphics form recognizable words, but form themselves into sentences that are generally grammatically correct but have no intelligible meaning:
Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.
The vertebral silence indisposes the licit sail.
The exquisite corpse will drink the new wine.
Quadruplicity drinks procrastination.
Hold the newsreader's nose squarely, waiter, or friendly milk will countermand my trousers.
All your base are belong to us.
Detritus litters this room, including bits of metal, broken furniture, crushed glass, leather strips, and shredded parchment. The walls, ceiling, and floor are covered in deep gouges forming words and phrases in multiple languages.
Most of the room's contents have been thorough despoiled and destroyed, but one sturdy, intact box sits in a corner.
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The stones have the taint of necromancy and the dead. Not much else am able to tell.
Turning his attention to the dust forming words, he has no clue.
I really must learn some of these other languages. It seems those are the ones with true power and lore of arcane. Osirian, Thessalonian, Draconian. Or a spell to learn languages. That would be good. I will have too search one down.
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A barely noticeable grin appears on Kridash's face when Andor loses his cool.
"No hard feelings over here, but I think you will be living that one down for a while."
Seeing the writings on the wall, the half orc looks over them for a few short moments, but looks clueless.
"Anyone knows what this is?"
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Mekhu carefully writes down the hieroglyphs that form in the dust, but they make little sense. Shrugging, be puts his notebook away as the group heads towards the next room. He looks over the carved words and hieroglyphs for a moment.
"Some sort of hodgepodge of Abyssal, Infernal, and Ancient Osiriani, but all saying the same thing: 'I will seek the Dungeons, find the screams, remember your name, KILL YOU'. Very disturbing," he adds, noticing the intact box. "What's in here, I wonder?" he asks himself, moving cautiously towards the box, searching for traps and other dangers as he does so.
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The box is neither trapped nor locked. Inside are 8 flasks, careful examination of which determines to be filled with alchemist's fire, somehow still potent despite millennia of abandonment.
Looking over the room, you are able to determine that the debris once formed a table with thick leather restraints, a single stool, and a small writing desk. There are also scraps of papyrus all over, ripped and chewed into bits, but with writing fragments on them that could give a hint of the studies undertaken in this room if reassembled. The edges of the papyrus are caked with a dried, crystallized substance that numbs the fingers slightly on contact.
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The oily liquid within the stoppered flasks is easily identifiable to Mekhu's trained eye. "Everyone should take one of these," he says, handing them round to the group. "Just in case." He tucks a flask in a pouch on his belt before joining Ash.
He looks over the scraps of papyrus, trying to piece together some meaning. The tingling sensation that develops in his fingertips prompts him to look more closely at the powdery substance on the scraps.