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"Really?" The door unlocks and unlatches, and opens to reveal a sallow-faced, unshaven young man, who looks very much despondent, with a reek of cheap liquor -- unless that's alchemical reagents you're smelling instead. Maybe both? (It wouldn't be the first time an alchemist took to drinking his solvent.)
"Well, come in then... My, there's a lot of you. You really think you can help me?
"Well, it all started with this book. A journal, I think. It's pretty old, and I can just barely understand this ancient form of Osiriani. I took a few classes in university on the old language, but when I read it, it's like the words just spoke in my mind. Now that I look at it, I don't hear any of it anymore. But the voice was as clear as you speaking to me here. The words promised power, and I found myself doing things I would never do normally -- adding toxic ingredients to tinctures and healing draughts, mixing incompatible elixirs. I'm just thankful no one died.
He pauses and rubs his eyes, groaning with pain. "They took all my materials, I can't even make a simple hangover draught. I don't suppose any of you have any, it's usually sold under 'alchemist's kindness'?"
When you all indicate that you have nothing of the sort, he sighs and continues. "I don't know why I did it, it just seemed so clear when I was hearing the words in my head. If I did this and that, the secret of immortality would be mine! Except... it never worked. And now when I remember what I did, or to understand my notes, none of what I did made any sense. I broke basic elements of the laws of similarity and contagion, and the results should have been either nothing or catastrophic, and yet they were... not successful, but they did something. I'm no bomb-throwing madboy -- I stick to recipes that are well known and work. Or I did, until this." With that, he angrily throws the journal onto his desk.
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Mekhu listens carefully to the alchemist's hurried explanation, noting it all down in his book.
"This is all incredibly complex, sir," he remarks. "Would it be acceptable for me to review the journal in question?" he asks, pointing at the book on the table. "I believe that studying it might provide answers to your questions, and might assist us in our investigations."
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Sokari looks down at the book, up at Andor, and then nods slowly at Ecthelien. "I don't know why I said that... I suddenly felt an intense urge to keep anyone else from seeing the book... but why would I?"
He flinches back from Ash's threat. "Fine, have it! I don't care, just tell them I didn't mean to do it!"
He tosses the book to the half-orc and goes to his bare shelves, retrieving a bottle of grain alcohol and splashing it into a glass, which he gulps down with a grimace.
The book is written in Ancient Osiriani, but is missing some unknown number of pages towards the back, and some that have been ripped out. What remains is filled with notes about necromantic experiments, but some reading indicates it is incomplete. Though the notes hint about a successful method of preserving the spirit, it would be impossible to recreate from these fragments alone. However, it does offer some clues about the necromancer herself -- identifying ancient markets she went to for the purchase of supplies, and giving some details of her service to the Pharaoh of Forgotten Plagues. There are also a few spells recorded, which could be decoded and learned. This doesn't appear to be her primary spellbook, but perhaps she gained access to these spells at a time when that book was not immediately available.
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Grey stands back and watches his companions do there thing. Finding a nice snack he sits backs and shares his treat with Lucy occasionally shouting words of encouragement or his thoughts on sudden developments in the conversation.
"Don't forget to check his pupils for dilation...oh and under his tongue a slight yellow color could mean...well a bunch of stuff actually." Shouts Grey
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The strange behaviour and sudden change of mood suggest that Sokari is under the influence of malign forces, perhaps magical or hypnotic in nature. Mekhu keeps his oberservation to himself lest it compromise their investigation, and begins to peruse the journal. He sits cross-legged on the floor, the journal open in his lap and his notebook at his right hand where he can jot notes with ease.
Mekhu scribbles down all the pertinent information, particularly that pertaining to the ne romanced who presumably authored the book. He notes that a small selection of spells could also be prepared from the journal. Slipping his notebook away he stands and carefully closes the journal. "I'd like to take this away for further study if I may? Also, have you noticed any other strange occurrences recently? Odd people hanging around, strange goings-on in your premises, for instance?"
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Leaving the ruins, you find Obahar waiting for your report. He listens carefully as you describe what you found below, taking notes, and nods thoughtfully. "I should research connections to these clues in my records, and those of the Venture Captain. My home is at the Pathfinder Lodge, and you may find me there when you have completed your own investigations. You are investigating the reports of the alchemist, and the young lady at the temple, are you not? Have you discovered any other leads you intend to follow?"
"I would propose to go back to Obahar. Maybe he could deduce something that will help us. He said that we should contact him in the Pathfinder Lodge and that he might be able to support."
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The journey to the Thrice-Shrouded Necropolis is not a long one, and soon you are able to enter the immense cemetery that surrounds the temple of Pharasma, which is itself a mortuary crypt that reaches deep underground. As you pass the gates, you notice several effects. The bright desert sunlight seems greatly muted, as if a thick cloud had passed over the sun, though a glance upward shows no such thing. The humans must blink a bit to let their eyes adjust, and feel as if they had stepped into a dimly-lit tomb. Sounds, as well, are muffled -- you see mourners visiting gravesites and mausoleums, some speaking to each other, but you are unable to clearly make out words. Even speaking to each other is difficult, requiring enunciation and raising the voice slightly. Finally, your emotions seem to be calmed, as do those of others. Even a family gathered at a new grave do not seem to be overwhelmed with grief, and your own frustration and sense of urgency to complete your mission seem to fade into a placid calmness. Were it not for this effect, the realm of the Lady of Graves would no doubt be downright unsettling.
A priestess greets you as you reach the main entrance of the temple. "Good afternoon. I am Renofre. Have you come to pray?" the middle-aged human woman asks.
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Echthelien considers lying and confirming the woman's query.
Pray? Well not precisely. Maybe seeking wisdom from the temple would be a more apt description.
He nods to the priestess politely.
We were informed of some strange visions being experienced by a few in town, and we were curious. Being a temple of the Lady of Graves, some of the visions involved topics which may be of interest or at least knowledge of one of your background. Do you know of those we speak?
He turns to his compatriots looking for some help.
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"Well, he hasn't talked about it when we were there, but from what we were able to hear, it was about something related to the desecration of graves he was engaged in. The words power, secrets, the 'spiral of death' -- which might be an odd way to refer to the Grey Lady herself, or this," she muses, tapping her finger against the spiral holy symbol hanging around her neck.
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"We have him confined in an isolated room. I can take you there."
Renofre leads you through the catacombs to the room where they have detained the acolyte. The young man, Manetho, is sitting in the cool, dimly-lit room, with a single ever-burning candle and a copy of The Bones Land in a Spiral, which he is ignoring. The boy sits in the corner with his arms around his knees.
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"Pharasma follower... Pharasma? No! The Lady of Graves could not help me... I was powerless! The voice promised to reveal its secrets to me. It asked me to dig up graves. It said that 'she who wears the spiral of death' would come for me, so I am waiting. It said she would take me east, beyond the Seven Crypts, to the Ever-Dying."
"The Seven Crypts? Hmm, that is familiar to me," Renofre says as she listens to the words you have managed to coax from Manetho. "The Seven Crypts are an ancient shrine to Pharasma, but they were destroyed long ago."
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Further coaxing of the young man reveals the following: Recent sightings of a “maniacal disembodied head” inspired the Pharasmin priests to send Manetho to cleanse what they believed was a minor undead menace. When his divine energies failed to defeat the threat, he gave in to despair. A voice insinuated itself into his thoughts, convincing him to abandon his faith in Pharasma. Manetho lied to his superiors, telling them he handled the threat, and then began to follow the instructions of the voice, digging up graves for unclear reasons.
"Thank you for speaking to him," Renofre says as she leads you back through the catacombs. "It seems like speaking to an outsider made him more willing to open up. Now that we know what happened, we can try to counsel him and help him come back to the Lady -- or if his faith has truly failed, to make amends for his crimes and find a secular path that he might find more rewarding.
"I take it this disembodied head is no undead creature. Perhaps a fiend of some kind? I would ask you to please capture or kill it, and make sure it no longer can whisper temptations into his mind."
Having followed up all the leads you have, and discovered several clues, you head back to Obahar's home near the pathfinder lodge. Your investigations and travelling have taken most of the day, and the sun has just set as you arrive. Obahar’s home is a dilapidated, ancient stone structure that seems out of place among the more modern dwellings surrounding it. While originally three stories tall, most of the top story fell away long ago. The front door hangs slightly ajar.
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Ecthelien sees nothing unusual about the building, but hears a faint groaning from within the building, sounding as if someone is in pain within.
Pushing the door out of the way, you look around, seeing nothing amiss. There's a tiny kitchen, a sitting room, and a simple bedroom. Up the stairs, the second floor is a single large room. This study is dominated by a large desk, and the walls are covered with bookshelves and cabinets. Documents are strewn across the desk, but more importantly, so is Obadar. The archaeologist is crouched on the desk, chewing on a shoe, which he seems to have taken off one of his feet. He glances up as you enter, his glazed eyes showing no recognition, makes a feral-sounding groan, and lowers his head to roll it against the desk top. He has several large bite marks across his arms, neck, and shoulders, but they seem to be mostly healed, as if they had been healing for days or had been mostly healed with spells or potions. (Since you don't remember seeing any such wounds on him this morning, it's probably the latter.)
“Good thing I was around, or the old man would be long dead. Those wounds were a lot uglier before I showed up,” announces a voice from behind you on the stairs. Walking up them calmly is an armored, masked half-orc. His hand is on the hilt of a sheathed short sword, but he has no weapons currently drawn.
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"My name is Zurnzal. I'm a sellsword, and I've been on opposite sides from you Pathfinders before, but not tonight. A friend of your society sent me—perhaps you've heard of Grandmaster Torch?" He smiles toothily and seems to be looking forward to seeing your reaction to the name.
Zurnzal continues, “My employer has been watching recent events in Merab with keen interest. The doru attacks seemed to draw the eyes of Amenopheus’ agents, and Grandmaster Torch shares mutual concerns with the Sapphire Sage; both of them think there is more to the sage jewels than anyone dares to believe. I am here to offer information to aid in your search for the Dungeons of the Ever-Dying”—the half-orc smiles knowingly—“if you give the Society’s guarantee that when it comes time to act on the threat to the Jeweled Sages—whatever it may be—Torch will be welcome to stand alongside his, ah, colleagues, in the Society.”
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”You have to be f*****g kidding me. On my last mission I met Grandmaster Torch personally. His thugs were really creepy. What bothered me most is that everything he says is only to his own benefit and thus no word can be trusted. Because of the misinformation that he provided we almost died. Why should we trust you?”
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"His muscle does have a certain brutal charm to them. I don't know about any misinformation he might have given in the past, but in this case, his interests and yours are aligned. He desires to see the Jeweled Sages successfully reborn. Your investigations of a malign presence within the sage jewels are important to these ends. All Torch wishes is to be part of the solution to this problem. In exchange, as I said, I will provide a series of clues that our investigations have unearthed, that you may add to your own discoveries once you heal this man, or perform the research yourself if you prefer. Do you think you have enough to pinpoint the Dungeons? Have you learned of the name of the general in whose domains the Dungeons lay? Do you know what caused the location of the Dungeons to be lost from the records of those who cleansed them when the Pharaoh of Forgotten Plagues was defeated?" He looks around at you. "I thought not."