The funeral of Professor Lorrimor having taken a heavier toll emotionally on the witch than she had expected, Ishara gratefully accepts the wine Kendra hands to her before moving to settle in an armchair in one of the far corners of the drawing room. Councilman Vashian's arrival and words of condolence are met with a courteous nod. She had not given much thought to Kendra's declaration back in the Restlands that she, along with the other assembled mourners, had been named in Petros' estate. Though she is curious now to hear of what the Professor had to share with them, and thus gain some insight into the departed scholar's relationship with those gathered, the final words he had penned to others make her feel as though they ought to have been conveyed in a more private manner. Perhaps this is simply another of their strange funerary customs. Intimate moments spoken of openly in order to share in each other's pain. Uncomfortable listening to sentiments she feels were not meant for her ears, Ishara busies herself with gazing out of the window at the darkening skies, only half listening to the councilman for mention of her own name.
The moment comes sooner than she had anticipated, and her attention swivels back to Vashian with a tight smile that clearly betrays her unease. She fears that Petros' parting words to her would be an admonishment of her in some way. Although she isn't far from the mark, that his warning stems from a place of concern rather than a moral ground touches the witch, who swipes away quickly the tear that threatens to fall at Petros' last words to her before drinking deeply from her wineglass.
A wry smile twists the woman's lips at the final part of the will is read. Forsaking her duties as a priestess for an entire month was not something that was likely to sit well with the higher clerics of the Church, but, if Ishara wasn't overestimating her usefulness to them, it is something she feels confident they will learn to bear with the same grudging resignation that they do her many other so-called indiscretions.
When the Councilman departs, Ishara sets down her now empty goblet on a stand before moving to crowd around the table at Dragomir's request, her brows furrowed in consternation at the seemingly urgent message scratched into the face of the book.
Kneeling beside the chest, Kendra hands each of you the item named to you in the will. As she does, she speaks in response to the tasks requested by her late father. "Thank you all. I do not know you as well as my father did but already I can understand why he counted you as his friends. I will be staying here, at least for a few months. I had always thought to travel, though had remained here these last few years since my father formally retired. Perhaps now is the time for such endeavors. Until then, you are all of course welcome to stay here as well, if you wish. Things may be slightly crowded, but with a bit of adjustments, but I'm sure we will be able to make do," says Kendra, rising and straightening her dress as she speaks. She then reaches for the bottle of wine and pours herself another drink as Dragomir summons everyone to join him at the table over the curious journal.
The journal is an old, weathered leather-bound book. Several similar volumes reside on shelves in the house, yet this one, with it's cryptic message, was placed atop the mysterious tomes in the chest mentioned in the will. Thumbing it open, at the front are several loose pages, all containing journal entries that have been circled in red ink. Dragomir slowly reads them aloud:
Ten Years Ago:
The Whispering Way is more than just a cabal of necromancers. I see that now. Undeath is their fountain of youth. Uncovering their motivation does not place me at ease as I thought it might. Their desire to be eternal simply makes them more dangerous.
Two Months Ago:
It is as I had feared. The Way is interested in something here in Ravengro. But what could it be?
One Month Ago:
Whatever the Way seeks, I am now convinced their goal is connected to Harrowstone. In retrospect, I suppose it all makes sense—the stories they tell about the ruins in town are certainly chilling enough. It may be time to investigate the ruins, but with everyone in town already being so worked up about them, I’d rather not let the others know about my curiosity—there’s plenty of folks hereabouts who already think I’m a demonologist or a witch or something. Ignorant fools.
Twenty Days Ago:
It is confirmed. The Way seems quite interested in something—no, strike that—someone who was held in Harrowstone. But who, specifically, is the Way after? I need a list of everyone who died the night of the fire. Everyone. The Temple of Pharasma must have such a list.
Eighteen Days Ago:
I see now just how ill prepared I was when I last set out for Harrowstone. I am lucky to have returned at all. The ghosts, if indeed they were ghosts (for I did not find it prudent to investigate further) prevented me from transcribing the strange symbols I found etched along the foundation—hopefully on my next visit I will be more prepared. Thankfully, the necessary tools to defend against spirits are already here in Ravengro. I know that the church of Pharasma used to store them in a false crypt somewhere in the Restlands. I am not certain if the current clergy even know of what their predecessors have hidden down below. If my luck holds and I can locate it, I should be able to slip in and out with a few borrowed items.
Seventeen Days Ago:
Tomorrow evening I return to the prison, more properly equipped. It is imperative the Way does not finish. My caution has already cost me too much time. I fear that I am already too late... if my theory is right, the entire town could be at risk. I don’t have time to update my will, so I’ll leave this in the chest where it’ll be sure to be found, should the worst come to pass. Kendra, I love you.
Arthorius analyzes the field kit with tender. Petrus had his special way to be thoughtful. The dhampir imagined that the task asked by the professor in his Will would be something he'd obviously do as a last wish for a friend, and considered the coins were added become some of the present probably weren't so friendly to the late professor, despite his generous gifts.
The journal reading, however, hits the scholar with special grim. The Whispering Way. It seems like his journey here, for the funeral, wasn't a detour after all. His mission was clearer now, but despite that he tried to not immediately demonstrate. He didn't trust his companions - yet.
We should depart with haste. - he limited himself to say - Kendra, your father will shall be honored. I can't speak by my colleagues, but my path has just been drawn by the skeletal hands of Pharasma herself.
By the time Dragomir is done ready thing journal entries, Daviana's blood has ran cold. Necromancers investigating ruins would be curious enough, but the professor sounded truly worried. And that last entry...
"Kendra, I honestly do not wish to cause you more pain today, but... how did your father die?"
We should depart with haste. - he limited himself to say - Kendra, your father will shall be honored. I can't speak by my colleagues, but my path has just been drawn by the skeletal hands of Pharasma herself.
" and mine also. " Drago says, nodding at Arthorius before turning to Kendra to see how she answers Daviana's question.
Kendra stands beside you all as Drago reads the selected journal entries, a cold look on her face. As Drago draws into the last passage, her face goes pale and her body still, save for the shaking that is evident in the goblet of wine she holds. At her father's last written words, tears begin to stream down her still petrified face.
Daviana's question snaps her back into the moment, and she manages to choke down the pain enough to feebly respond, "My father, he... was exploring... the ruins of Harrowstone Prison... and was... oh Pharasma... crushed by a loose stone while climbing. At least... that's what-" Unable to deny the unfathomable truth of her father's fate, she buckles over sobbing violently.
As if the world around shares in her pain, the mist that had lent to the grey ambiance of the funeral quickly swells into heavy rain, and strong winds begin to slam against the shutters of Lorrimor Place. For the first time since arriving, the house feels smaller, dark, and more than a bit unwelcoming.
So this is it? I spend half my life looking for my call, only to find it at the Professor's death? This is beyond cruel irony.
Her face twisted in a snarl, Nasrin draws her scimitar from her backpack, unsheathing it in one fluid motion. "A cabal of necromancers, is it? Oh, there are two ways laid for dealing with evildoers, one is redemption and the other is destruction, but I think in this case I will favor the latter."
Her voice takes on a solemn tone, reciting ancient, powerful words, her eyes flaring with the heat of the desert she came from. "Hear me, see me, all of you bear witness, for here I swear, here I vow, here I oathbind myself. By the morning sun, by the fiery gale and by the raging sea, I promise justice, retribution and vengeance, until my work is finished or my life is. Blood for blood, steel for steel, fire for fire, thrice I swear, thrice I vow, thrice I am oathbound and be done." As she speaks her words, she passes her hand over the scimitar, drawing blood, looking at the girl with a grim determination. "Know this, Kendra, I will protect you to my last breath, and I will bring these assassins to justice or die trying."
Alana's eyes grow impossibly wide when Nasrin declares her oath. She's partly awed by the gesture, but also rather taken aback at the showiness of the oath.
After a ringing silence, she feels that the mood of the room needs lightened. "Yeah... that's pretty... nice of you."
Alana had listened to the last pages of Professor Lorrimor's journal silently, musing over his actions of his days leading up to his death. A tiny, tiny part of her begrudged him for not working more on her problem, but she had to acknowledge that going after a group of necromancers was a more pressing need. That, and exploring some old, haunted ruins was something after her own heart.
The mysteries contained within the journal sparked her curiosity, rousing her from a deeply morose state into which she had sunk when imagining spending a month in the professor's home with nothing to do but brood.
Since she spoke up, the eyes of the room had turned to her. A spark of interest gleams in her eyes as she continues. "I don't really have any oaths to give, but I agree with Nasrin. The professor's last journals make it clear that he was on to something. It sure doesn't sound like it was some random accident.
She looks over to Kendra. "So, I'll help out, too."
It comes as no surprise to Ishara that the Professor had been studying The Whispering Way; the secretive organization worked closely with the Church of Urgathoa in Geb, and Petros had come seeking what little information she could divulge about their comings and goings on more than one occasion. But regardless of their affiliation with the Church, if members of The Whispering Way in Ustalav were responsible for the Professor's demise, she would personally give each of them, living and unliving, a final death.
"If we mean to follow in the Professor's footsteps, now is the moment to do so," the witch suggests, indicating the worsening weather conditions with a pointed look outside. "There should not be very many people milling about outside at this time. A few of us might be able to find this false crypt the Professor spoke of and take what tools we need without being spotted." Ishara reclaims her wickedly sharp scythe from the darkened corner it's rested in all night before casting a critical glance at those gathered. "Who will stay and watch over Kendra, and who will join me in the Restlands?"
Daviana rises to approach Kendra. "Come child, let's get you comfortable. We can entertain ourselves for the evening, you need to rest." Daviana motions Kendra towards her room.
"I'll be right back once she's settled."
Ishara reclaims her wickedly sharp scythe from the darkened corner it's rested in all night before casting a critical glance at those gathered. "Who will stay and watch over Kendra, and who will join me in the Restlands?"
Alana flashes a challenging glare to anyone who looks at her like she should stay behind. She sits her half-full goblet down and stands up defiantly, moving to where her things had been stored. "Finding false crypts in graveyards? That's my specialty," she announces while pulling on her boots.
Daviana's comforting words seem to ease the pain raging inside Kendra, even if only a little. With Lady Soldavaso's assistance, Kendra rises weakly from the ground and moves toward her room silently, not a word slipping from her mouth.
Leading Kendra down the hallway and into her room, she pulls closer to you as though shying away from the darkness lurking in every corner. Reaching the chamber, you help her out of her funerary garb and ease her into the bed. She brokenly smiles at you, tears still staining her cheeks. "Thank you, Lady Soldavaso. Father spoke so fondly of you at times, I had hoped perhaps... that maybe... but, no. No, that did not come to pass. And as I said, you are much younger then I had believed. You must've been but a lass when you met him." Starting to fade off toward sleep, she touches your hand, "Again, thank you."
Back in the sitting room, Dragomir flips through several other pages of the journal but finds mostly simple entries chronicling moments in the Professor's life. Interestingly, you come to realize that the pages placed in the front are composed of different papers, torn from different journals used over time, yet obviously placed here for your finding. The rest of the journal was little more than a way to group those pages together. Closing the journal, you notice the four other volumes mentioned in the will stacked within the chest. Reaching in, Dragomir picks them up.
The first book is bound in some unknown kind of jet-black leather. It feels cool and damp to the touch, yet your fingers are not wet when you release it. Seemingly blank on the covers, in holding it close to the candlelight you can just make out the title at the correct angle, "On Verified Madness".
The second book, entitled "The Umbral Leaves', is a far simpler text, bound in simple brown leather and not much larger than a journal.
The third book is a weighty tome, bound in tan canvas with oak reinforcement. A simple leather thong swings from the back to the front, hooking around a small iron bolt, and in a stylized font, the title reads "Serving Your Hunger".
The first three books are all addressed to Montagnie Crowl, a professor of antiquities at Lepidstadt University. The fourth book is wrapped in a cloth, and placed below the others...
The final book is rich purple in color, and a brass scarab with a single eye in its center is embedded on the front cover. Attached to the back is a note, signed by Lorrimor, asking that it be delivered to Embreth Daramid, a judge in Lepidstadt. The note gives his exact address, and asks that the deliverer be discreet about returning it. The book is bound with polished steel and closed with a small but intricate lock. The keyhole is unique, as if it was made for a triangular key. It is clear the iron key that opened the chest does not fit into it.
Fishing in her backpack for a white ribbon to bandage her wound, Nasrin recalls all the information she knows about the Whispering Way.
As the white cloth is dyed red by the drops of blood oozing from the shallow cut, she speaks in a softer voice. "The crypt apparently belongs to the Church of Pharasma, shouldn't we ask them for permission, or at least tell them? Of course, Professor Lorrimor obviously didn't, he probably believed that they wouldn't allow that. I have known many clergymen to be obstructive." A graveyard, at night, in a town infiltrated by necromancers... "I can come, if you so wish, I know magic and steel. Otherwise I'll just stay here, stand guard and take a look at these books."
Dragomir carefully places the books back into the chest after flicking through them to check for anymore notes.
" Normally is agree with you Nasrin, I hold the faith of Pharasma close to my heart after all. " Dragomir says, pulling a wooden holy symbol from beneath his lamellar breastplate. The spiral of Phamasma carved into the symbol. " But the Professor suspected that the current clergy weren't even aware of the hidden crypt and it wouldn't be like the Professor to be wrong... "
"Hang on," Alana says, when she notices the locked book. She reaches into her pack and pulls out a small kit with a variety of picks and needles. She starts to work on the mechanism. "We think Professor Lorrimor was murdered. This might be important," she explains if anyone seems concerned about her actions.
Daviana re-enters the room. "Kendra is settled. Poor dear was asleep almost instantly. I miss anything good?"
She gestures towards the window, "Ishara is correct, this weather will keep most inside. However, if we are headed towards the graveyard, we need to take care not to be seen. The town already been accusing the Professor and us by association, of all manors of beastly things. If we are seen lurking out there at night in the rain, those accusations will only be reinforced."
Daviana reaches for her coat, "Little or no light, if possible, and as quiet as we can make it."
It would seem your dedication to the scholarly vocation, particularly several of Professor Lorrimor's lectures and works, has provided you with more than you even realized you knew. Digging through your memories, you recall the following details:
The Whispering Way is a sinister organization of necromancers that has been active in the Inner Sea region for thousands of years. Agents of the Whispering Way often seek alliances with undead creatures, or are themselves
undead. The Whispering Way’s most notorious member was Tar-Baphon, the Whispering Tyrant, although the society itself has existed much longer than even that mighty necromancer.
The Whispering Way itself is a series of philosophies that can only be transferred via whispers— the philosophies are never written or spoken of loudly, making the exact goals and nature of the secretive philosophy difficult for outsiders to learn much about.
Exact details on the society are difficult to discern, but chief among the Whispering Way’s goals are discovering formulae for creating liches and engineering the release of the Whispering Tyrant. Agents often travel
to remote sites or areas plagued by notorious haunts or undead menaces to perform field research or even to capture unique monsters. Their symbol is a gagged skull, and those who learn too many of the Way’s secrets are
often murdered, and their mouths mutilated to prevent their bodies from divulging secrets via speak with dead.
The title of the third text, "Serve Your Hunger", causes a level of both intrigue and concern in you, for that is a phrase exchanged among the faithful of Urgathoa as both a greeting and farewell.
Slipping her tools into and around the mechanisms of the lock with precision and skill, Alana realizes this may be the most intricate lock she has ever encountered. Strange to find affixed to a book. With each tumbler you manage to move into place, another falls back out. Unfortunately, despite your best efforts, you are unable to defeat the lock.
Just as Alana admits defeat from the lock, Daviana returns to the common room of he house.
"Be careful, Alana. I sensed no magic coming from that book, but there are some tomes that are unbelievably dangerous.
You all, if you are sneaking out to the tomb, I'll probably stay here to stand guard. Subtlety is not my strongest suit, but I'm good with books, and I wouldn't want to leave Kendra alone.
First, however, let me share with you what I know about our enemies. The Whispering Way is an ancient and secretive cabal of necromancers, working towards the creation of liches and trying to unbind the Whispering Tyrant. Tar-Baphon himself was a member of the society. Agents of the Whispering Way can only whisper the secrets of their society, never say them loud or write them down, and they are know for-" Nasrin's voice trembles for a moment at this point "-for murdering and mutilating those who learn about them. Their symbol is a gagged skull, stay on the lookout for it.
Be careful, in the graveyard. It should be hallowed ground, but a cemetery is to a necromancer what a sweet shop is to a child. Should you fear the worst, don't be afraid to run, we can get back tomorrow, hopefully with the Sun helping us."
Kneeling in front of the tome, she picks up the first, black book, flipping through the pages.
" Undead are my speciality. " Drago says, nodding to Nasrin.
" I can get along quietly and without being seen... and I shouldn't need to much light until we're down in the crypt. "
Dragomir throws on his cloak and straps on the Professors sword and makes ready to head out to the crypt, pulling his hat low over his face. He opens the door and steps out into the storm.
Crossed legs and stern look, Arthorius mostly waits silently and lets time follows it course. For the minutes that followed, he remembered his own history, his parents and roots, and couldn't avoid but being concerned by everything he was hearing.
We should find our way, then. With the dark to shroud us. - he finally completed, standing up. He wasn't of young age - and, probably, would rather be with the books, as Nasrin - but he had a mission in life, and these crypts were clearly the next step of his journey.
Alana arches an eyebrow at Nasrin's warning, then goes back to working on the lock until she finally tosses it aside in frustration.
She wordlessly gathers her belongings and sets out with the others to the graveyard. She pulls her hood over her head and keeps pace with the others. When they reach the gates, she pauses to string her bow as a precaution.
Ishara gives the third tome, Serving Your Hunger, a long and meaningful look before pulling up the hood of her cloak and stealing out into the night. Though she is not particularly skilled in the art of skulking about unnoticed, between the driving rain and night now having fallen around the town, she feels as if she's become merely another of Ravengro's many shadows. With her scythe clutched tightly in her right hand, her hooded figure looking like the personification of Death itself, she hopes the townsfolk's superstitious natures will keep them fearfully inside by their hearths should anyone be unfortunate enough to spot her.
So the scythe is her weapon after all. Weird weapon, weird woman altogether. Admittedly, most of them are, many secrets weighing on their words. I hope that I can help.
Her scimitar at her side, Nasrin carries the books upstairs, sitting next Kendra's door, studying them and standing guard.
Daviana pulls her hat down tight and steps out into the rain. Nicodemus loyally following, if not happy with the idea of wet fur.
The company guards itself as best they can against the elements before heading out into the storm. Though its wrath and fury has diminished some since its worst, the storm is still quite fierce. Bad enough that no one, at least no one in their right mind, would be out in such weather. While not the most clandestine of individuals, the night and weather combine to offer a great deal of cover as you cut across town. Only a few hints of light peak out of the shuttered windows of the buildings you pass. Still, you move carefully, knowing the likely judgement should your mission be discovered.
It takes longer than you recall to reach the Restlands, almost as though the storm-torn night actually stretches the distance between Lorrimor Place and the graveyard. Eventually though, you reach the gates through which you carried the late Professor on his final journey. Standing there, looking down through the darkness at the sprawling shadows cast by the tombstones, mausoleums, vaults, and graves, you realize for the first time how irrationally large the cemetery is in comparison to the town. And in the moment, the question strikes each of you - where would a hidden cache be within such a place?
------
Climbing the stairs outside the door to Kendra's room, you come to rest on a small stool that had been tucked in a corner. Flipping open the cover of the jet black text, you are confronted with pages that are likewise the color of obsidian. And yet, after several moments, you begin to see images and figures on the page, emerging from the absolute darkness. At first they make no sense at all - strange, alien symbols. Something inside you tells you to pull away, yet you are drawn to the movement on the page. Slowly, the characters begin to make sense, though whether it is them transforming into your tongue, or some darker understanding of a forgotten language revealed, is unclear.
Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.
I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,
When the sky was a vaporous flame;
I have seen the dark universe yawning
Where the black planets roll without aim,
Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.
I had drifted o'er seas without ending,
Under sinister grey-clouded skies,
That the many-forked lightning is rending,
That resound with hysterical cries;
With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the -
As you draw to the end of the third stanza, you feel a hard pull at your mind and are drawn into the darkness of the pages before. Everything fades away and the last thing you see is the floor rushing up to meet you.
"The mausoleums or vaults are probably easier to check tonight, the tombstones and regular graves are so numerous. We might need to spend a few days checking those."
Daviana pauses to think. "Though the professor did say the currently clergy probably don't know it's here, to me that says the older sections of the yard are more likely. Not sure of there is any chronological order to the place though."
She looks up at the raining sky, "And there is no hope of looking for tracks in this weather."
Despite the gloomy and unpleasant weather, Alana actually appears in good spirits. "Lovely night for a bit of grave robbing, isn't it?" she chirps, then digs into her pack and produces a bullseye lantern.
Rather than try to light a fire in the storm, she says a word of magic and touches the wick inside the lamp, which begins to glow with the brightness of a torch. She closes up the lantern quickly except for one end, creating a focused beam of light that she points away from town.
"Right, Lady Soldavaso, the professor's journal said it was in a crypt. That's good, so we don't have to worry about digging anything up. I agree we should start with the oldest crypts and work our way out. Probably along the paths, since it's a cache of weapons -- they're going to need to access them more easily."
With those thoughts in mind, Alana sets out to examine the crypts and mausoleums that meet those criteria.
Seearching the Restlands, even with Alana's theory in place, will take a good deal of time. Everyone that is searching roll 3 perception checks. In addition, you may make a single knowledge check (either religion or local, not both), to utilize some information of burial practices to focus your attention during the search appropriately.
Daviana looks round, while Nicodemus keeps watch for any curious townfolk or clergy.
Dragomir's usual frown deepens a little at Alana's grave robbing jest as the group heads towards the older sections of the restlands.
Arthorius tries to be useful and helps with the search. He has his spear drawn, and uses it as a walker sometimes - to not lose his whole "scholar" thing.
Ishara's eyes sweep the darkened graveyard for any signs of a false crypt, but her attention is clearly divided. As they search the Restlands, the priestess tries to recall what traditions the Pharasmans have kept to when burying their dead, and if, perhaps, such customs have significantly changed over the years.
Despite not a single one of the company having entered this cemetery prior to the morning's funeral, your combined knowledge seems to strip through its esoteric pattern of organization swiftly. Ishara and Arthorius both offer their intimate knowledge of burial practices, while Alana's smattering of legends and lore regarding this area of Ustalav, and Drago's keen attention to detail draw the party's attention to two different tombs worthy of investigation.
Alana finds an older mausoleum, several of its carvings and gargoyles worn down by the hard winters of Ustalav. It was rather unremarkable in comparison to several of the larger and more ornate mausoleums nearby, but amidst its carved scrollwork a small detail catches Alana's attention - a scarab with an eye at the center of it.
Drago, for his part, had examined a few mausoleums before noticing of something strange, heavy bootprints moving repeatedly around a single tomb on the ground. The effigy atop the tomb is that of an armored man in the regalia of bygone days, but it is the mark of boots digging into the mud as though from someone pushing open the heavy lid of the tomb that is the mark of something amiss. Most interesting perhaps is the fact that the name on the tomb has been damaged beyond legible, though whether by accident or intent remains to be determined.
Dragomir waves over his nearby companions.
" See these boot prints? The depth here suggests that the person stood here while lifting the heavy lid, perhaps the Professor? "
"We should check to see if it easily moves. Lorrimor was not a young man, it can't be too heavy, unless there is a lever somehwere."
Daviana begins feeling around for any switch or lever.
Nicodemus continues to stand watch, lookinh for any sign of other people.
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Ishara steps over to the tomb at Drago's signal, her amber eyes focused curiously on the decoration that sits atop the lid. Her eyes are drawn to the muddy ground when the self-proclaimed monster hunter points out the footprints, and she takes care not to obscure them as she moves to stand beside the stone resting place. "Well, let's have a look, shall we?" The witch leans her scythe against one side of the tomb before taking up a stance to try to move the slab covering it. As accustomed to living a life of comfort as she had become, the priestess is no slouch when it comes to physical tasks, and after securing her footing on the rain-slicked ground, Ishara pushes with all her strength, trying to unseal the mysterious tomb.
Arthorius positioned himself behind Ishara, ready to help if necessary - even though she was probably stronger than him - and, meanwhile, drank the mutagen he had prepared. He didn't know what was about to be found on that place, and felt that was the moment to do so.
Alana glances around to make sure they're all still alone in the graveyard while she holds her lantern up to make sure Ishara has enough light.
"I could check it for traps first, but hopefully since it's a weapons cache, there won't be any," she offers when Ishara begins pushing on the tomb's lid.
As Ishara comes along side the tomb and moves to lift the lid, Dragomir quickly moves to help her. " oh, right. " he says as he bends and takes hold of the lid only to find that Ishara is taking most of the weight already.
Leaving the tombs and mausoleums they are each investigating, the company comes to Drago to examine the strange footprints.
Ishara and Drago bend down and work their hands around the heavy stone lid, looking to get a good enough grip to heave such a lid off. As you apply pressure to shove it back, you hear a strange click beneath and suddenly the intense strength you apply causes the lid to pivot quite easily on some mechanism set in the corner, as though it had been designed to be opened and closed repeatedly. The lid swings open to reveal neither a coffin or corpse within, but rather a stone staircase descending under the Restlands.
Arthorius's appearance seems a little different now. It's just subtle, but there's something a little more... Primal... Or maybe animal-like to it. Maybe he's slightly hairier or his ears are swiftly pointed; it's something quite minor, but yet noticeable.
Yes, we're now clear onto something. I'm right behind whoever takes point. - said the Dhampir, extending his hand as someone who gives passage to someone else, gently pointing to go downstairs.
An eager smile blooms on Alana's face when the lid reveals the steps leading down. Hoisting the lantern over her head, she takes the opportunity Arthorius gives to jump in front. She shines the beam of light down into the passage, draws her rapier, and begins stepping softly down the stairs.
Dragomir readies his shield and one hand ready to draw his sword, quickly follows after Alana stepping as quietly as he can while trying to keep up with her.
Daviana follows, leaving Nicodemus to guard their backs from the steps.
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Ishara allows herself to feel a grudging sort of respect for the Pharasmins' ingenuity for a moment before grabbing her scythe once more and bringing up the rear with Nicodemus. She briefly considers trying to reseal the entrance to avoid any patrolling acolytes of The Grey Lady from discovering their late-night "misdeeds", but with no way to be certain that the tomb can be opened from within, risking discovery seems the better alternative. The witch speaks an ancient incantation, and a faintly luminescent specter appears next to her, shedding enough light to guide her descent into the dark depths.
Descending the stairs, you notice that they are well-worn, as though traveled frequently. Too frequently for a burial vault. The air is cool and damp as you reach the bottom of the stairs, where are Alana's Lantern casts a flickering light across 8 burial alcoves located along the walls of the chamber you've entered. You would find it strange for a family to invest in such an elaborate tomb then place the bodies uncontained in the alcoves, but you are more distracted by the fact that not a single one of the eight skeletons has a skull.
Located in the center of the chamber set back towards the far wall is a small altar, holding basic religious paraphernalia of Pharasma. Behind it hangs a banner, faded and threadbare, the distinct markings of any family Insignia long lost.
Alana plays the cone of light from her lantern over the vault, chewing on her lip in thought. She sets the lantern on the floor, and pulls out a torch from her backpack. Taking a moment to light it, she passes the torch to her left hand and steps forward with her rapier in her right.
"I wonder where all the skulls went?" she muses out loud. "Hopefully, they're decorating someone's desk with a candle in them, and not something more sinister."
She steps forward cautiously, inspecting the floor and walls as she approaches the altar.
Dragomir looks at the headless skeletons with distaste. Desecrated bodies is not what I'd expect to find in a fake tomb for storage...
" I don't think this is the tomb we are looking for... " he whispers in the stillness as he follows Alana towards the alter and inspects the religious paraphernalia for authenticity.
Ishara's certainty that they had found the false crypt written about in the Professor's journal evaporates with each step she takes into tomb. When Dragomir echoes her own suspicions, she gives a quiet sound of assent. "I was beginning to suspect the same. This looking less and less like a false crypt. And while I can't claim to know everything about the faithful of Pharasma, leaving the dead in this state strikes me as going against their customs."
Ishara steps over to the nearest alcove to inspect one of the headless skeletons and the vaguely humanoid phantasm trails silently behind her, shedding just enough light to see by. "The Professor wrote that the current clergy likely has no knowledge of the weapons cache, correct? Well, if we are in the right place, we may need to search for loose stones or more hidden mechanisms. This place seems too well-visited for there to be any obvious hiding spots."