As Alais speaks the name, a line of bright prismatic light shines around the sarcophagus lid. It fades a few seconds later, revealing a seam between the lid and the rest of the sarcophagus.
As the light fades, a strange sense of emotion washes over all who have arrived in the chamber. Though the emotions are too tangled to measure, the two that shine brightest against the rest are a faint hope and a profound weariness. The memory--for it cannot truly even be called a spirit--passes, and a pressure leaves the Whispering Cairn forever.
With some effort , the lid can be lifted, revealing the treasure within.
A slight silver diadem inscribed with the personal glyph of Zosiel, the King of Kho.
A complex puzzle box the size of a jewelry box sculpted with the three-dimensional designs of great architectural wonders. It is unsolved.
After Alaïs names the king, it feels, for a moment, as if the weight on the Cairn – of earth and stone, and ages – presses less heavily, and as if for once it is silent, its whispers falling still.
Into that moment of respite, she sets to opening the sarcophagus.
Alaïs' slender form is deceptively strong, but with one hand still full of steel, just in case there's one last trick to the Cairn, it balks. Her cheeks faintly rosy for having to ask, she turns to Broccan and inquires, "Heavier than I thought. Might I ask for your assistance, Mr. Dunchad?"
Broccan pulls his crowbar out of his pack and sets in into the lip of the sarcophagus lid.
”Allow me Miss ‘laïs,” he says, and leans into the steel.
He doesn’t move toward the column, happy to wait until the others are ready.
Up top, the elegist peers into the sarcophagus, her brow furrowing. "A puzzle box? Wait a second, let me check for tricks." Kneeling, she runs a hand along and inside the sarcophagus, her light touch looking for hidden levers and similar dangers.
Venelle and Seeker arrive last, Venelle awkwardly holding Seeker so the little creature isn't harmed in the wind trap. She quickly lets Seeker go, looking a little queasy. "What do you see, Kata? Where's the catch?"
Kata and Edrukk find no evidence of traps or secret doors. For once, the room appears devoid of the sadistic trickery its Architect filled the rest of the tomb with.
Broccan looks at the puzzle box, trying to determine if he sees the correct initial piece to slide to begin the pattern that would eventually open it.
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“Poor fellow,” Alaïs murmurs, seeing what’s left of the first king of Kho. “Is this what waits for all of us, in the end? And I wonder, if he ruled one of the Shory citadels, why he didn’t have his tomb built there, so his spirit could fly light forever.”
She’s hardly an expert in the scant remains of Shory history that she knows of, but she knows enough that forever might have been notably shorter than expected. With a nod to the others as they ascend to the final tomb chamber, once she and Broccan extract the grave goods, she pauses to drag the lid of the sarcophagus respectfully closed once more.
“The only catch I can see, really, is this box,” the aristocrat suggests, glancing at the container in her miner friend’s hands. “It’s not the sort of puzzle that I was ever fond of.”
In the meantime, she holds the diadem up to the light, and gives it a check for any magical auras.
Showing a spatial intelligence Broccan himself does not believe to be there, Broccan manages to solve the first section of the puzzle with meticulous precision, and a third of the city slots into place and shimmers with light. He thinks there are three main steps to this puzzle.
Alaïs furrows her brow as she just can’t quite get a read on the crown.
“This is definitely enspelled, and I think I ought to know what I’m looking at, but something just keeps slipping away when I try to hold it in my thoughts. Maybe after a night’s sleep, once some corner of mind has had more time to let the pieces fall into place. On which note…”
She holds the diadem out for anyone else to take a look as her glance drifts back to the box in Broccan’s hands. Now that he’s shifted some of its moving pieces into place, allowing more of its decoration to come into focus, Alaïs tries to recall what she knows of reconstructions of what the great cities of the Shory might have been like, gleaned from fragmentary annals, king-lists, even temple inventories.
Unfortunately, the elven aristocrat's scornful attitude was not just a performance to goad the elemental guardians into making a misstep. She's sure chasing after the last traces of the Shory is fascinating enough, if one devotes oneself to it, but until now it would just have been a sideline in one corner of the world in the confusion and upheaval after the first terrors of the Age of Darkness.
Edrukk walks up to Broccan and looks at the puzzle he holds.
"Interestin'. 'ave ye moved this wee bit t' th' left?" He pokes a stubby dwarven finger at a piece that, in his mind, is just begging to be moved next.
Broccan moves the piece, then nods as the sequence becomes apparent.
Frustration crosses his expression as he realizes that the last part has him stumped completely.
”Any thoughts’eh’bout th’ las’ part?” he asks Edrukk, including the rest of the group in the question with his gaze.
Pleased at his success, Edrukk watches Broccan take another turn. Nodding at the man's frustration in understanding, he offers, "Ah'll 'ave 'nother look, aye."
Holding up the box with a grin, he says, "Oho! Look 't that!"
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Alais is unable to determine much, Old-Mage Jatembe's legacy being something of a blind spot for the scholarship of Kyonin elves.
However, as Edrukk and Broccan figure out the last piece of the puzzle, the final section of the box clicks into place. Six distinct shimmering cities are revealed, one on each surface of the cube. Well-crafted optical illusions cause them to almost appear to hover above the faces they are carved into.
And then one of them does. Or rather, it pops off in Edrukk's hand.
The box is open. Inside, Edrukk finds twenty nine-sided crystal prisms, a broken, rusting arrow, and a curious implement--a loop of jet-black metal.
"Wha' d'yer make o' that?" The dwarf starts setting the individual prisms on the lid of the sarcophagus (or the floor if that's not level enough). Soon enough, he has four rows... "eighteen, nineteen, twenty. D'ye think the number is important, or 'r they important jus' fer what they 'r?" With that thought, he starts inspecting the individual prisms.
The glass prisms seem ordinary enough, though certainly of potential value just as pretty trinkets.
So when light is spent frivolously, dwarves like to make it count. It's rare that a lantern is lit for frivolous without some color element--either colored glass, or the careful use of prisms.
So, you know what prisms like these are meant to do. Presumably, it's to do with color, which would match the theme of this dungeon. Whether that is to serve a utilitarian purpose, another puzzle, or these are simply here for symbolic or cultural meaning, is entirely a mystery to you.
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“Pretty,” Alaïs says approvingly. “Do you think they’re something to do with the lanterns? Perhaps the king just had a particularly colourful appreciation for light.”
In any case, she rather avoids the broken arrow. It’s not the sort of thing to hold much normal magic anymore, she imagines, and object reading for other sorts of traces is a bit specialized for her wide-ranging interests in the arcane. And, would that be the very arrow from the relief below? Rather morbid, I should think. If I were killed, I don’t think I would care to be buried with the wretched thing that did it.
“Oh! Or are those some sort of markers for logistics and planning campaigns?” she blurts, as thinking about the reliefs again brings another detail to mind.
Still, she focuses, instead, on the black metal loop, probing carefully at its aura to see if she can figure out what it does.
The loop hurts your eyes. It twitches in and out of the corners of your vision, glitching like a blink spell. It's something beyond your ken.
After a moment, Alaïs pinches the bridge of her nose and shakes her head. “At the start of the Age of Darkness, as far as the tales I know have it, there was an understandable effort to cling to magic that would preserve the memory of the light and colour of day…”
“But that was a very, very long time ago, even by our standards. And as much as it pains me to say it – in more ways than one – whatever this sinister little thing is, it’s making my head hurt. I could use some fresh air and sunlight, and maybe Allustan would have a better idea about what it might be.”
"So do you now make your way to this 'Allustan'?" Seeker asks, head tilting to the side.
”We been evre’wher’n thi’ splace,” Broccan comments, ”ev’n down’n th’ shi’touse. Nowhere else t’ go but back t’town’n see what’s what.”
”We’ve been everywhere in this place, even down in the (latrine). Nowhere else to go but back to town, and see what’s what.”
The party descends back down the windshaft, gathers up the remains of their campsite, and returns to the Cairn entrance for what might be the last time. It's a beautiful morning. Golden light floods the rolling hills of Varisia.
Seeker perches on a piece of rubble at the entrance, her eyestalk eyes glaring in the direction of the sunrise. "I have seen a cottage nearby here. There I will go come nightfall, if you would come and tell me what you learned."
Broccan wonders to himself why Seeker doesn't want to meet Allustan.
It probably thinks he'll want to cut it up and study it.
Kata frowns, giving the abberation a sideways glance before pulling her cloakhood up. We really need to come to a decision about that bird.
"Well then, off to Allustan's then?"
”Aye. Le’s be to ‘t.”
“He’s a wizard friend helping us think of ways of sending Artophanx home,” Alaïs explains cheerfully to Seeker, about Allustan. “I hope you can avoid too much horrid sunlight until we meet again.”
Meeting with said friend is a much happier prospect than taking up with the weird eyes controlling what’s left of the bird later, and, unlike Seeker, once out in the morning again, Alaïs brightens almost visibly, taking a deep breath of the sun-pierced air.
She briefly considers setting the diadem on her head for the trip down, but thinks better of it while it’s still unclear what it might do. “And then, I suppose, we will have to see about that cult, whether they’re really down in the Dourstone mine or somewhere else.”
Her mouth closes for a moment as, out of respect for Edrukk and Broccan’s sensibilities (as dwarf and miner as the case may be), the elven lady decides not to complain about the prospect of another subterranean excursion. She settles on what is surely unobjectionable with a sigh, “I wish one of my brothers were here. Any of them might have ideas about shining a light into dark places. Literally, in Ascyron’s case, since he’s a priest of the Unquenchable Fire.”
“Still, ‘if wishes were flowers, we’d all live in bowers,’ as they say.”
Allustan is wearing a flour-dusted apron and plain brown tunic when he answers the door. "Ms. Thalanessa! Ms. Vervain." He blinks blearily at the rest of the party, giving the brief impression he's trying to remember their names, too. He snaps back to Alais. "To what occasion do I... well, please, please, come on in. I'm afraid I have something on the stove, but make yourselves comfortable and I can speak as I flip."
He ushers the party inside. Several books have been left open on his coffee table and couch, their pages peppered with paper bookmarks and margins black with penciled notes. A cup of cold tea sits on a woven coaster next to a book on, apparently, ornithology. Sweet spiced scents rise from the lumps of dough simmering in oil over his woodstove. The wizard hurriedly retrieves a pair of tongs and returns to his work. "I should have this finished soon enough, and then we might enjoy some funnel cakes. Now, what is the matter of interest?"
“Good morning, Master Allustan,” Alaïs says easily, sweeping after her host. Unfortunately, with her lifting mood, she’s got a bit of the demon in her and lives down to stereotype, her flair for the dramatic given free rein. “Oh, you know, this and that. We finished our explorations of the Cairn, found the last resting place of the first king of Kho, and turned up a few things regarding which we’d appreciate a second opinion.”
There is nothing in her tone to suggest that this is other than an ordinary start to the day as she leans casually against the sideboard and holds up the crown they found.
“Do you need any help with that?” she asks ingenuously, glance flickering to the frying cakes. While she is enjoying herself, she really does hope her words don’t startle the sage enough to cause an accident.
He glances at the funnel cakes. "No, no, I'm afraid I lack the skill of sharing a kitchen. I would only spend the whole conversation fussi--" He nearly drops his tongs in the pot as he appears to register what Alais just said. "The king of Kho? Of the--what in the Archives of Nethys have you have you been up to down there?"
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“Turning it quite upside-down,” Alaïs admits with a perverse sort of pride. “We discovered a hidden upper passage defended by some diabolical traps – ”
She slows, modulating her tone out of respect for Caith’s memory, “ – and discovered a gallery with a series of simply spectacular enspelled reliefs depicting a war from what I can only presume was the earliest days of the Shory. Early enough that Jatembe’s Magic Warriors, or some of the first to follow in that tradition, were involved. Candidly, history is not my strongest suit.”
“There was a rather unfortunate bit of business with some sort of bound guardians that were determined to put the most unflattering construction on our presence there, and in the end we found what must actually have been the true tomb that motivated the whole complex. It might have been a bit presumptuous to assume that our ‘need is great and cause is true,’ in this age when reliable omens are lost, but under the circumstances, since we now know that the tomb could be breached with enough determination, it seemed best to accept the inscription’s invitation and remove the regalia of the interred for safekeeping.”
With that introduction, Alaïs happily settles in out of Allustan’s way to put the details in better order, enjoying the prospect of testing out her tale of the clash with the judgmental elementals.
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Broccan looks about anxiously when he realizes he was invited in to Allustan's home. This isn't right. I'm not supposed to be in a fine place like this. I'll break something, or track-in dirt, or leave the furniture reeking of my unwashed skin. But, he told me to come in, so I can't leave without being disrespectful. Gods, I wish I was over in the Feral Dog, downing a few.
He keeps his eyes lowered, and tries not to draw too much attention to himself, hoping the smarter and more articulate of his companions carry him through this moment.
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Kata had known of Allustan pretty much as long as she could remember - town wizards have outsized reputations, after all - but she had never, in all her years, actually spoken with the man before their first meeting which was what, two days back? She found her mind wandered from Alaïs' recap of their fight to musings on Allustan's demeanor, clothes, and her surroundings. Shaking herself back into the present, Kata gently speaks, her voice hushed, a tinge of nervousness elevating her pitch.
"And that's not all, Master Allustan. There's a lot afoot in and around town. If you recall the sad tale of Caith Land, when we found her, and her ghost, she asked us to return her remains to her family. So we went to her old homestead, and discovered--" Kata's voice lowers, nervousness gone, replaced with a hard edge, "their graves defiled. Following up on this, there seems to be a death cult operating in town. Are you familiar with the Ebon Triad?"
Edrukk sees the panic in his friend's eyes. He grabs the miner's elbow and guides him into the wizard's home. Voice low, he says, "Yer a 'ero, lad. No one 's t' be tellin' ye where ye go 'r don' go. Ye deserve t' be 'ere much 's anyone."
Allustan's eyes widen as he listens intently to the party's tale. "Good gods. You've found artifacts from the City of Kho? And..." He trails off. His brow furrows, and he points out one of the books on the coffee table. This one seems to be focused on religious orders. "Would one of you be so kind as to turn that to page... oh, ninety-seven, I think. Read the verse aloud. My Varisian diction has rusted badly of late."
The moon fell from the sky today,
The last day we shall see
Our world is done
The war is won
between the worm and me.
The moon, an egg, splits straight in two
Its children fill the earth
Our world is done
The war is won
between my grave and birth.
And who, that pulled the moon to earth,
shall now claim their reward?
Our world is done
The war is won
by triumvirate black birds.
And what's that tearing at my flesh?
And what now wakes in you?
Their war is won.
We're overrun.
What ought to crawl grew wings and flew.
The crows portend a writhing doom.
"That book is discussing yet another prophecy around something called the 'Age of Worms'. Are you familiar with it?"
“I’m afraid we don’t have much call for Varisian at home,” Alaïs admits. “I’ll have to acquire more regional languages as soon as I can.” Certainly the common tongue of Garund, if we want to get a sensible history of the Old-Mage’s successors.
“Nor were we particularly nudged towards prophecy: there were four of us children, so after the eldest started exploring elemental magic, my parents thought it would be amusing to encourage us to share out the energies among us,” she adds, making herself comfortable as she narrows the sense of home that she’s gossiping about. “Works better for some spellcasting traditions than others, of course.”
With Briar reading and Kata to suggest a tune, Alaïs is able to absorb both the text and the musical possibilities of the morbid little song. What a rotten thought, in more ways than one, though I suppose mostly inevitable, in the long run. Although it does still count as dying if one abandons the world for the planes, doesn’t it? Avoids the worms, too!
Out of respect for Kata’s dedication to Pharasma, Alaïs decides not to speculate on possible loopholes. Instead, she pieces together what she can from the words, humming the tune to get a better feel for it. “Hmm. Let’s see, so the Ebon Triad and three black birds, Filge’s worm and – well, all that, and the end of the world as we know it. But drawing down the moon? Is that a hint of Earthfall? I suppose it hasn’t been too long a delay of doom in the grand scheme of things. And the worms were … riding the Starstone? Or the moon? Although about ‘what ought to crawl,’ is it a good thing if that thing we find doesn’t turn into some sort of moth, or not?”
“It sounds like we ought to stop those ‘crows,’ at any rate,” the aristocrat says, lifting her chin to toss defiance at fate, certain that this prophecy is best defanged.
Edrukk considers what he's heard previously and how the song applies.
Gorum's priests speak of the Age of Worms as an age of rust and ruin, of decay and dishonor, when all blades become blunt and infected, suits of armor become living tombs, and nothing is allowed its rightful end. It is the final prophecy.
Snippets of another song echo in your head, like one you heard long ago.
Always moving, never breathes.
Always dying, never leaves.
Never full that eats it all.
Has learnt to walk what ought to crawl.
The triumvirate spirit again becomes one
And by its devices are the mighty undone.
The Age of Worms is an era where only the carrion-eaters will thrive. The carrion-bird becomes a scion of the worm, a harbinger, a flock gathering around the banner of the final war. Three black birds.
What troubles you is that you feel sure that you have never heard that song before in your life.
With Briar reading and Kata to suggest a tune, Alaïs is able to absorb both the text and the musical possibilities of the morbid little song. What a rotten thought, in more ways than one, though I suppose mostly inevitable, in the long run. Although it does still count as dying if one abandons the world for the planes, doesn’t it? Avoids the worms, too!
Out of respect for Kata’s dedication to Pharasma, Alaïs decides not to speculate on possible loopholes. Instead, she pieces together what she can from the words, humming the tune to get a better feel for it. “Hmm. Let’s see, so the Ebon Triad and three black birds, Filge’s worm and – well, all that, and the end of the world as we know it. But drawing down the moon? Is that a hint of Earthfall? I suppose it hasn’t been too long a delay of doom in the grand scheme of things. And the worms were … riding the Starstone? Or the moon? Although about ‘what ought to crawl,’ is it a good thing if that thing we find doesn’t turn into some sort of moth, or not?”
“It sounds like we ought to stop those ‘crows,’ at any rate,” the aristocrat says, lifting her chin to toss defiance at fate, certain that this prophecy is best defanged.
"I assume it is a reference to Groetus, the moon-god, though I am a poor religious scholar." Allustan frowns, retrieving another funnelcake from the bubbling oil. "But Earthfall is a compelling connection to draw, Miss Thalanessa. This song is just another variation of an ancient set of prophecies that spans nearly all known cultures. Your mention of the Ebon Triad... partners closely with research I myself have been conducting of late, so I thought I might share it."
He gestures towards the book with his free hand. "Worms. Magpies. 'Three black birds'. I don't know. It may be a coincidence. Most 'prophecies' are, really. But it sits uneasy with me. What little I have ever heard of the Ebon Triad paints it as a bizarre doomsday cult obsessed with either causing or averting the Age of Worms. And before you think to hope for the latter, their methods of 'aversion' would be tantamount to its own kind of apocalypse. And highly delusional, of course. We know little of the Starstone, but regardless of whether it truly can grant godhood--and clearly it possesses some sort of power--the idea of it pulling three gods out of the sky and recreating Aroden is utter nonsense."
"'s th'end o' th' world 's we know't, 'n I feel fine..." Broccan sings under his breath, followed by a resigned sigh. A moment later, he realizes he said it out loud, blushes and lowers his gaze so that his shaggy hair covers his face.
"Well, nonsense or not, this cult is here, and they believe they can end the world as we know it. Apocalypse cults, true belief... it is a dangerous combination."
Kata's voice once more grows hard-edged, like a blade drawing across a honing steel. "We need to end it."
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As she catches Broccan’s huffed snatch of world-weary song, Alaïs laughs, her merriment sparkling in contrast to Kata’s gravity. “Indeed! And I plan to continue feeling fine for a good long time yet, to say nothing of not leaving my home through a gate to parts unknown to me, thank you very much!”
In another moment, she’s a bit more serious again, adding, “Hopefully it is a coincidence, and if not, and if the Triad is this scavengers’ triumvirate, it sounds like if we want to cheat the prophecy as it stands, we’ll have to make sure they don’t win anyway.”
“Not, mind you, that we don’t have reason enough to thwart them as it is, even if they’re just lunatics, once we find which mine they’re lurking in,” she says, bowing her head in acknowledgement of Kata’s judgement. “I suppose that might be the first tricky part. I don’t imagine the owners here are keen on offering tours.”
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Stories of the Age To Come persist in every faith, every culture, every tradition of art. People used to laugh. How, indeed, could any age but Aroden's Age of Glory be at hand? They aren't laughing now.
Now, the servants of a mysterious cult conspire beneath the earth to revive Aroden by merging three disparate gods. Their goals are mad, and their methods are an abomination. The strange death-eating green worm stolen from their sanctum speaks to some bizarre purpose. Amariss, High Priestess of Wee Jas, speculated that they might be meant as a tool of immortality, or some sort of anti-undead weapon, but all you have is guesswork. Certainly it's dangerous, but you need to learn more. The Ebon Triad is shrouded in secrecy.
Who is working with the apparently reluctant Balabar Smenk to house this cult?
The principled but callous Ragnolin Dourstone, a man whose rigid code of law and contempt for Smenk would see him climb into the gallows himself sooner than follow anything less than the letter of his law?
The widow Luzane Parrin, Smenk's bitter enemy, having been fighting Smenk tooth-and-nail for years since the mysterious death of her husband?
Gelch Tilgast, one of the city's oldest, most vicious mine managers and Smenk's long-time losing rival?
Chaum Gansworth, neutral opportunist and Parrin's cautious paramour?
Or Ellival Moonmeadow, the reclusive silver mine manager who sees Diamond Lake's politics as beneath him?
The party has made plans to investigate. But are they prepared to face the darkness that lurks beneath Diamond Lake?
And who, that pulled the moon to earth,
shall now claim their reward?
Our world is done
The war is won
by triumvirate black birds.
"Well, nonsense or not, this cult is here, and they believe they can end the world as we know it. Apocalypse cults, true belief... it is a dangerous combination."
Kata's voice once more grows hard-edged, like a blade drawing across a honing steel. "We need to end it."
[dice=religion, Groetus]1d20+12
Pharasma, of course, has a special relationship with Groetus. Some say he will devour her when the Endtimes come--then himself. However, you know others take a more neutral view of him, and Groetus himself or itself is silent on matters of motive or desire. Unlike Nerull, it is not certain whether Groetus even cares for his role in things.
"Indeed." Allustan wrinkles his nose as he retrieves the last of the funnelcakes and takes them into the focused kitchen area. "How do you mean to get access to these mines? There is little I can do, but..." His eyes dart towards the ancient grandfather clock. "My brother will be visiting in less than an hour. I could beg him to pull a few strings here and there for you, but I first need to know which strings to pull. Do you intend to confront the six mine managers directly, speak with their employees, enter their mines...?"
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Broccan cringes internally, knowing he needs to speak up at this moment. "I've work'd f'r all'v'm 'cept Moonmeadow, not bein'n elf'n all, he finally replies quietly, his eyes downcast. "If th' Mayor confronts'm all't'th'same time, it'll set'm off. I'm think'n there'll be blood."
He looks around to the rest of the group, but avoids Allustan's eyes. "We shou' talk t' the miners'n see'f any'f'm've seen any'thin skeejaw goin' on'n the mines."
"I've worked for all of them except Moonmeadow, not being an elf and all. If the Mayor confronts them all at the same time, it will set them off. I think there will be blood. We should talk to the miners and see if any of them have seen anything skeejaw (out of sorts) going on in the mines."
"A very apt observation, Mr... ah..." Allustan slowly nods to Broccan. He holds up the plate holding the first funnel cake he made, drizzled in pale icing. "Funnel cake?"
Whether it's accepted or not, he quickly returns to the matter at hand. "I shall defer to your expertise on the matter of the mine owners. I think speaking with the miners is a very sensible strategy." He looks around. "Is there anything further you require from me?"