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When they make eye contact with Luke, the look Amal gives him has a distinct air of "I-told-you-so" - though it's more irritated than smug.
"Keep glaring, kid, the Taldan chuckled over one shoulder, looking up from the grave goods. "You need the practice. Like the death stare of a puppy..."
The high lament of cloth being torn was heard, Luke emerging from the many boxes, urns and chests like a diver from the surf. In his hand was a clasp still grasping a few disintegrating threads. It was in the shape of a scarab and appeared to be solid gold. He smiled wolfishly in examining the glittering prize beneath his torch. "Don't know what's got you feelin' so puffed up, anyway. We find the dragon hoard and the only thing guarding it is an unlocked door and some bugs? I was right. That threat was toothless."
Bugs waiting on the intruders to conjure them at that. Yeah, he felt more than a little vindicated in calling the warning outside for the posturing it was. So let Amal or whoever else smear away! He could sling mud with the best of them! Never mind ancient Osirian curses; the foreigner was damned with entirely too much machismo to let baseless accusations lie.
Which was why him ignoring Djedefre's harsh charge - that he had nearly gotten them all killed - might appear odd. For Luke let those words pass unanswered, unfair though they were. Pardon the grave robber for being the one to investigate a sarcophagus among this supposed team of investigators! Besides which, that animated obelisk had jumped him before he'd even touched it! Go ahead, blame travelers for trolls leaping out at them from under bridges. And who was the priest to levy all of this anyway?! The god-spawn had been the one nipping at his heels climbing that dais!
His brow sank into the curmudgeonly. Even so, Luke's tongue remained firmly clenched between his teeth. Because, in truth, he didn't particularly mind being the bad guy. Not for the right cause. It was a role one consigned themselves to when taking up tomb robbing. The right cause in this case being Amal. Because as near as the Taldan had surmised in the chaos of the burial chamber, it had been the kid who'd activated the flood trap. He couldn't be sure, of course. But it was after all he who had messed about with the northern doors.
And so what? So nothing, as far as the Taldan was concerned. All blame lay squarely on Akhentepi, the murderous warlord who designed this giant puzzle box. No village was responsible for provoking a rampaging horde of orcs. Yet if the rest of the group were this eager to direct blame at one of their own, then he wasn't about to divert that blame onto one so young. That sort of thing could wreck a growing boy, self-reproach especially.
So it was that the foreigner merely busied himself rummaging about the ancient's generals provisions for the Great Beyond whilst the others fussed with the spell-trap. Although, he thought looking up from a quiver full of fancy arrows, it was odd. The trap being at the far wall, behind the goods. If Akhentepi wanted to protect these grave goods, then why not place the glyph on the doorway here? That didn't make much sense.
Unless whatever was beyond the secret door was even more valuable.
"Let's," he answered Senemheb.
Djehuti breathes out a breath they didn't realize they'd been holding as the trap finally deactivated. "That was a complicated one!" They turns and smiles at Jolanka. "Thank you for your help, I don't know if I could have figured out that last complication without it."
The elf cleans up and neatly re-packs their tools as Senemheb pushes open the door.
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"You do seem to have experience with toothless threats," Amal answers quite coolly, though, to tell the truth, he's more annoyed than genuinely riled up. The Taldane man behaved like most fools, never recognising failure or an error of judgement, and acting as if other people were objects to help or hinder him in his selfish ambition. A barbed tongue did no harm if it didn't know you well enough to know how to strike.
Amal lets Luke take the lead into the room - he looked impatient to do so anyway - , and closes the line. If he insisted so much on being a tough big boy, he could be the meat shield.
The door opens to a long, narrow hallway, wide enough for a sarcophagus to be slid down. At the end of the hall a door bearing Akhentepi's hieroglyphic name opens to reveal a chamber bearing another gold-plated sarcophagus, twice as ornate as the false one. The lid is fashioned and painted to depict Akhentepi in his prime in gentle repose, his arms crossed and his eyes closed. To Luke, he might seem self-satisfied.
Two chests sit in the back corners of the room, with two urns nestled between these. The walls are painted with hieroglyphs and pictures of what must have been scenes from Akhentepi's life: his military career, the wife and two children, another woman comforting him in his later years, and the city of Wati celebrating the war hero.
Djedefre doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary, no traps at least, and the party begins to filter into the true resting place of the tomb's tenant.
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Djedefre's jaw literally drops open at the opulence of the burial chamber. It's one thing to hear stories, most likely fabrications, about the enormous wealth but the reality is striking.
"It appears we've found Akhentepi. We should proceed very carefully. Perhaps someone should check the area for any magical auras?"
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"I'm rather against opening that sarcophagus," Amal moves not-so-subtly between Luke and the coffin. "Or at least Djehuti should have a look at it first. The first rooms have been easy - now there's a trap or a spell guarding every treasure."
He feels faintly uneasy, as if the faint drone of a wasp could be heard from somewhere in the room. Do not Disturb the Dead - the final line seems like it will be inevitably crossed. What consequences would follow?
As the cleric of Ra makes his way around the tomb, looking for more danger, his eye is more attuned for traps. From around the base of an urn, a metallic serpent uncoils and launches at Djedefre in a surprise round attack. As the fangs sink into Djedefre's shin, the aasimar feels a dose of venom injected into his veins.
"More constructs!" Jolánka barks as Djedefre reveals their injury.
She fumes a bit at being in the back of the group, as she can't get in and help right away.
"By all means," a cheery Taldan replied at the suggestion of reverent hands being those to handle the chamber. For it mattered not an iota - whatever those were - to him whether Akhentepi's remains were examined with care or toppled out of their coffin; not as long as whatever golden whatsits he was buried with were retrieved.
Well, maybe just a little desecration would be his preference. Served him right, the murderous, slaving, branding, highfalutin ass! The burn on Luke's forehead itched. But just as the young man considered these grave goods the just reward to his toil, he also knew he hadn't come here alone. Indeed, he could never have gotten this far on his own. If the others wished to be respectful and take time to study this find or some such, then he'd help. Or at the very least not obstruct their efforts. Whatever benefited them more. They'd endured the general's death traps just as he had. They'd earned this. People were entitled to the sweat of their brow and all that.
And there'd be a whole lot of sweatin' in carting all this stuff to the surface. Far from discouraging, the thought only widened the foreigner's avaricious grin. Yeah, you just lay there with your smug smile, you miserable miser, he thought in eyeing said miser's likeness on the ornate casket. What's the most pacifist church I can find around here? I might just use some of your gold to make a donation in your name!
The petty reverie was broken by Djedefre's cry of pain. It would seem the warlord had one last surprise in store for them. "Aw, hells!" What in the world was that, Luke had to wonder even in rushing forward against the creature as quickly as the cramped quarters allowed. Another snake? One made of metal this time rather than sand? He slid against the sarcophagus in drawing his sword mid-rush. Perhaps it was tight confines. Perhaps the tomb's trials had gotten to him. Whatever the case, the young man's blade whiffed entirely in trying to strike at the serpent.
"Is there no end of surprises left here..?" Senemheb grumbles. And a construct, again... Doubting he'll make much of a dent with his mace, he starts removing his shield in order to be able to wield the much larger bardiche. And during this moment of rearming himself, he furiously tries to remember if such a creature would have any weaknesses to exploit.
Djehuti backs away from the melee. "This is an iron cobra, a construct that has up to three doses of venom stored in its fangs and can be sent to hunt down targets within a mile radius. It is resistant but not immune to physical damage and mental magic."
The iron cobra, cornered by two of the party's "fighters", strikes out with a rattling hiss at Luke. However, the ranger, despite his poor attack, dodges the envenomed fangs of the construct. Amal successfully managed to strike the metallic serpent, if only barely, some of the damage going through.
As the hallway clears out, Jolánka rushes after the others to join the battle. She riffles through her tome once more and calls on the spirits to lend some strength to Senemheb's arms.
Senemheb decides to leave the frontline for the stronger warriors. But as he is now armed with a longer and heavier weapon, he is able to take part in the fight behind the front line.
Amal successfully managed to strike the metallic serpent, if only barely, some of the damage going through.
"Freakin' chain-link with fangs..." a displeased Luke grumbled. As delineations went, this wasn't much, certainly not compared to Djehuti's own thorough description of the construct. Yet it summed up the Taldan's own thoughts on the damn thing well enough. His frown deepened as his sword nicked at the ground where it had writhed a second prior; it was flexible and dexterous like a length of chain. The frown deepened further as Amal's blow, despite striking true, did little; it was resilient as any shackle, having both the give of chains and the durability of their metal. An animated manacle with the mind of an ornery serpent. How was one to deal with such an opponent?
"Gah!" A query that answered itself as the damnable foe tried sinking twin daggers some long-dead artificer had fashioned it for fangs into him. He leapt back. Yeah, there was actually little to think on, the rash young man decided. This was a lesson he'd already learned long ago in bar fights: that one didn't win unfair fights by fighting fairly. Time to even the competition.
The blade clattered to the ground, forgotten. Like a barreling bull, the foreigner ducked low and launched himself forward, straight at the metal snake.
He emerged back up from the floor like a condemned prisoner, wrapped in irons. Except this iron squirmed and twisted in trying to escape his hands, the hands trying to keep a death grip on its fanged head. There! At the very least, the blasted thing made for an easier target now!
Of course, so did he for the construct, literally locked together as they now were. The question then became which would give out first: its steel or his flesh? Luke liked his odds.
The iron cobra wriggles around in Luke's arms, gears and metal shrieking as it struggles. Amal is barely able to hit it, doing some damage but not enough to put it down.
In retaliation to being picked up, the snake attempts to bite Luke. However, perhaps the joints weren't flexible enough, or sand had gotten into its body, but it fails to sink its teeth into the Taldan yet again.
Aroden's ghost, what had he been thinking? Luke gritted his teeth with exertion and pain alike as creaking metal strained beneath his death grip, the pseudo-serpent getting enough give to latch its metal fangs about his shoulder. A hiss escaped the Taldan's clenched molars. That was that; the gambit had failed. Surely whatever venom plagued the priest was coursing through himself now too.
Happily, whatever hurt was felt at the jaws clamping shut was mostly in the mind - the heightened emotions of the situations. The armor had in fact held. The young man gave the sort of relieved guffaw exclusive to death row inmates pardoned. There were few circumstances quite as stressful as wrestling an iron anaconda, as this latest misadventure had taught him.
Perhaps that excused a temper flare at what he assumed was humor from the aasimar. "Would you shut up, you liturgical love-child?!" Luke gasped in trying to pin down what increasingly felt like a mooring rope, complete with galleon pulling at the other end. "Better yet, help me tie the damn thing into knots!"
Far from a heat-of-the-moment exaggeration, the foreigner was entirely serious. There was more than one way to skin a cat, or, in this case, incapacitate a serpentine construct. Not every fight was won by knocking one's opponent out cold. And he made some headway in this effort by finally maneuvering the automaton's snapping head to the floor. Like the blade of a guillotine, Luke's boot came crashing down, pinning the ancient machine beneath.
The trouble with a big weapon is that it quite lacks the accuracy required when trying to hit a squirming thing wrestling with an ally. Like this time - the swipe completely misses the metallic serpent, and almost cuts away a couple of toes from the aforementioned ally. Luckily, only almost - but not quite.
"Sorry..." Senemheb says meekly, and raises the blade for a new attempt.
GM, could we actually just tie it in knots?
Jolánka, seeing the crowd in the room trying to deal with this creature, and takes a deep breath.
"May Akhentepi forgive me for treading upon his resting place," she says as she clambers onto the sarcophagus and reaches out to Luke.
"Spirits give you strength," she intones.
The gears and metal scales of the iron cobra click and hiss like a broken gnomish invention. It's fangs leak poison and its fangs gnash, but it seems unable to escape Luke's weight and will.
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Djedefre looks askance at his longspear, pondering where he's going wrong in combat.
"At least I can mend our wounds to some degree. Ra hasn't abandoned my ability to heal. Perhaps he could spare some of his martial prowess with me though..."
Gathering his allies around Djedefre again summons the power of Ra's divinity to heal the wounded.
"We cannot be good in everything, Djedefre. We thank you for your healing, and that is plenty already." Senemheb says with a weary smile.
With one more guardian defeated, Senemheb puts the bardiche away. He looks around to see where he dropped his mace and shield, and picks them up.
Then he turns to the sarcophagus.
"Is this finally Akhentepi's resting place?"
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Amal watches on as Luke forces the snake's body into a tight knot. "That also works," he comments laconically, sheathing his khophesh. He offers the Taldane man his hand to help him up. His grip is strong - surprisingly so, actually, for someone looking so slight.
"If the inscriptions on the sarcophagus and the murals are to be trusted, it surely is," he answers Senemheb. "But I'm surprised it's not better guarded. This beast seems... Tame, for a room this important."
"Spirits give you strength," she intones.
Luke didn't know what spirits the Dame called on, but he didn't doubt their veracity. After all, the strength they supposedly invoked was all too real. With the beast's snapping jaw incapacitated beneath one boot, a belabored Taldan had set to free himself from the rest of its serpentine form coiling about him like so many prison shackles. Yet no sooner had he tugged on an iron length before something snapped. A sharp crack, like a blade splintered, reverberated through the span of its iron hide, followed by something akin to softly clicking gears coming to a halt.
Then - nothing. What had been a thrashing anaconda went limp, leaving Luke on the floor wrestling what was, in effect, an ornate chain. He looked at the thing confused. It was an odd sensation, suddenly going from full heart-pumping fight-or-flight to feeling just a bit foolish.
Adrenaline slowly wearing off, however, his rational mind assured him he should be feeling relieved. Quick, tough and poisonous to boot? Ancient or no, the construct had been quite the obstacle. Surviving it with the priest looking merely looking somewhat sickly was as good an outcome as they could ask for. Even if Amal evidently wasn't impressed.
"What, did I make that look easy, kid?" the foreigner puffed, still catching his breath. "Guess I'll take the compliment."
With that, he grabbed the proffered hand and let the younger man lift him to his feet. "Thanks." Once righted, Luke looked about the sparse floorspace of the small chamber. Where had he dropped that sword? Bah, never mind. It was an entirely different tool that was called for now.
The crowbar was retrieved from his backpack once more while Djedefre searched the sarcophagus for traps once again.
Jolánka gingerly hops off the sarcophagus, and joins the others in searching the chamber.
She gets distracted by the smashed cobra, picking it up and turning it over in her hands.
Finding no traps - or locks on the chests - Djedefre offers the group the all clear and the final looting begins.
Within the northern chest is found a magical suit of padded armor in the style of ancient Osirion. The southern chest holds a disintegrating cloth sack filled with 500 golden coins of Akhentepi's era's mint, and a small well-preserved darkwood coffer worth 50 gp itself. Inside the coffer - which isn't locked - are two potions, an ornate lapis and carnelian pendant in the shape of a winged sun disc worth 70 gp, and an assortment of carnelian, lapis lazuli, and turquoise semiprecious stones worth 55 gp all together.
The urns are empty, simply possessing art in ancient Osiriani styles around their outer surfaces. Each might be worth something to collectors but pale in comparison to the gold and gemstones.
Luke, with no small amount of relish, cracks open the gold-leafed sarcophagus, which if the time was spent would yield 100 gp worth of gold leaf. Within the sarcophagus lies the mummified remains of the soldier, wearing his funerary mask in his likeness. It is finely crafted from gold and studded with more red and blue semiprecious stones, no doubt worth hundreds of gold coins to collectors. Poking out of the thousands-year-old wrappings are small bumps buried within the layers.
Jolánka inspects the construct, not able to discern much of its make, but able to peer through the gaps between the scaly sections made wider by Luke's termination of its operation. While ruined in its current state, the Varisian imagines an inventor or gnome might find some value in what remains.