Djehuti shrugs. "It is not my place to question the judgment of the leaders of the Church.""Sure it is." His expression was hidden behind the chest jostling on one shoulder in traversing the complex's halls, but Luke's tone was direct, as pragmatic as only a tomb robber's could be. "You're a person, aren't you? What do you think the church's leadership consists of? Just people, that's all. Them having fancier robes than you doesn't make them right."
If anything, the young man's admittedly limited interactions with the fat cats of decadent Taldor had given him the impression they were usually wrong. It was a notion buoyed on the rebelliousness so typical of the young and disaffected. Like a hoary dragon stirring from its century-long slumber, this anti-authoritarian streak reared within him.
Not that he could muster much fire right now. No, the day's trials had been entirely too tiring for that, so Luke merely went on, calmly: "There's this saying back home my dad once told me. An nescis, mi fili, quantilla prudentia mundus regatur? It was said by this statesman to his son, upon the latter being intimidated at the idea of joining the ranks of great politicians himself or whatever. I don't speak Azlanti, but I'm pretty sure it translates to, 'Do you not know, my son, with how very little wisdom the world is governed?'"
His long strides were regular, even in stepping over the husks of the bugs they'd bested earlier. "It's true. The silk-stockings in charge are as dumb as the rest of us, and when they fail, ain't no one gonna kick their generous backsides in order but us. So don't dismiss your own opinion, elf. Respect isn't worth the cost of self-respect."
The foreigner's inclinations could evidently express themselves in something beyond grumblings about native cuisine and local history. Which didn't feel incongruous to Luke himself. After all, a healthy dislike of the high & mighty of society was in part how he justified ransacking their tombs.
Jolánka chuckles a bit.
"Father would have REALLY liked you."
Then she sighs and frowns a bit.
"I hope he recovers. That werewolf mauled him half to death."
At Luke's dismissal of her idea to use Akhentepi's armor, she shrugs.
"We've had to do some fighting in the course of our grave-robbing, so even if you're no glory hound you're still likely gonna get some as our tomb-raiding earns us fame, if only because you're the best swordsman in the group, so people will naturally assume you're some kind of hero or leader. It's why you had so many weak-armed fops looking to join the dueling clubs back at the University, even if they only wore their swords as an accessory..."
When he calls it trash, however, she becomes annoyed.
"I'm trying to find common ground with you, camel-arse! How are we going to repeat the success we've just had if we keep arguing like this?!"
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Amal leaves the bickering behind to accompany Djedefre out of the tomb - not without shooting a worried glance over his shoulder at Jolánka. He'd never heard of a close encounter with a werewolf before - and hopefully her father wouldn't turn into a terrible beast. But there was no time to ask further questions.
Much like Djedefre, he spots the poorly hidden figure almost immediately. "Light-reflecting material and red-dyed clothes? In a place like this?" he shakes his head, appalled. "How about I go fix that situation immediately?" he grips the handle of his khopesh.
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Amal leaves the bickering behind to accompany Djedefre out of the tomb - not without shooting a worried glance over his shoulder at Jolánka. He'd never heard of a close encounter with a werewolf before - and hopefully her father wouldn't turn into a terrible beast. But there was no time to ask further questions.
[dice=Aid Another (Perception)]1d20+4
Much like Djedefre, he spots the poorly hidden figure almost immediately. "Light-reflecting material and red-dyed clothes? In a place like this?" he shakes his head, appalled. "How about I go fix that situation immediately?" he grips the handle of his khopesh.
"At least confront the person; it could be they're waiting for us to leave to see what's left to take."
Djehuti looks at the others. "Perhaps we should all climb up just in case Djedfre and Amal run into trouble?" The elf takes their own advice and climbs up the rope, staying well back from where those peeking outside are. Even in the heavily shadowed antechamber they squint against the sunlight and put on their tinted sunglasses to protect against the light.
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"What? What did I say?" It was a strangely startled Luke that looked to the Ustalavan as she, not for the first time, compared him to a camel's backside, his peepers seemingly growing in unfurling from their typical squinting cynicism into wide-eyed confusion. The confusion was genuine, too. Accustomed as he was to the direct, often rude, speech of scoundrels and the most laddish of lads, the young man didn't always grasp the more oblique social ways of... well, most normal people, really. Or indeed women, if one was to be trite.
Hard-headed as he was, however, he recovered quickly enough. The Taldan had never been one to let an insult go unanswered even if he wasn't entirely sure what their dispute was. Something to figure out along the way. "No, listen, why don't you walk your clever clogs over to this 'common ground' of yours and leave me be, yeah? Facts are facts! The armour's bad and that's that, alright?! And the kid's sword arm is as good as mine!" He wedged another chest under one pit to point towards Amal. "And you’re right to call me out just as the elf’s wrong for keeping mum! We should say what we mean! And I hope your dad’s alright!" A pause heavy with aimless energy. "I don’t know what we’re arguing about!"
Nope, not this time. He was still in the dark as to what this whole confrontation was about, his defence meandering. They already had common ground in raiding tombs! What more could a group need?!
Deciding on exiting the conversation by force, Luke merely huffed and climbed the rope, following his younger brother-in-arms and the priest. They needed someone with heft topward to pull all this stuff up, anyway.
A task he found himself too preoccupied with to spot whatever had Djedefre and Amal so occupied.
Amal and Djedefre emerge from the tomb, intent on confronting their watcher, but the two Wati natives recognize him as a Voice of the Spire. The Voice agent steps out of the ruins, brushing off sand and shadow, and waves in a non-confrontational manner. He wears a steel Pharasmin holy symbol around his neck and a mace hangs from the crimson sash denoting his position.
"A thousand pardons, friends!" He calls out, defaulting to contemporary Osiriani upon seeing Amal and Djedefre. "My patrol is assigned to this section and we saw recent signs of activity. Is all well?"
"So it would seem." He nods to the scorpion slain earlier. "Alas, if only we had the numbers to guard every nook and cranny of this place. Surely closing the door on this tomb will be sufficient."
A moment later, two more Voices round a building and join their companion. The tallest of the three gives a curt nod to the two Vulture Courtiers on the surface. "Might we see your proofs of this site? To maintain the rules, of course."
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"What? What did I say?" It was a strangely startled Luke that looked to the Ustalavan as she, not for the first time, compared him to a camel's backside, his peepers seemingly growing in unfurling from their typical squinting cynicism into wide-eyed confusion. The confusion was genuine, too. Accustomed as he was to the direct, often rude, speech of scoundrels and the most laddish of lads, the young man didn't always grasp the more oblique social ways of... well, most normal people, really. Or indeed women, if one was to be trite.
Hard-headed as he was, however, he recovered quickly enough. The Taldan had never been one to let an insult go unanswered even if he wasn't entirely sure what their dispute was. Something to figure out along the way. "No, listen, why don't you walk your clever clogs over to this 'common ground' of yours and leave me be, yeah? Facts are facts! The armour's bad and that's that, alright?! And the kid's sword arm is as good as mine!" He wedged another chest under one pit to point towards Amal. "And you’re right to call me out just as the elf’s wrong for keeping mum! We should say what we mean! And I hope your dad’s alright!" A pause heavy with aimless energy. "I don’t know what we’re arguing about!"
Jolánka sighs again as she recovers her temper.
"I was trying to build some rapport with you by recommending you receive an item that I thought you'd use best out of all of us, since Amal wears heavier armor than you, and I'm nowhere near fast enough to protect myself the way armor like that requires, hence why I wear my father's old mail. And your dismissal of it as 'trash' felt like a dismissal of that rapport. It's not about the armor, it's that I was trying to look out for you and give you first pick of stuff that might actually be useful to us from Ancient Osirion's treasures, as opposed to just selling it off to sit in some dusty collection to be gawked at by unappreciative undergraduates."
Her tone is measured, deliberate. The way someone talks when they're trying to make their thought process clear.
"I'm sorry I blew up at you for it. But I don't know how else to relate to you since you have little interest in the academic or spiritual aspects of what we're doing, and I've got equally little interest in profit beyond how it can facilitate the rest of my work and don't share your seeming contempt for Osirion's culture and people, and frankly I'm surprised the others, actual natives, have been as tolerant of it as they have been. Doe that make sense?"
"Quiet, you two!" Senemheb thinks he heard some unfamiliar voices from outside, but it was muffled by the two foreigners bickering.
"There is something going outside. We better check."
He puts aside the loot he was hauling up, and walks outside to investigate. Seeing the Voices, he gives them the customary greetings appropriate for the time of the day. And then in whispered voice asks Djedefre for a summary of what is happening.
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"Quiet, you two!" Senemheb thinks he heard some unfamiliar voices from outside, but it was muffled by the two foreigners bickering.
"There is something going outside. We better check."
He puts aside the loot he was hauling up, and walks outside to investigate. Seeing the Voices, he gives them the customary greetings appropriate for the time of the day. And then in whispered voice asks Djedefre for a summary of what is happening.
Djedefre tells Senemheb, "Who has our pass to investigate Akhentepi's tomb? The Voices want to make sure we have permission to be here."
Djehuti opens their ever-present notebook and fishes the documents out of a convenient pocket in tucked into the back of the book. "Here," the elf says.
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The Voice leader takes the offered tile and map, glances them over, and hands them back. "The Vulture Court? Good name. The tomb is clear? Then we shall move on. The Lady keep you."
The Voices depart, the one that you first met offering a wave as they go. It takes an hour or two to fish up the loot-laden chests up the vertical passage by rope and arm, making it early afternoon by the time the party is ready to walk out of the Necropolis. While there had been a crowd at the gates in the morning as the groups had rushed in, only one other group was seen as the Vulture Court headed south.
They were led by a woman with an absurdly large purple hat and matching duster. A look of permanent disdain seemed etched on her severely beautiful face, almost pouting. She led a group similarly dour. The two Garundi men were casters, both bearing a wooden symbol of a mask painted half white and half black, one wearing armor while the other sported a green scorpion on his shoulder. The other woman was a tall dark-skinned half-elf armed with a khopesh, along with a few other weapons.
The half-elf's eyes were not downcast, taking in her party's surroundings, and when her eyes fell on the Vulture Court she smirked, giving someone among you a wink.
Jolánka says nothing else as they begin the long haul back into Wati proper. She's much too focused on trying to help lug their prizes, even though everyone in the group is likely stronger than her.
She raises an eyebrow at the group they encounter, noting that the leader seemingly looked a lot like her. Purple wasn't a good choice of color, though, not in this heat. But she imagined a person like this would have just sneered at such a suggestion. It was an interesting contrast: a prideful foreigner at the head of that group, while Jolánka herself deferred to the native Garundi among them. Her eyebrow rises further when the aiuvarin among them gives them a wink, uncertain as to how any of them might know her, because she certainly didn't.
"By the looks of their faces, perhaps that group didn't have much luck in their venture." Senemheb observes. He looks around to see if the half-elf was winking to one of the others, but couldn't be sure. She didn't look familiar, but perhaps the others knew her from somewhere.
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Amal slightly narrows his eyes at the half-elf. Was that provocation - or sarcasm - he could see in her eyes? Did she see them as rivals?
So they were both wielding khopeshs. So what? Big deal. Was it what the wink was for? Or was it Djehuti she made eye contact with?
He recognises the symbol of Nethys pretty much immediately - a popular deity amongst arcane spellcasters, so he's been told. The scorpion he doesn't know the meaning of. Hafiz was neither big on religion, nor on any superstitious belief, and Amal struggles to think of a single thing that his father might own for reasons other than practical or vaguely sentimental. Even scarabs or amulets didn't really count; they were all occasional gifts from friends, colleagues or the occasional grateful student who successfully passed an entry exam.
Students. S!!!.
Amal does his best not to meet the spellcasters' gaze, and imperceptibly slows down his pace until Luke is at the right, inadvertently hiding him from view. He doubts he could be recognised - but who could say? In his many years of teaching, Hafiz had got the occasional visit. That would be just his luck.
Djehuti looks at the group and chuckles. "Friend of yours, Jolanka? Or Luke, perhaps? Locals don't tend to dress like that." The elf gestures at their own loose robes and head covering that won't blow away in the desert wind.
The elf nods at Senemheb. "Or perhaps their findings were more easily concealable than ours." Djehuti shrugs. "I wonder if everyone's discoveries will be made public immediately or will they be kept under wraps for a time while the Church and the civil authorities review them? I would certainly like to read about the other groups' findings."
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He listened. That, at the very least, was something. Crude as the tomb robber could be, he had that curious sense of honour that demanded one hear out one’s detractor before laying them out flat. Alas, the furrowed brow only sank lower with the Ustalavan’s every word. By the time she’d said her piece, Jolánka might as well have opened her mouth to reveal a giant slug for a tongue, such was his grimace. Build rapport? Look out for him? Was this chit for real?
This was Miss Vesta all over again. Miss Vesta had been the Caradoc siblings’ tutor, one of these young governess types. A nice enough girl, he now realized, although that hadn’t always been his sentiment. As a child, he couldn’t stand her. Always after him about playing nice with the others, minding his manners, not climbing the trees, and, above all, to ‘be good’. And not in any nagging way, either. No, that was the worst of it: that she was so damn saccharine. The lady was wholesome as freshly baked bread, genuinely wishing to set him straight for his own good. “Kindness doesn’t cost a thing!” she’d say, smile honest as if she’d just stepped down the Mount o’ Heaven. Gods, Luke could still hear her voice, hear the smile in her voice, echoing through the dimly lit halls of his mindspace. She’d be all for Jolánka’s rapport.
Of course, he wasn’t the black sheep of the family for nothing. Somehow this earnestness, this conviviality, never sat right with him, well before he understood why exactly. And so, to the sincere Miss Vesta’s grief, he had continually rebelled. Orders were defied, classes skipped, chores sabotaged. To his limited credit, Luke felt just a bit bad about this now. The young miss hadn’t deserved a hellion like himself. But it’d been one such mutinous excursion that had clarified the nature of the rift between them, why he found her ‘goodness’ so intolerable: the night of his first drink.
He remembered it clearly. He’d been fourteen and had snuck out at night. His destination? The Bell & Rooster, a nearby tavern. His goal? To get drunk. His reasoning? Nil. Just dumb youthful rebellion seeking out the forbidden fruit precisely because it was forbidden. He’d anticipated some obstacles on this quest, notably the city guard wondering what a kid was doing meandering about so late at night. What he hadn’t expected was the chief obstacle being the purveyor of the brew himself. For upon reaching the inebriating Elysium and slamming stolen gold onto the bar, the landlord, a bald, burly bloke with a striking resemblance to his own barrels, had refused him service. Not only that; he’d laughed him off. ‘Snot-nosed whelp,’ he’d called him. ‘Pipsqueak’. ‘Stripling.’ ‘Half a head removed from a halfling.’ The young Caradoc was dismissed as all this and more before being advised to return in some years’ time. A dog’s age, perhaps.
Predictably, a vain teen hadn’t taken kindly to this. Words were exchanged, words of such nature as would make the good Miss Vesta faint. When tempers reached their fever pitch, the young man was told in no uncertain terms to p*ss off. When he refused, he was introduced to a most persuasive argument in the form of the landlord’s fist. His recollection of events was fuzzy after that. He remembered waking up to a city guard demanding to know why he was lying on the street in the dead of night all bruised. He certainly remembered his parents’ reprimands the morning after. But the memory that stood out most vividly, the sensation the young man still carried with him today was this: pride. He’d been insulted. He’d been cussed out. He’d been beaten. He had, in other words, been treated like an adult. And this, this he realized, was the schism between himself and the really very nice governess. Miss Vesta was good to him and his siblings, yes. But only because she saw them as something to protect, something innocent, something beneath herself. She wasn’t wrong, of course. They were mere children. Yet for Luke, laddish as he was, this was intolerable. Nothing less than total equality was enough for him. And equality meant accountability. Sometimes, as he learned that night, that meant taking some punches, verbal or literal. That landlord, crude as he was, had treated him more fairly than Vesta ever had.
‘Nice’ was patronizing, condescending, infantilizing. An empty gesture given to keep people in check. But a harsh word, a swear, a fist to the face, even? There was nothing more honest than that.
The Taldan’s narrowed eyes shifted, attention drawn by some commotion at the tomb’s entrance. He looked back to Jolánka, this university girl who objected to his harsh words, who wanted to make nice. "Dame... Just buy a guy a drink."
With that, he turned to deal with the intruders. She was overthinking this. Big surprise, the egghead overthinking things. Luke didn't dislike her. He didn't dislike anyone among the so-called Vulture Court. That was precisely why he wouldn't do them the disservice of speaking anything but the honest truth to them, vulgarities and all. Anything else would be disrespectful.
She should call him a camel's arse more often. He didn't like it, but he respected the sentiment.
The half-elf's eyes were not downcast, taking in her party's surroundings, and when her eyes fell on the Vulture Court she smirked, giving someone among you a wink.
"What are you looking at?"
The foreigner managed to growl as much in passing, the other group disappearing among the sund-dusted ruins soon enough. He rubbed at his branded forehead in thought.
"Nah, never seen 'em before," he answered Djehuti's speculation. "Probably just gloating at the label Akhentepi stamped onto half of us." Dammit, they really needed to figure out how to remove those.
With the bickering foreigners, the amazonian half-elf's wink, and the party's long morning, the Vulture Court leaves the Necropolis and heads back into the city of the living. The other group nearly ran over the Vulture Court, the purple-clad Taldan only acknowledging you to try and push ahead, followed by her fellow Nethysian cohorts. Only the half-elf woman offered a shrug in apology as the rival group rushed past.
There was a group of Wati natives near the gates to the necropolis, sitting in the shade while casting foul glances at the two groups exiting the ruins. One looked like he had just been in a fight, black-eyed and cut lipped, his compatriots talking amongst themselves while keeping themselves between him and the guards at the gate. As the two parties left, the black-eyed man stood up and barked at them in broken Taldane.
"May Ammit feast you slow, thiefs!"
A Voice shouted in contemporary Osiriani for him to shut up as the shouter's friends tried to lead him away. He resorted to Osiriani, going into great detail on how the old gods will punish those defiling their heritage, even as the Voices drew their maces and his friends resorted to dragging him away.
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Distractedly rubbing his forehead he says, "I'd forgotten about the brand. We'll likely receive a similar cordial reception elsewhere in Wati. Time to find out how well we carried out our mission."
Djedefre scans the area for Marwanun so the Vulture Court could turn in their finds and find out if they were in any trouble. Oh and perhaps some assistance with the brand...
"Since we have a cleric of Ra on our side, I hope the other gods of the pantheon will forgive us as well." Senemheb notes with a weary smile. In any case, he'd rather keep his distance to the beaten man and his friends.
"I hope the people in taverns are not so agitated, I am certainly looking forward to sitting down for a cold beer."
"Ah, I'd gotten used to them. Sloppy." Djehuti looks at the others with their brands. "You may want to adopt a hat or scarf or other head covering for the next few days." They gesture at their shemagh. "They're quite useful to have, in any case. It's always good to have something to cover your face when the sand and wind kick up."
"May Ammit feast you slow, thiefs!"
"He'll choke on us first, you rumdum!" the Taldan answered in equally broken Osirian.
The adage of suffering no fools gladly went double for what he assumed to be drunkards. Luke plodded onwards with the rest of the group, one squinting eye on the church's steeples in navigating Wati's streets. He'd found that Pharasmins' love of spires was a good waymarker in most cities. Although even in leaving the belligerent natives behind, he could only nod in agreement to Senemheb's call for a cold beer. They earned one today.
"You may want to adopt a hat or scarf or other head covering for the next few days."
"Not leaving it that long," Luke replied in shaking his head emphatically. "Don't want to give the old general the satisfaction."
Surely some spell-for-hire could be found in town, someone to magic away what amounted to temporary scars? Not that the young man really believed Akhentepi was observing them from beyond the veil, grinning and hooting. It was just the principle of the thing. You didn't let spiteful misers win.
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"Since we have a cleric of Ra on our side, I hope the other gods of the pantheon will forgive us as well." Senemheb notes with a weary smile. In any case, he'd rather keep his distance to the beaten man and his friends.
"I hope the people in taverns are not so agitated, I am certainly looking forward to sitting down for a cold beer."
"I hope so or at least they are forgiving since we erred out of ignorance and desire to preserve knowledge than just to steal for the sake of profit. I know Luke; what else are we doing here, the Ruby Pharaoah, blessings be upon him, wants to fill Osirion's coffers, and the rest of your valid points. The charms are the only item I think may cause us a problem but hopefully what they can teach us outweighs any violation of the rules."
Turning to the other topic on mind, "I side with Luke in not wanting to wait but cost might be an issue."
"We are licensed thieves." Senemheb muses. "Anyone having issues with that, are ultimately having an issue with the Ruby Prince."
But looking at the brands on foreheads of some of the group members, he realizes those might indeed attract additional unwanted attention.
"With the opening of tombs, there must a good number of sellspells around, whether local or foreign. Or if that is too costly, scarfs and tourbans are always in fashion here..."
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Amal does not immediately understand that the insult was aimed at them, having quite forgotten about the brand lying beneath his improvised scarf. He shrugs it off. "Not everyone is pleased with the Prince's meddling with Wati's heritage. I can't say I blame them."
They look slightly uneasy at the mention of a spell - and somewhat relieved when Senemheb jumps in. "Yes, I assume we can find someone who sells scrolls," they say.
Djehuti shrugs. "It is up to you what you do with your money, of course. There are sellers of scrolls in Wati. Finding someone to dispel a curse will be more expensive, though, if the marks are resistant to lesser cleansing magic."
Heading west towards the Grand Mausoleum, the party catches glimpses of the Sunburst Market. While the markets are always bustling, the opening of the ancient ruins and tombs have brought out the crowds, some merely eager to catch sight of unearthed marvels, some eager to acquire these treasures for themselves. The markets have thusly spread to surround the Golden Lake between the market and the Pharasmin temple.
Marwanun was seated on the edge of the Golden Lake, tossing a piece of choice meat to a lethargic white-scaled crocodile. She seems distracted, and so the party is almost upon her by the time she notices your approach.
"Oh! Hello, my courtiers! Sorry, I was just feeding Ebis here." She gestures to the ten-foot long crocodile, softly growling in a pleased soft of manner as it slid back deeper into the yellow-dusted waters. "You all look ... well dusted. How was your first trip?"
She then notices the marks on some of your foreheads. "Oh ... oh dear. That's not very flattering, now is it?"
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"Not leaving it that long," Luke replied in shaking his head emphatically. "Don't want to give the old general the satisfaction."
Surely some spell-for-hire could be found in town, someone to magic away what amounted to temporary scars? Not that the young man really believed Akhentepi was observing them from beyond the veil, grinning and hooting. It was just the principle of the thing. You didn't let spiteful misers win.
Jolánka wordlessly passes by Luke and puts her wide-brimmed hat on his head.
Heading west towards the Grand Mausoleum, the party catches glimpses of the Sunburst Market. While the markets are always bustling, the opening of the ancient ruins and tombs have brought out the crowds, some merely eager to catch sight of unearthed marvels, some eager to acquire these treasures for themselves. The markets have thusly spread to surround the Golden Lake between the market and the Pharasmin temple.
Marwanun was seated on the edge of the Golden Lake, tossing a piece of choice meat to a lethargic white-scaled crocodile. She seems distracted, and so the party is almost upon her by the time she notices your approach.
"Oh! Hello, my courtiers! Sorry, I was just feeding Ebis here." She gestures to the ten-foot long crocodile, softly growling in a pleased soft of manner as it slid back deeper into the yellow-dusted waters. "You all look ... well dusted. How was your first trip?"
She then notices the marks on some of your foreheads. "Oh ... oh dear. That's not very flattering, now is it?"
Jolánka smiles a bit at the crocodile as it departs. It seemed the reptiles got a pretty sweet deal here in Osirion, the locals just giving out free food for doing what crocodiles do.
"He's adorable," she comments.
At the mention of the marks on some of the group, she nods.
"Our first day has been a success, though not without embarrassment. Desna reminding us to be humble, I suppose."
She helps the others display their spoils.
"Be careful with that one," she says as Marwanun examines the box banging around lightly. "We managed to trap a guardian construct in there. If it doesn't attack the moment that thing's opened, it'll probably make a break for the Tomb to resume its post."
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Djedefre takes note of Jolanka placing her hat on Luke's head. He nudges Amal and Djehuti to make sure they see it too. He doesn't even try to hide his wide grin at the exchange.
He bids Ebis farewell in his still-developing Osirian, "May Ra's blessings be upon you as well."
Turning to Marwanun, "Dusty, dangerous, and we discovered we weren't the first people inside Akhentepi's tomb. Unlike the previous group we survived to tell the tales."
Rubbing the brand on his forehead, "What did I say I was most concerned about? Curses! Although as curses go this is more an annoyance than painful. Better a brand that wears off versus body parts rotting and falling off."
As the group shows Marwanun what they brought back he asks about the funerary charms, "Was it permissible to remove them? We were conflicted. Although quite personal to Akhentepi we weren't sure if they could reveal secrets of either the process of mummification, some magical or mystical ritual, or if they have some religious significance."
He also retrieves his journal to show Marwanun the sketches, notes, and lists of items that were not removed from the tomb in case the Church of Pharasma had interest in examining them further.
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"Be careful with that one," she says as Marwanun examines the box banging around lightly. "We managed to trap a guardian construct in there. If it doesn't attack the moment that thing's opened, it'll probably make a break for the Tomb to resume its post."
Rubbing his foot Djedefre adds, "She speaks the truth; the little devil stabbed me."
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Either Amal is completely oblivious to the wink-wink-nudge-nudge at play, or they just don't care. It's hard to tell.
They're more interested in getting the crocodile's attention with a piece of jerky from their own rations than to summarize what happened in the tomb. They have nothing to add to Djedefre's already extensive account.
Djedefre takes note of Jolanka placing her hat on Luke's head. He nudges Amal and Djehuti to make sure they see it too. He doesn't even try to hide his wide grin at the exchange.
Djehuti snorts, muffling a laugh behind closed lips.
Turning to Marwanun, "Dusty, dangerous, and we discovered we weren't the first people inside Akhentepi's tomb. Unlike the previous group we survived to tell the tales."
The elf nods in agreement with Djedefre and Jolanka. "Nothing beyond what could have been reasonably expected, and well within our capabilities." Djehuti pats their ever-present notebook and gestures at Jolanka and the others who had also prepared notes. "We also have extensive notes, maps, and sketches that we can consolidate and provide."
Marwanun flips through the provided notes, her smile growing with each page of insights and sketches. "These are marvelous! Easily deserving a reward from the church." She looks up, pursing her lip for a moment. "I know a wizard, I'll see about getting you three scrolls of erase, at least."
Ebis, no doubt familiar with humanoids feeding him, glides closer to Amal. He does not leave the water, but he places his head on the side of the artificial lake and opens his jaws, awaiting the offered treat. Should Amal offer the jerky, the crocodile snaps it up with a low rumble.
In regards to the funerary charms, Marwanun shrugs. "That really isn't my call to make. I can ask high priestess Sebti, but we went into this knowing folks might loot anything not explicitly worthless. So long as you didn't leave the mummy's bones tossed into some corner or deliberately tear him apart, I'm sure it will be fine."
"An active construct?" The priestess notes the chest lashed shut. "How intriguing! Can't imagine that was boring. Akhentepi was prepared, huh?"
"We are licensed thieves." Senemheb muses.
A sentiment the self-described tomb robber could only agree with. "Hah. Like the privateers of Taldor and Cheliax." An amusing enough image, the group sailing sand dunes rather than the great big blue, uncovering what was buried rather than sunken. He was about to ask Senemheb whether he had come round to the idea of raiding ruins when a shadow descended upon the young man.
The hat didn't fit particularly well.
"..."
'Dumbfounded' was a strong word, but the occasion did find Luke struck dumb. Stopping mid-stride to watch the Ustalavan stroll away without a word, he had to wonder what she was playing at. This query was stymied by a notion obstructing his mind. While he hadn't caught her in the act, it somehow stood out to him vividly: the inane image of the slight woman tiptoeing in reaching to place the hat on his head.
An unbidden smirk tugged at the stubbly mouth. So she insisted, huh? On 'building rapport'. He shook his head, wide brim and all. Come to think of it, Jolánka had compared him to a camel's backside on more than one occasion, yet it seemed to him the missie was as stubborn as the camels she was so intimately familiar with.
The harsh sun actually wasn't so bad in a hat like this. Gradually, without his noticing, the smirk transitioned into something not so cynical, not so wry; something like the closest approximation to a genuine smile the foreigner had worn since arriving in Osirion. Stubbornness was not a bad trait in his book.
"Oh ... oh dear. That's not very flattering, now is it?"
"You should see the other guy."
Luke was content enough to let the others discuss the finer points of corpse desecration, he keeping a sharp eye on the albino crocodile throughout. If the 'sister' thought the beast safe, then he would abide by that judgement. Outsider that he was, the famed reptiles weren't familiar to him. Nevertheless, one hand never left the pommel of his sword. Hell's horses, the thing was big enough to swallow a halfling whole.
"Yeah, adorable," he muttered, an ironic little burr joining in the Ustalavan's admiration.
When matters turned to the monetary, the Taldan gave a light kick to the rope-bound chest imprisoning the ornery construct. Just as intended, the container began rattling in demonstration. "I take it we're free to sell any artifacts as we please? I have a couple market opportunities I'd like to follow up on."
Selling to the highest bidder would of course be preferable. Though on the topic of monetary gain, he was somewhat surprised when Marwanun offered the scrolls free of charge. "That's... very good of you. Thanks. Are you sure we can't pay you for those? We'll have the funds for it soon enough."
While not one to reject charity, Luke didn't like being in anyone's debt.
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Marwanun flips through the provided notes, her smile growing with each page of insights and sketches. "These are marvelous! Easily deserving a reward from the church." She looks up, pursing her lip for a moment. "I know a wizard, I'll see about getting you three scrolls of erase, at least."
Ebis, no doubt familiar with humanoids feeding him, glides closer to Amal. He does not leave the water, but he places his head on the side of the artificial lake and opens his jaws, awaiting the offered treat. Should Amal offer the jerky, the crocodile snaps it up with a low rumble.
In regards to the funerary charms, Marwanun shrugs. "That really isn't my call to make. I can ask high priestess Sebti, but we went into this knowing folks might loot anything not explicitly worthless. So long as you didn't leave the mummy's bones tossed into some corner or deliberately tear him apart, I'm sure it will be fine."
"An active construct?" The priestess notes the chest lashed shut. "How intriguing! Can't imagine that was boring. Akhentepi was prepared, huh?"
"The scrolls of erase would be wonderful! Speaking of constructs there was also an iron cobra whose venom was still potent but it was destroyed. And if you could check with High Priestess Sebti that would be much appreciated. I have no idea if the charms served any functional purpose but such knowledge would be beneficial. And, if it's frowned upon, we will leave them next time."
Addressing Marwanun's concern over Akhentepi's remains, "We left his mummy in his sarcophagus which, as you can see from the sketches and notes, is quite magnificent in its own right. It likely merits further study. We also spoke with a few of the Voices on our way out and we asked if protection of some kind could be afforded the tomb to protect what remains but apparently there are insufficient personnel to do so. A shame since I suspect someone else will visit Akhentepi's tomb now that it has been made somewhat safer."
"I have the remains of the cobra in my pack," Jolánka adds.
"If if makes you feel better, Mister Caradoc, you can pay full price for a healing potion or two to make up for it." Marwanun shrugged.
"As for your 'loot', I don't see why you can't go ahead and sell what you've found. The Sunburst Market has set up both vendors for more 'adventuring gear' and there are collectors, visitors, and representatives from churches and a couple secular organizations I didn't recognize that'll be available to appraise and buy off what you're willing to sell."
At Djedefre's mentioning of guarding the tomb, Marwanun shook her head. "The only ones who go out that way with any regularity are vermin, thieves, and monsters. Most Wati citizens know better than to sneak into the necropolis, and even those that don't are rare enough that the Voices don't see the need to bolster their recruitment in order to patrol every street and ruin within. I don't like it any more than you, but that is the reality of things."
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An unbidden smirk tugged at the stubbly mouth. So she insisted, huh? On 'building rapport'. He shook his head, wide brim and all. Come to think of it, Jolánka had compared him to a camel's backside on more than one occasion, yet it seemed to him the missie was as stubborn as the camels she was so intimately familiar with.
Amal watches as the jerky disappears in the crocodile's mouth, followed by loud chewing sounds. Its toothy maw opens and closes like giant pliers. He'd hate to be on the receiving end of that bite, but there was something a bit more fascinating about it than simply feeding a regular pet. It was the first time he'd ever seen the inside of a crocodile mouth this close.
No wonder why the Ancient Osirians had turned it into a deity - one associated with protection as much as destruction.
"Perhaps we should deal with our branding before attempting to sell what we found," Amal stands up from his kneeling position, hiding a smile at Marwanun's firm assertion that few Wati natives wandered into the Necropolis. Curiosity was a stronger drive than she thought.
Still, they hoped that by I know a wizard, she didn't mean I'll ask your dad to interfere and erase that nasty spell from your brow, and your dumb friends' as well. There were only so many people who scribed scrolls in this magic-forsaken city.
At least, that meant it could spare them an actual encounter. Hopefully.