Djehuti makes a face. "To be honest, ghouls. Being eaten alive by beasts or monsters is one thing but being turned into a ravenous caricature of myself who wants nothing more than to eat..." The androgynous elf shudders. "Please kill me if I get infected by a ghoul," they say, perfectly seriously.
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Turning west from the gates, you go two blocks to arrive at a cozy two story inn, a sign over the door depicting a crocodile wearing a pharaonic headdress puffing happily on a hookah pipe.
"Cute."
The sarcasm was thick - thick as the dust in whatever tomb they were due tomorrow. Luke shook his head. While he had spent more than a few uneasy nights in seedy inns, it was the foreigner's experience that even these had too much dignity to employ comic mascots in enticing customers. What sort of tourist trap had that Pharasmin sent them to?
He sighed in following the kid - Amal - inside. Beggars couldn't be choosers. And Luke was all of two gold pieces away from joining the mendicancy squad.
Thankfully the interior of the Tooth & Hookah was more promising, even if the ever skeptical Taldan remained wary. In the antiques trade one learned to be as careful of a shopkeeper's smile as that of a crocodile. "Did he just offer us seats?" he asked no one in particular among the group. Naturally enough the Garundi has engaged a party seemingly consisting of mostly locals in the local tongue, a language the foreigner still struggled with. "I thought I recognized 'seat'. Someone tell him we're looking for beds instead. B-E-D-S! Do you understand? Er, ⲕⲁϣ? Am I pronouncing that right?"
He wasn't. Nor did ⲕⲁϣ even refer to bedding in modern Osiriani, instead meaning 'reed'. Though, to be fair, there was an interesting shared etymology between these two lexemes that an enthusiastic linguist could extrapolate on. Even if any such linguist would be met with stony-faced disinterest by Luke himself.
Once accommodations were arranged, the grave robber did not hesitate throwing himself into one of the inn's seats. It had been a long day. Traveling to Wati, navigating lottery politics, getting foisted with this crew - it was more than a little exhausting and Luke could do with a decent meal followed by eight hours of dreamless slumber. Before anything of the sort could happen, however, he caught onto the conversation initiated by Senemheb: of what the worst thing they were likely to encounter at tomorrow's dig might be.
"Ancient curses. If the legends have even one-tenth truth to them those ancient curses are unrelenting and unforgiving."
"They are."
The words slipped him before he knew it. They were bitter as ash which was perhaps why some part of the young man had seen fit to spit them out. Of course, he had seen the Ancient Osirianis' tomb curses at work. He knew how dangerous these could be. The fallout of one such was the very reason he was here, seeking to mend his family's fortunes. But this wasn't a topic to be shared with strangers. Luke cleared his throat and swallowed some unspoken sentiments back to the black pit where they belonged.
"And if you ever feel bad for the miserable old misers in their fancy tombs, just think of those curses: that not only were they so greedy as to bury themselves with their kids' inheritance, they also saw fit to magically screw over whosoever looks at their resting place wrong. All to be the richest fop in the Great Beyond... Bunch of money-grubbing maniacs."
The foreigner's disdain for the upper-crusters of the world - whether above or below the crust - was evident. "I'll tell you what I fear most. That we're assigned some mass grave of paupers tomorrow and this whole trip will be for nothing."
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Djedefre's eyebrows climb ever-higher as Luke not just stomps on but spits upon Osirion culture and history. Realizing there's going to be no 'educating' this foreigner he opts for some unsolicited advice:
"I'd be careful to whom you say such words. Rumor has it there are whole deities and religions based upon what you scorn."
In case subtlety is lost on Luke, Djedefre will reverently raise his holy symbol - a solar disk.
After a few minutes, the scarred Garundi man approaches your table, holding a platter of fresh, hot flat cakes. "Welcome to the Tooth & Hookah, friends. My name is Farhaan. Is there anything I can get for you? I am running a special on room and board for those participating in the lottery. My individual rooms would run one gold piece a night, which includes a complementary breakfast of stuffed olives, olive oil and bread, and hot tea or coffee."
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Unable to resist his wheeling-and-dealing nature Djedefre tries to impress his new teammates.
"One gold? Some of these fine people have traveled from faraway lands to assist the Ruby Prince, peace be upon him, in exploring and making the city safer. Surely you can do better than that on the price my friend! Wouldn't 7 silver be more reasonable?"
"I'd be careful to whom you say such words. Rumor has it there are whole deities and religions based upon what you scorn."
The foreigner glanced - not disdainfully - at the proffered holy symbol. It was wholly unknown to him, but he could guess at its allegiance. Probably one of those weird humanimal mongrel gods worshipped locally. Luke didn't know the first thing about these. But then his reply would have been the same no matter what the pantheon.
"A lot of gods out there, bright-eyes. Some of them have to be wrong."
The young man had had a rough year. So rough that his newfound cynicism extended into the Great Beyond. He did not think the gods beyond reproach. Especially if they condoned what seemed to him a plain crazy burial practice of turning graves into very expensive death traps. Luke was no moralist. While he might offer the odd choice comment, he was largely content to let people do as they pleased, worship included. The exception being if their conduct harmed others. And dumping obscene amounts of gold into literal holes in the ground, constructing trapped kill boxes for others to die in, was harmful in more ways than one. Notably in how it could spell the end for any one of them tomorrow.
And the less said about those lunatic pyramid things the better!
Luke realized a moment too late that antagonizing the healer of the group probably also spelled a quick end among tomb robbers. Crap. His head sank and only rose when the innkeeper came round babbling in his gobbledygook.
"... Did he say something about olives?"
He tries to imagine what is to come. "What would least like to encounter there?" he asks.
"For me, it's snakes."
Jolánka thinks for a moment. A hundred spooks and specters run through her head, but in truth the things that haunted Osirion were not so different from those back home in Ustalav. Both lands had been touched by the great necromancers of the world: The Whispering Tyrant and Geb. But that isn't what she describes when it is her turn to speak.
"A broken stele or eroded inscription," she says.
"Ancient curses. If the legends have even one-tenth truth to them those ancient curses are unrelenting and unforgiving."[/b]"They are."
The words slipped him before he knew it. They were bitter as ash which was perhaps why some part of the young man had seen fit to spit them out. Of course, he had seen the Ancient Osirianis' tomb curses at work. He knew how dangerous these could be. The fallout of one such was the very reason he was here, seeking to mend his family's fortunes. But this wasn't a topic to be shared with strangers. Luke cleared his throat and swallowed some unspoken sentiments back to the black pit where they belonged.
"And if you ever feel bad for the miserable old misers in their fancy tombs, just think of those curses: that not only were they so greedy as to bury themselves with their kids' inheritance, they also saw fit to magically screw over whosoever looks at their resting place wrong. All to be the richest fop in the Great Beyond... Bunch of money-grubbing maniacs."
The foreigner's disdain for the upper-crusters of the world - whether above or below the crust - was evident. "I'll tell you what I fear most. That we're assigned some mass grave of paupers tomorrow and this whole trip will be for nothing."
"I'd be careful to whom you say such words. Rumor has it there are whole deities and religions based upon what you scorn."The foreigner glanced - not disdainfully - at the proffered holy symbol. It was wholly unknown to him, but he could guess at its allegiance. Probably one of those weird humanimal mongrel gods worshipped locally. Luke didn't know the first thing about these. But then his reply would have been the same no matter what the pantheon.
"A lot of gods out there, bright-eyes. Some of them have to be wrong."
The young man had had a rough year. So rough that his newfound cynicism extended into the Great Beyond. He did not think the gods beyond reproach. Especially if they condoned what seemed to him a plain crazy burial practice of turning graves into very expensive death traps. Luke was no moralist. While he might offer the odd choice comment, he was largely content to let people do as they pleased, worship included. The exception being if their conduct harmed others. And dumping obscene amounts of gold into literal holes in the ground, constructing trapped kill boxes for others to die in, was harmful in more ways than one. Notably in how it could spell the end for any one of them tomorrow.
And the less said about those lunatic pyramid things the better!
Luke realized a moment too late that antagonizing the healer of the group probably also spelled a quick end among tomb robbers. Crap. His head sank and only rose when the innkeeper came round babbling in his gobbledygook.
"... Did he say something about olives?"
Jolánka's jaw drops at Luke's blatant contempt edging very close to blasphemy. She's about to launch into an angry rant when Djedefre seems to calm Luke.
"Y-yes, stuffed olives, bread and olive oil as breakfast included with renting a room," she says. "This man is no tomb robber," she thinks to herself. "You don't get that kind of contempt if you're just doing this for the money." She'd seen that kind of anger before, in her father's eyes when he talked about the Count.
Farhaan looks shrewdly at Djedefre, narrowing his eyes even as his grin widens. "For you, servant of Ra."
"I will not claim to be an expert on the political or religious nuance of what our pharaoh has decreed, but it has been good for business." The Garundi stands a tad awkwardly as the discourse between the group unfolds. He notes Luke needing translation and bows apologetically. "A thousand pardons to your companions who do not speak our tongue. I've tried to pick up a few phrases."
In rough Taldane, Farhaan nods to Luke. "Welcome to Wati, good friend."
"It is an honor and a pleasure, most gracious of hosts," Jolánka adds in Osiriani with a polite half-bow.
"Ancient curses. If the legends have even one-tenth truth to them those ancient curses are unrelenting and unforgiving."
"..."
By instict, Senemheb reaches towards his bag, but realizes the people around him might find it odd. So he retreats his hand. The old man's mocking laughter is something he'll just have to endure.
But curses are bad, yes. No one knows more about that than him. But in order to understand and get rid of his family's curse, he must learn it's source. So as bad as it is, this is the very thing Senemheb wishes to encounter in the tombs.
Such brooding thoughts.
Luckily the northman's outbursts interrupt his thinking, and bring him to present.
"You seem to hold much disdain to our land and culture," he says to Luke, still somewhat amused. "Yet you are here. Burning your skin and drinking our camel milk. Was there no tombs to be plundered in the northern lands?"
He nods to the innkeep, handing him the seven silver pieces. To Djedefre he gives a laughing smile. "Remind me not to bargain with you, priest. You're quite the haggler."
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Amal stiffens as the Avistani man keeps on ranting against his culture and country. It helps somewhat that he cannot help Jolànka with her bag and keep up with the conversation at the same time. Besides, the other Osirianis at the table are quick to answer with sharp replies.
It helps to think of this as a job to cool down, and take at least some critical distance with whatever degrading stuff is coming out of the man's mouth. To some extent, he was right - the paranoid secrecy with which the wealthy had buried themselves with their wealth spoke lengths about their greed. However, that was not the story of the Necropolis at all.
Besides, what he didn't say was almost more interesting than what he did say. For all his ramblings against empty graves, he seemed genuinely afraid of curses - in a way that spoke of personal experience rather than mere superstition. What did he seek? He seemed almost desperate to find something. Mere greed was not enough to justify going against a deadly curse, especially if you believed them to be one hundred percent real. Curious.
"Here," Amal points at Jolànka rope. "You can give me this if you like. It'll make your burden lighter."
They hand Farhann seven silver coins. To be completely fair, Djedefre's bargaining came as a bit of a relief. With only three coins left, it would have been a matter of very short time before Amal was forced back to their parents' home - which was just about the one thing they wanted to avoid.
"I'll book a room for the night," they say in perfect Osiriani, before switching back to Taldane to address the group. "Curses would be frightening. They're not easily lifted. I'd say anything involving powerful magic. Like traps, or ghosts."
Even as he says this, the thought seems to make him frustrated or annoyed more than afraid.
"You seem to hold much disdain to our land and culture," he says to Luke, still somewhat amused. "Yet you are here. Burning your skin and drinking our camel milk. Was there no tombs to be plundered in the northern lands?"
He nods to the innkeep, handing him the seven silver pieces. To Djedefre he gives a laughing smile. "Remind me not to bargain with you, priest. You're quite the haggler."
Djehuti nods appreciatively at Djedefre as they fish 7 silver pieces out of their belt pouch. "That bargaining skill will be very useful when it comes time to resupply, blessed one." He nods his thanks to Farhaan as well as he hands over the money. "A discount will stand you in good stead, my friend, as this group will no doubt soon come into great riches," they say to the innkeeper with a smile.
The elf gestures at Senemheb, looking at Luke through their dark-tinted glasses. In remarkably cultured and perfectly fluent Taldane that speaks of university lecture halls and upper crust merchants making deals over drinks, they say "To not even properly learn the language before traveling to a place seems unwise. Personally, it seems reckless to offend everyone around oneself when a person will soon be relying upon them to stay alive." Djehuti gestures at Farhaan. "Or for a roof over their heads." They gesture again at Djedefre. "Or to purchase necessary goods."
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"Stavian's fire, another academic..."
The Taldan ran a rough hand over his face as Djehuti joined Senemheb in chiding - however gently - the earlier invective. And in perfect Taldane at that, the sort usually reserved addresses delivered from the marble balconies of the nation. Or indeed his late father's Osirionology obsessed circles. Comforting though it was to know there was no language barrier between himself and the elf, this wasn't what Luke needed to hear at the moment. Heaven preserve him from intellectuals. If they didn't get him into this whole mess, then they were a burden in trying to fix it. How was this lanky beanstalk, looking like the ivory tower they'd no doubt stepped out of, supposed to be anything but a hurdle tomorrow? It was exasperating.
The stubble lined mouth opened. And he reconsidered. Personal feelings of Osiriani funerary practices aside, Luke recognized that thinking ill of this... Man? Woman? ...of this person was unfair. He began again in a wearier voice.
"Listen, I'm not trying to be an ass, I just... I don't appreciate fat cats taking their money to death-trapped graves, that's all. Is that so strange? What am I saying, you lot grew up with this nonsense. 'Course it's just standard procedure for you..." The foreigner let out the sort of sigh usually reserved single parents returning from work to find the morning's oatmeal upended on the floor. "All I'm saying is... it's not fair. Not for anyone left behind. Certainly not for the fools tasked with opening those graves however many centuries later."
Not merely referring to themselves, he indicated the many patrons seated about the Tooth & Hookah, chatting, eating and making merry before tomorrow's opening of the necropolis. "None of these people deserve to die for retrieving gold just collecting dust."
And to hell with any tradition or god that said otherwise. This last part he left unsaid. Because the elf was right. No matter his own sentiments surrounding the dig or whatever else, airing them only to antagonize the rest of the party served no one, least of all himself. For better or worse, the vagaries of fate had seen fit to group them into a band. They had to rely on one another.
Even if half of them were bookworms who probably wouldn't know which end of a sword to hold once those ghouls were upon them. Luke resisted the urge to shake his head.
"Anyway," he went on in counting out some silver pieces for the innkeeper, "excuse me for not picking up the language just like that. We aren't all blessed with book-smarts, shades." His tone was more so irreverent than adversarial. The young man didn't begrudge the elf nor anyone else their intelligence. After all, the Caradocs were a largely scholarly family. His mother would probably like this guy. Girl. Whatever. "Didn't seem necessary with most of the sandbox speaking Taldane too. Well, enough Taldane, I should say. Haven't been here very long either. Long enough to pick up local curse words, handy for the luck I've had here so far. And some smatterings like ⲕⲁϣ. And ϫⲱⲓⲧ. And ⲥⲃⲣⲟⲟⲩⲉ, like you, you gangly broomstick."
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Djehuti inclines their head to Luke, a smile tugging at the corner of their mouth. They seem amused at being called a beanpole, if anything. "If everyone knew everything there would be no need for books or schools. I begrudge no man the opportunity to learn." The androgynous elf gestures in the direction of the necropolis. "In fact, if I may, would you mind learning something now? About the... nonsense."
The elf actually waits for Luke to indicate his assent before continuing. "Forgive me if you already know this. While I understand your viewpoint, the items in the tombs are not merely there for decoration. The ancients," Djehuti gestures at Djedefre, "believed in the Ka, a spiritual double that needed sustenance after death. Providing food, drink, and other necessary items in the tomb ensured the Ka's well-being in the afterlife. To provide for the well being of the sadly passed loved ones, tombs were filled with everyday objects, furniture, clothing, and even food and drink, reflecting the belief that the deceased would need these things in the afterlife. Protective amulets, sculptures, and other objects were included to safeguard the deceased from evil spirits and other dangers on the other side. And of course, the wealthier and higher status deceased require more- and more ornate- items to accompany them into death."
"So while you can look at it as wasteful hoarding, to the deceased's loves ones it is a sign of respect and a show that they can provide for the needs of those going on into the afterlife." The elf sighs and smiles at Luke. "And now after all that I say that none of that applies here." Djehuti chuckles.
"Because here in Wati, the city of the dead is actually a consecrated memorial to a two thousand year old tragedy that killed most residents of this city, a plague that so depopulated Wati that the powers that be decided it best to simply wall off the abandoned portions of the city and declare it off limits. So this is more in the way of a reclamation than an exploration."
"Does that do anything to assuage your concerns, my friend?"
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The divide between the haves and the have-nots of the world was well documented. Less obvious though no less pervasive was the gulf between those of common knowledge and the know-it-alls. Nothing built resentment quite like the first-year medicine student who thought they could correct the self-taught village midwife responsible for delivering four entire generations. Yet despite displaying much of the humble everyman's healthy distrust of the intelligentsia, Luke held no real contempt for the scholarly, much less schooling itself. Well, mostly. No, his disdain was more so colored by the inequities of ever declining Taldor, in this case the elitism of universities and the decadent aristocracy these were largely exclusive to.
Although his own upbringing may have admittedly added to this dislike. Growing up in a house of utter dorks wasn't easy when you were born a lad's lad. While his siblings got pats on the head for academic achievement, a young Luke only got swats to the bum for roughhousing. Hard not to grow a bit disillusioned coming from that.
All of this was to say that the foreigner was still perfectly happy to hear Djehuti out when the latter offered to explain. And he had to admit - the offending grave goods being less status symbols sequestered by selfish nobles and more tokens of respect freely offered by the bereaved? This he had not considered. Of course, he very much doubted it was as simple as that. The line between offering and obligation could be a fine one, and with the sheer endeavor necessitated by some of the richer tombs - exhibit A being those ludicrous pyramids - surely these projects were started by the eventual inhabitant well in advance, not their doting descendants.
Still, the elf's point stood. Especially as he himself readily admitted to the matter not being so simple. That was a point in his favor. This was no partisan trying to convince, merely a scholar elucidating. And for that Luke was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
"Yeah. Yeah, alright, I hear you. Which is to say I don't really buy the dead needing packed lunches - much less gold - in the afterlife, but I can see the point of these grave goods. From the perspective of those left behind and whatever. A sign of respect, sure." A moment's mulling followed. "I still think those showy tombs a waste, outliers though they may be. And I can't condone this trap nonsense. But I'll admit that I may have... transposed my dislike of my own nation's nobility onto your own. Maybe that's not entirely fair."
It was likely as great a concession anyone was going to get out of the Taldan. The young man could be stubborn and didn't often admit mistakes. Small surprise then when he quickly changed topics. "Are we ordering food? Because if so I need someone to tell the landlord to hold the camel milk. Seriously, I cannot stress this enough. Senemheb, help me out here. If I so much as see a pregnant camel again in my life, I swear... No. Camel. Milk, yeah?"
Luke proceeded to busy himself with ordering something edible from the Garundi, the next few minutes passing in a multilingual clamor of half-remembered Osiriani phrases from the former and broken Taldane from the latter. Which suited the foreigner just fine. Because his earlier shifting of subjects had in truth not merely been to avoid lingering on his concession. He needed a minute to think.
He was thinking of his father's funeral. This was not a memory Luke liked to revisit. Yet something was on his mind now: a pen. Specifically, the pen he had left inside his father's suit pocket to be buried with him. It had been a handsome thing. Its surface was all green jade, a gift Luke had gotten the old man one birthday. The senior Caradoc had quickly favored it, making it his writing tool of choice for letters, study, transactions, everything really. It never left him. Luke had never been quite sure if his father had taken to the pen because he genuinely liked it, or simply to please his son. He would never know this now. But on the day before the funeral, he had found that same pen on his father's desk. And, in a spur of the moment, he had reunited it with the corpse now in its coffin. The two were buried together the next day.
Luke had never really thought of the why behind this decision. It had somehow only felt right. But now, in hearing Djehuti speak of grave gifts, of tokens of respect granted the dead and so on... Now he contemplated what exactly lay behind that spur of the moment.
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Djedefre nods graciously to the innkeeper, "Many thanks and I will offer a prayer to Ra for you and your family. And I agree with my companion that you shall indeed be blessed with extra business as fine as the food and lodging you offer."
He waits until the innkeeper leaves to gather the items ordered to beam and thank Senemheb for the kind words, "I think the gods smiled upon our efforts to save what meager funds we have left between us. Perhaps a positive omen for tomorrow? We can hope!"
Djedefre had long relied upon his natural charm and ability to judge the moods of others to sell. He often believed it was one of the reasons the Temple of Ra put up with him despite his decidedly non-scholarly nature. Despite their initial reluctance to sell charms, trinkets, candles, and other varied items the Temple elders had to admit the extra coin came in handy.
Despite the recognition of the ancient deities the newer deities, those inherited from both conqueror and liberator, dominated Osirion religion. Hence the huge Temple of Pharasma in the middle of the city. And their own militant arm to guard the Necropolis from those who dared to enter without approval.
Such nighttime excursions were part inquisitive and part proving himself to his family, the Temple, Ra, and even himself. The 'luck' of his birth was a double-edged sword; plenty of obligation accompanied his natural gifts.
But that was childish foolishness. What lay ahead was very real and very deadly...
Jolánka listens as the conversation continues, taking the tome off her hip and beginning to scribble things down in it.
"It's certainly a better use of wealth than spending it on arms and armsmen to send against your own countrymen and make more death and destruction. Osirion, at least, knows a peace Ustalav can only dream of," she comments. She feels relief, at least, that Luke seems to be pacified. "You know, I think you never actually gave us your name this whole time. I can't just call you 'grease spot on the backside of a camel' for the entirety of this expedition now, can I?"
She makes her order and sets the tome aside to not get brine from the pickled crocodile eggs she digs in to.
""Are we ordering food? Because if so I need someone to tell the landlord to hold the camel milk. Seriously, I cannot stress this enough. Senemheb, help me out here. If I so much as see a pregnant camel again in my life, I swear... No. Camel. Milk, yeah?"...
"Perhaps you should stick to arak in that case, my friend. No camels involved."
But an acquired taste nonetheless...Senemheb breaks some bread and nibbles it absentminded. He has never really felt hunger, nor developed any interest for food. Perhaps a side effect of his... condition. But his body needs fuel like anyone else's, so forces down enough to carry him to the morning.
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"Wati actually has several excellent breweries." Djehuti switches back to Taldane for a moment. "Your people like beer, don't they? You will not find any better than in the place where it was invented. Unless you do not drink alcohol?"
As they wait for the food, Djehuti reaches down into their backpack and pulls out a small wooden box with squares cut into the top. "Does anyone play senet?
As food is delivered and Djehuti produces a classic if ancient Osirion game, the atmosphere in the Tooth & Hookah lulls into a pleasant ambience. The chatter around mutes into a hum, there is the occasional splash of liquid from the well and from being poured into cups and mugs, the food is aromatic and delicious. Whether you stay up late or retire early, the night grows chilly and allows for any sweat built up earlier in the day to cool off.
Farhaan will show you to the single rooms purchased on the second floor. Each has a simple cot and a covered chamber pot. He offers a large bowl of cool water to wash yourselves before you'd retire. He notes he is aware of the timing of the lottery drawing tomorrow morning and offers an earlier breakfast for those rising before Ra. Patrons not participating in the lottery gather around the four hookah stations and begin to truly relax, the air filling with the sickly sweet smoke.
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"Well, nice to know I've graduated from 'grease spot'," a struggling Taldan replied to Jolánka as soon as he recovered from the drink Senemheb had recommended him. Luke looked to the offending beverage as if it had just insulted his mother. The heck was this? He'd graduated from camel milk to something that tasted like the in-between of a camel's hooves. This country, honestly.
The bright eyes lifted up to the Ustalavic scholar. She wasn't wrong, of course. He hadn't bothered with introductions earlier, not when their Pharasmin 'sister's' preamble had sufficed. Subsequent chatter hadn't been overly conducive to howdy-dos and other pleasantries. But if this chit wanted to be cordial, he wasn't going to rebuff her.
"Luke. Caradoc, Luke Caradoc." A calloused hand extended in greeting. "What's your deal, anyway? They teach language like that in whatever girls' boarding school you traipsed from?"
The tone wasn't adversarial, exactly, more so the rough, of-the-cuff candor common among those rough types with perpetually rolled up cuffs. The question was genuine too. Luke thought Jolánka something of a curiosity. And not just for her ability to devour pickled crocodile eggs whole, lords above.
"Seriously, what's a 'Dame' like you doing here? I understand most of the charming foreign clientele littering this place being here. Like myself, they're just looking for a payday. And I understand our local comrades being here to preserve their heritage and all that. But you," he pointed. "You I don't understand. You're no more Osiriani than me. What makes a 'scholar' like yourself choose to travel a quarter of the globe just to root around in the sand?"
It was his experience that most academics had few ambitions higher than some cushy job writing dictionary entries or some such. Or so it had always seemed to him. Luke loved his family, bless their hearts, but every one of them was most comfortable behind a desk, a fact the more raucous Caradoc had found endlessly frustrating in growing up. What compelled this particular bookworm to give up every comfort entitled her by higher education in favor of grime, hard labor and... well, the company of scoundrels like himself?
Gods, he really hoped the answer wasn't plain naivety.
The tomb robber took another, very careful sip of his arak. Hm. An acquired taste, to be sure. Not actually that bad, though.
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Amal isn't particularly talkative, though he listens to everyone talk with interest. He raises an eyebrow when Djehuti takes out a board game from their backpack. "It's been ages since I last played. But you can remind me of the rules," Amal takes the seat in front of the elf.
They are not a great player. They seem completely uninterested in coming up with some sort of overarching strategy, but rather improvises their next move - sometimes out of frustration when they feel stuck.
He never gets angry or upset at losing, though, and asks Djehuti several questions over the course of the game; about who they are, where they come from and why they are interested in the Necropolis, mostly, but also about their family and friends, hobbies and interests.
It's quite late when Amal retires to his room. He removes his shoes, eager to wash the sand and the dust off his body...
Until something appears on the bed, and he jumps.
"Finally," Lidhalla exclaims, throwing up her hands in frustration. "I thought you'd never go to bed! Whatever were you doing down there?!"
Amal covers his face with his hand. "How did you find out where I was?"
"Oh, please. Let's not even go there," Lidhalla waves her hand dismissively. "I think it took me about five minutes. Thank goodness you haven't left town, because it would have made things so much more complicated."
"What do you want?" Amal blurts out - still trying to recover from the impromptu near-heart attack. "Nothing has started yet!"
"Forgot your toothbrush," his mother shrugs. "Kidding. You forgot to take a few ioun stones with you before you left," she unties a small pouch from her belt. "I swiped those off your father's desk. I don't think he'll mind - they're piling up anyway."
"I told you I don't need them. And I know that dad is keeping them sealed away."
"Well, these ones were just there, okay?" Lidhalla sits up vexedly, placing her hands on her hips. "Frankly, you got your father and I quite worried - and you know how Hafiz gets when he's worried. Maybe he left them there on purpose."
"What? You believe the Necropolis is dangerous too?"
Lidhalla scoffs. "This thing," she says pointedly. "Has been standing there for way longer than I've existed - and the oldest things are often the meanest. Besides, your father grew up there, and he knows the city better than I do. If he says this place's shady, then I believe that this place's shady. I've been with him long enough to know he'd never say something like that lightly - longer than you."
"Is there a point, or something, that you came here to make?" Amal holds his mother's gaze. They stare at each other in defiance for a moment, before Lidhalla sighs, and crosses her arms, leaning her back against the wall.
Not for the first time, Amal notes that she looks barely like she could be his mother, and not merely because of the blue skin, hair and eyes. Genies never aged; Hafiz's youth was behind him, but Lidhalla still looked like she was in her early thirties - and sometimes acted that way, too.
"You're going in no matter what I say," she waves a finger at Amal. "So here's the deal. No ioun stones - but I'll be checking on you to make sure you're alive. Bedtime as close to the regular hours as possible - and don't roll your eyes at me, Amal. I'm already postponing my trip to Tian Xia for this - so, you know, you're welcome. Besides, if something happens to you in there, your father might actually ask me to blow the whole thing up." She grins. "Actually, maybe not - but I'll blow the whole thing up before he can stop me. I don't care. It's time someone buries this s~~+ for good."
Amal massages his temples. "Alright, alright - you can check up on me if you want. And I'll try to keep with the regular schedule - even if I'm underground and surrounded by undead monsters."
"Good!" Lidhalla jumps on her feet cheerfully, either missing the sarcasm, or choosing to ignore it entirely. The second option, being most exasperating, is also sadly the likeliest. "Try not to dream of anything silly."
"Sure."
"Or a boyfriend. Or girlfriend," she frowns. "I'm not sure you even had one. That elf from earlier - boy or girl?" She gives Amal a sly grin. "Should I pay special attention to them?"
"Can you please get out?!"
"Right, right - you're so touchy! Pallavi was the same way. I wonder if it's a weird human thing?" She shrugs. "Certainly, you didn't get it from me. Or your father. I'll ask him about it."
"Mom-"
"Yes, yes - sleep well!" Lidhalla spends one last moment to survey the room with a critical eye. "It's not much, but I've had worse. Don't die tomorrow!" she adds in a sing-songy voice - and just like that, she's gone. A thin cloud of steam, barely visible to the naked eye, slips through the window and into the night.
Still stunned, Amal sits on their cot, their mother's lotus perfume still hanging in the air. They burrow their face in their hands. After this, they deserved a thorough wash, and some alone time. Possibly even a glass of arak or two.
Going to bed, your dreams might feature your imagined expectations for tomorrow’s expeditions. Claustrophobic spaces and shadows, chittering noises and things crawling up your legs, glittering piles of treasure surrounding the interred.
When the polite knocks on your doors announce your early breakfast, the eastern sky is barely beginning to show pinkish orange hues. However you prepare, whether it be an hour for spells or organizing materials, you find the promised breakfast in the common area below. Farhaan has two pots with cups set out, one a rich Qadiran coffee and the other a black tea, no doubt imported.
As you pour yourselves drinks and fill plates, a splashing leads Farhaan to drop some leftover fish from last night into the well. Any who peer into the well see a foot long dark-scaled crocodile munching and spinning in the water, making a gleeful squeaking noise.
“That’s Toothy,” Farhaan explains, naming the creature in Taldane. “One day she swam up, hasn’t left, nor has she grown.”
If anyone had taken the suites they haven’t come down for breakfast, so you six have the place to yourselves before heading back downtown to the Grand Mausoleum for the Lottery.
“Best of luck to you all.” Farhaan will call after you as you leave, taking a broom upstairs to tidy your rooms for your return. “May Pharasma not judge you harshly.”
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Djedefre spends a subdued night at home. His parents worry over him and make sure he eats enough for two or three days.
Sleep is difficult to find but he rests the best he can until he rises for the morning and travels to the Temple of Ra to welcome the King of the Heavens. While there the priests ask for blessings of protection for Djedefre and they offer him last minute advice on dealing with the dangers his group may face.
He then travels to the Tooth & Hookah and eagerly awaits his companions arrival for breakfast.
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"Well, nice to know I've graduated from 'grease spot'," a struggling Taldan replied to Jolánka as soon as he recovered from the drink Senemheb had recommended him. Luke looked to the offending beverage as if it had just insulted his mother. The heck was this? He'd graduated from camel milk to something that tasted like the in-between of a camel's hooves. This country, honestly.
The bright eyes lifted up to the Ustalavic scholar. She wasn't wrong, of course. He hadn't bothered with introductions earlier, not when their Pharasmin 'sister's' preamble had sufficed. Subsequent chatter hadn't been overly conducive to howdy-dos and other pleasantries. But if this chit wanted to be cordial, he wasn't going to rebuff her.
"Luke. Caradoc, Luke Caradoc." A calloused hand extended in greeting. "What's your deal, anyway? They teach language like that in whatever girls' boarding school you traipsed from?"
Jolánka shakes his hand, holding it in a weird grip as she does so and chuckles a bit.
"All that and more," she says. "The University of Lepidstadt's one of the very best schools north of Lake Encarthan. History, medicine, theology, magic, the arts, dueling, we have it all!"
She gestures to the scar on her face.
"Proud member of the Malkenclaw Club."
The tone wasn't adversarial, exactly, more so the rough, of-the-cuff candor common among those rough types with perpetually rolled up cuffs. The question was genuine too. Luke thought Jolánka something of a curiosity. And not just for her ability to devour pickled crocodile eggs whole, lords above.
"Seriously, what's a 'Dame' like you doing here? I understand most of the charming foreign clientele littering this place being here. Like myself, they're just looking for a payday. And I understand our local comrades being here to preserve their heritage and all that. But you," he pointed. "You I don't understand. You're no more Osiriani than me. What makes a 'scholar' like yourself choose to travel a quarter of the globe just to root around in the sand?"
It was his experience that most academics had few ambitions higher than some cushy job writing dictionary entries or some such. Or so it had always seemed to him. Luke loved his family, bless their hearts, but every one of them was most comfortable behind a desk, a fact the more raucous Caradoc had found endlessly frustrating...
"You'd be surprised. There's many...many Osiriani artifacts in the Treyes Museum of Antiquities. Some were recovered by alumni and faculty on expeditions similar to mine...others have been donated by...well...collectors or treasure hunters much like yourself. Make no mistake, I'm not here to add to that collection. Far from it. I've ruffled the feathers of more than a few of my colleagues with my views on repatriation."
She takes a gulp of a well-strained ale.
"But there's more to history than treasure; one of the most important things you can gain from it is knowledge. Knowledge can illuminate the darkest corners of both this world and those beyond. Osirion is one of Garund's oldest civilizations, it was the birthplace of Nethys. They used their knowledge to build these grand monuments that tower over the deserts, and that knowledge gave them the power to slay a Spawn of Rovagug himself, whose carapace sits in Sothis to this day! But so much of that knowledge has been lost, to time, the elements and the malice of the ignorant. Not you, to clarify, Luke. For what it's worth, you're not malicious nor ignorant from what I've seen of you. Skeptical and forthright to the point of rudeness, maybe, but those can be fine qualities in moderation. But I digress. I want to try and help piece together the knowledge of the past. The spirit of academia is the spirit of cooperation, and while any discovery we make would certainly boost my own personal reputation and lend gravity to my repeated proposals that the artifacts in the Museum's Osiriani collection should be donated back to their motherland, it would also help the people of Osirion understand themselves as well, and would build greater bonds, even across the Inner Sea. Ab Sek, Abet Sahu."
As the conversation winds down, Jolánka retires to her room, cleans herself up and writes down the events of the day in her tome. As she does so, she hears muffled conversation from what appears to be Amal's chamber, but she can't make out the details. Once she's done writing, she holds the tome before her and says "Nib Imnet Hem Maa." Remember what is learned. Even before this expedition had begun she had learned much, about both Wati and about the people she'd be working with. And she hoped that they would illuminate her journey as much as she hoped to illuminate theirs.
Her sleep is calm but dreamless. It had been a long journey to get here, and now the new journey was about to begin.
The next morning, she rises and cleans herself up, assembling her gear and dragging it downstairs to join the group for breakfast, dark circles under her eyes. She pours herself a cup of the coffee and drinks it quickly. Almost immediately she perks up, as if she'd slept a week in a single night.
"Magnificent. Truly a miraculous drink, coffee."
She watches and listens as Farhaan feeds and then introduces them to Toothy.
"So the name of the establishment is much more literal than I expected," she comments, smiling down at the crocodile. "She's cute. I've only seen mummified crocodiles before, usually hanging from ceilings..."
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Amal gets downstairs quite early in the morning - looking in about as good a state as Jolànka. He does not order a coffee but a tea, which honestly looks like it has more sugar in it than liquid, and takes small, content sips from his cup.
Toothy puts a smile on their face. "I don't think I've ever seen a cute crocodile before," he says to Farhaan in Osiriani. "Perhaps Sobek will grant us luck too."
The perks of not being a spellcaster is that there's not much Amal has to do to prepare, except sharpen their scimitar and grab their backpack. They put Jolànka's hemp rope with their own - which looks both lighter and sturdier. "I can give you my silk rope if you really want to have one," they offer. "It's not as heavy."
Amal isn't particularly talkative, though he listens to everyone talk with interest. He raises an eyebrow when Djehuti takes out a board game from their backpack. "It's been ages since I last played. But you can remind me of the rules," Amal takes the seat in front of the elf.
They are not a great player. They seem completely uninterested in coming up with some sort of overarching strategy, but rather improvises their next move - sometimes out of frustration when they feel stuck.
Djehuti happily explains the basics of the game to Amal and seems open answering questions about themselves. They come from El-Shelad, on the Scorpion Coast, where their mother is an antiquities merchant and his father a teacher at Shelad Madrassa, the city's famous spellcasting academy. They have a younger sister, as well, though being elven their 'younger' sister is still well over a century old. Djehuti and their sister are both older than the current pharaohnic dynasty of Khemet, both born in the waning days of the Keleshite satrapy before the coming of Khemet I. They speak very fondly about their family.
The elf's likes include senet and siege, puzzles and riddles, and reading dusty tomes by equally crusty authors about esoteric topics. They have a wide range of knowledge on a number of topics, and not just about scholarly things- they are a craft beer enthusiast and have strong opinions about food (Keleshite being the best, with Vudrani a close second) and race horses, of all things.
As the night wears on, the elf orders a hookah, offering a smoke to anyone left at the table, and looks for another senet player after Amal goes to their room. Djehuti stays up quite late, well past midnight, and only retires once it becomes clear the Tooth and Hookah's staff want to go to sleep themselves.
In spite of this they are also back in the common room early, looking perfectly chipper and ready for the day, this owing to elves requiring only a few hours of meditation rather than 8 hours of unconsciousness.
The next morning, she rises and cleans herself up, assembling her gear and dragging it downstairs to join the group for breakfast, dark circles under her eyes. She pours herself a cup of the coffee and drinks it quickly. Almost immediately she perks up, as if she'd slept a week in a single night.
"Magnificent. Truly a miraculous drink, coffee."
She watches and listens as Farhaan feeds and then introduces them to Toothy.
"So the name of the establishment is much more literal than I expected," she comments, smiling down at the crocodile. "She's cute. I've only seen mummified crocodiles before, usually hanging from ceilings..."
Djehuti drinks several cups of coffee themselves, though it seems to have little effect on them. "All coffee is good but have you had Vudrani ghee coffee? That will keep you awake all day and full until dinner time," they say with a smile.
They only give a curious glance at the crocodile in the well, clearly seeing it as just another crocodile and nothing out of the ordinary.
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Gods, he really hoped the answer wasn't plain naivety.
Aroden's ghost, she was naive.
As Jolánka outlined her ambition in coming to Wati, it was all Luke could manage to nod politely throughout. And Taldor's theaters hadn't lost a great talent in him. The empiric search for knowledge? Uncovering relics for no more than their historical value? Actually donating selfsame relics to their home nation? Utter twaddle. Hogwash worse than his drink. Nonsense worse than the elf's assertion of Osirion being Caydenite holy land!
A surprise then, even to Luke himself, that he offered no protest beyond some token grumblings. The Ustalavan's spiel represented the very worst sort of wide-eyed idealism he'd feared in being assigned random team mates. Swill like this was what urged every fanciful first-year student down darkened steps into tombs lost to time - and then to promptly die in a pit trap. Swill like this was what drove every out-of-touch professor to translate hieroglyphs unspoken for a thousand years - and then to promptly rouse Grabthar the Eviscerator from his coffin. Swill like this was, in the politest term possible, an occupational hazard for those in the grave robber's profession.
And still Luke did not object. Because despite all his misgivings, hard-nosed skepticism and occasional disapproving looks, he honestly didn't mind listening to Jolánka's babble. The woman was clearly sincere. And that sincerity, frankly, reminded him of his late father. Just a little. They certainly shared an enthusiasm for Ancient Osirion, baffling as this interest remained to him. The old man could go on about that dead empire for hours as his exasperated son could attest. Listening to her now was... almost nostalgic. The two of them - Jolánka and the elder Caradoc - would probably have gotten along. The foreigner took another sip of his arak.
Tomorrow would tell whether she was in over her head, but for now Luke was content to let her prove herself without his griping.
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The young man didn't have much in the way of morning rituals. As solid a breakfast as circumstances allowed. A shave if time permitted. And sharpening his weapon, as classical an example of Avistani longswords as had ever been produced. This last practice had been adopted as a means of filling time in waiting for spell slingers to finish whatever hocus-pocus necessary for their magic. This morning he set aside the whetstone to peer critically down the landlord's well with the others.
"... Hold on, is this same well his drinking water comes from?"
"No no, I dug new well." Farhaan chuckled in Taldane at Luke's worry.
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By the time the group is ready, the sun has just begun to shine over the walls of the necropolis. Making your way west back to the Grand Mausoleum you have to weave your way through the growing crowds. Seeing some of you as foreigners, the locals part to allow you to reach the temple's gates. Most are excited, but you do catch some disapproving glares.
Before the gates over a dozen groups had assembled, with more filtering through the crowds. Humans of course counted in the majority, but members of every civilized race, and even several "uncivilized" have gathered: a black kobold wearing a wide hat, a kindly looking gnoll, a man appearing to have been carved from stone, half-orcs, tieflings, catfolk, and more. Children openly gawk as some locals cast wary glances, but the majority is more curious than anything else.
Marwanun spots you before you spot her, and she smiles through a yawn as she approaches you. "Morning, friends. I hope you slept well. I forgot to ask this last night but this might be something to consider. Most of the groups have ... guild names? Titles like the Dog Soldiers, the Scorched Hand, the Daughters of the Desert, the Cryptfinders, and the Sand Scorpions. Whenever the lottery is drawn, the groups will be addressed as such. I think it is to garner more attention, build a reputation. I've been stalling till I got your vote on the matter."
"Is there a name you'd like for your group?"
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Amal spots Luke sharpening his sword with a whetstone - which admittedly looks a lot more efficient than whatever he has been using. Being self-trained had the downside of never actually having been taught anything about taking care of blades. They'd seen guards sharpen theirs with stones, and never thought it'd have to be a special one.
"Can you show me how to sharpen that?" they ask, a bit embarrassedly. "I have no idea how."
They don't seem particularly pleased with the idea of having to pick a name for the group. They are eager to explore the Necropolis, and this just sounds like a waste of time - not to mention that many of the names listed seem overly pompous for what are essentially teams of amateurs. Perhaps most of them will dissolve after exploring the Necropolis.
He's tempted to just go for Group 1, and be done with it - but since at least two teammates seem really into it, he doesn't want to be the killjoy.
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"Heel to tip, heel to tip just like that. Not much to it."
The whetstone whispered its way along the foreign blade from hilt to point, leaving the edge brighter as the morning sun reflected in it. Luke had gotten right to demonstrating upon the younger man's request, albeit admittedly after sharing a somewhat dubious look. Still, there was something to be said for his forthright manner. He neither condescended Amal with good humor nor belittled him with grumblings. He simply sat down and showed how-to.
"Not about to tell you how to use your weapon, but on a curved sword like that you strike almost as you would with an axe. The arch here -" Luke pointed to the curve of Amal's scimitar. "That's where the force of your swing gathers. Some call that the true edge. It's different for different blades and you'll want to give it a few extra passes."
Soon enough the implement changed hands and the Wati native was drawing sibilant hisses - as if from some great iron snake - from his own weapon. The Taldan shared a few more tips as Amal got to work: how just as the name implied whetstones needed to be wet first; how the regular stones he'd seen could actually be used in conjunction with the dedicated type. Mostly though, Luke simply watched and corrected when necessary. All the better to think. Specifically, he was thinking on whether it was even right to bring Amal to the dig.
Hells below, he looked young. Luke had noted this earlier, but it hadn't really struck him until now they were sitting together like this. Never mind breaking into tombs, this kid looked young enough to be breaking into apple orchards. It bothered the foreigner, just a bit. As it happened, he'd seen a team mate die already. A fruitless excavation near Sothis. Pit trap. Hadn't been overly pleasant to watch, even knowing that the poor bastard in question was a scoundrel of the highest order. Luke would prefer not repeating the scenario with a child in his place. Hell, he would prefer not traumatizing this kid by himself dying in front of him.
He let out a sigh that could end worlds. Futile to ruminate on this now. Not his place to tell this boy to go home any more than the others could kick him out. Besides, he didn't know his circumstances. Might not be a home to go back to. A conversation for another day. Luke's job for now was simply to ensure they both stayed alive long enough to have that conversation.
"'Course, don't expect the new edge to last. Sharp is just another word for brittle. If it doesn't crumble on first contact with armor, the resulting caking of blood and fat will render it moot. Still, every little helps. Oh, and you'll want to keep some bandages ready. Expect to cut your fingers the first few times."
The Avistani displayed digits with prominent scars. "Use your left hand. You'll want your right whole and ready for today.
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A group name?
Luke's brow nearly sank to his chin. "Aroden's ghost, woman. Despite all the pretentions otherwise - no offense intended -" he added for the others, "- we're just a bunch of grave robbers, not one of those swanky adventuring parties. What do we need a damn name for?"
The wilder tresses of his brown hair shook free as he leaned his head back in exasperation. The others could talk this one through if they cared; he couldn't give an iota. A minute passed as a few suggestion were passed around. Something about Ra and guarding and nothing at all. Luke merely stared lazily into the sky throughout.
Wonder what that bird is.
Far above an avian shape stood out stark against the big bright blue. Something white and red and once quite holy. Some sort of local vulture? he idly wondered. He wasn't wrong. The Osirian vulture was unique to this part of the continent, long admired for its pure white plumage and figure so refined compared to its carrion eating cousins. Of course, it was also venerated in Ancient Osirion. A symbol of the mother-goddess Isis, it was believed that the species reproduced asexually, that all they needed to birth another generation was the dead they feasted on. In this role, as a symbol of turning death into life, they were venerated, living microcosm of the Osiriani philosophy that they were. Sacred and protected by select pharaohs, they were still known by a certain nickname: pharaoh's chicken.
Luke knew absolutely none of this. But his mild acquaintance with the local language - and unrealized talent for everything lingo - gifted him one insight.
Aren't those, like, the first letter... or pictogram of the alphabet? Hiero-bet? Or whatever? This was true. 'Aah.' That's how it's pronounced, I think. Aah. Like in Ra, I suppose. Raaah. This too was true. How's a language even supposed to work like that, when your letters are both sound and pictures and meaning all in one? Completely mental. I mean, every word would have a different significance when read phonetically or symbolically. So needlessly confusing! I mean, if I tried to spell this Ra guy's name using the vulture letter...
Hm. Then he would need another letter with an 'r' sound. Luke thought it over. He thought he knew of another phoneme - transcribed as a mouth - that should work. So if Ra was written like that, the name would translate to...
The mouth of the vulture? I guess that would be the beak of the vulture. See, this is what I mean! It's ridiculous, names of gods turning into some bird's bill. Such a stupid language. And extensive too. Wasn't there another hieroglyph that could be read as an 'r'? Right, that shenu symbol. Drawn as a circle. Symbolizes a circle too. Life and death or whatever. So if I use the 'r' of the circle and the 'a' of the vulture... A circle of vultures? A gathering of vultures? Eh, still dumb. Ra is the god king or something, no? Hm. Royalty... Something round to do with nobility... Crowns? Rings? No, doesn't make sense in the context of a group of vultures.
A group of vultures much like group of tomb robbers, he realized. Stealing from the dead. Yet benign in this case, most of the group only wanting to preserve. To beget new knowledge. Like the birth and renewal of Isis and her holy vultures. Vulture. Circle. Ra. Royalty. A gathering of noble vultures, all in a circle... It was on the tip of his tongue...
"The Vulture Court."
The foreigner spoke the suggestion without truly realizing it. He wasn't entirely sure where it had come from either. Didn't sound too bad, though.
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Djehuti looks at the others, having not given a single thought to this topic. "The Hand of the Pharaoh, perhaps? Straightforward but implies what we are all here for. I would prefer to emphasize our non-destructive preferences."
"Might I suggest Guardians of the Dawn?" Jolánka adds. "Ra is a sun god, and is protected each night, much as we seek to do when we venture into these tombs? Protecting the light as it enters into dark places. A surprising bit of synchronicity too, since it's House Graydon's family motto."
She flashes the heraldic badge on her upper arm, a howling wolf silhouetted by the sun.
When Luke mentions "The Vulture Court" as a possibility, she strokes her chin. "That's an inspired idea, Luke," she says with a nod. "What do you all think?"
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Marwanun pursed her lips at Luke’s suggestion, tapping her chin with a finger. “The Vulture Court?” A sly smile played across her face. “That’ll do, friends.”
She rushed over to the tables, speaking animatedly with another priest, who wrote down the group on a papyrus. Marwanun then ducked through the crowds to speak to a young but severe-looking woman wearing more green than blue or white. Amal and Djedefre know her to be the high priestess of the Grand Mausoleum, Sebti the Crocodile. She cocks an ear to listen to Marwanun, nods once, and then rises to stand before the gathered crowds. The sun had just fully crested the horizon as the woman’s words ring out.
“Welcome, friends, family, and foreigners.” Her words carry over the Sunburst Market and silence the masses. She speaks each sentence first in Osiriani, then in stiff Taldane. “Let the Lottery commence. Although many of you have requested specific sites to explore, we must leave these matters to fate. The Lady of Graves is a far better judge of destiny than we of this mortal sphere. Your Handlers have ensured you are prepared, and once every party has been assigned a site the gates to the Necropolis will open.”
“Let these rules guide you in your endeavors in this holy place: Remember How This Came To Pass, Every Slave’s Hut Is A Memorial, Honor The Departed. May you go with the Lady’s blessing.”
Sebti bows and returns to her seat as two acolytes step forward, carrying an urn. The Handlers form a line and begin to draw tiles from the urn. The Handlers are then given maps with the locations marked on them and then sent to their groups. Marwanun is fourth in line and after collecting her assignment she returns to you.
“Alright, friends. Turns out you have a legitimate tomb, one that predates the Necropolis’ founding: the Tomb of Akhentepi. Unfortunately, all we know is he was interred a decade or so before the Plague of Madness tore old Wati apart, so any historical information you can recover will be a boon. It’s located in the original cemetery of Wati in the eastern section, here.” She points to the marked location on the map of the necropolis, just east of Bargetown. “You have your location and the gates are open. Again, there isn’t a real time limit, but the faster you are the more options you’ll have to draw from. Unless you have any questions, good luck!”
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The Vulture Court will do, as a name - it's certainly the least cliché one. Amal rather likes the ring of it. It had an air of mystery, elegance and danger. It was almost surprising that it had been suggested by the least protocol-enthusiast of the party. Beneath his rebellious attitude, Luke had unsuspected depths.
The Tomb of Akhentepi... Alarm bells immediately start ringing inside Amal's head. He didn't know some tombs predated the foundation of the Necropolis. This was unknown territory. And only a decade before the Plague of Madness?
Of course, coincidence does not necessarily mean correlation, as Hafiz would say. Still, his parents' warnings echo in his ears, and for a moment - only a moment - a chill runs down his spine. He has to fight the bad feeling before it settles in. Only an old tomb.
Jolánka shrugs as the group vote doesn't seem to materialize. "The Vulture Court is indeed good."
Once they receive their location, her eyes light up.
"A location with some history within!" she says eagerly. She turns to Luke. "We'll have to see if this is one of those 'fat cats' or if this is just the unusually well-preserved mastaba of an average citizen."
Haphazard hodgepodge of half-remembered hieroglyphs that it was, Luke could only shrug as it was decided his suggestion would suffice. The group now had a moniker - for whatever that was worth. 'To build a reputation,' the Pharasmin had said. He bit back the urge to shake his head as what amounted to their high priestess mounted a dais. It wasn't as if the six of them were going to stick together post lottery. Besides, what reputation could his butchery of Osirian, ancient and present, really amount to? The young man was faintly annoyed at the soggy sponge that was his brain for retaining the disparate tidbits to produce such a mishmash of meaning both phonetic and... what was the other word? Ideographic? Sounded like something his librarian older sister would say. Probably true, then. Spelled as 'RA', read as 'group of vultures', connotations of 'rebirth through holy servants'? Truly just a garbage language.
With a start the Taldan realized this meant their name might also be taken for an overly complicated interlingual pun. Another group of treasure seekers nearby wondered what it was about the High Priestess's ongoing speech that elicited a sudden groan from this foreigner.
"Yeah, I'm a regular poet," Luke grumbled in reply to the Ustalavan. His mood soon found cause to lift, however.
"A proper tomb?"
The young man repeated Marwanun's instructions as if to verify. Score! A genuine Osirian grave vault, one that that even predated that Plague of Madness business, left unopened all this time? This was far and away the biggest opportunity come his way since arriving in the nation.
"Oh, we'll see," he nodded through a cautious smile, not even his usual cynicism able to entirely dampen his hopes. "Fat cat or not, a proper tomb means proper burial rites. Burial rites mean grave goods. And grave goods mean cold hard cash." He caught himself too late. "And knowledge and stuff too, I suppose," he added.
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Excellent. A pre-plague tomb is exactly the kind of thing Djehuti is here for. They smile and nod at Djedefre. "Definitely."
The elf shares what they remember with the group and looks at the others. "Is everyone ready? I have all my things with me."
Akhentepi was a military commander of renown who retired to Wati, the city of his birth after the deaths of his family. No one recalls if foul play or mundane misfortune was the cause of Akhentepi and his family's deaths, but clearly there was not enough of a scandal raised that investigations were performed. In Wati he took a new mistress but he too died before they were wed. Due to his rather successful military career, he would have been buried with much of his considerable wealth.
'Buried with all his wealth', huh?
This was sounding more and more promising. But, as the ever skeptical Luke reminded himself, Amal was entirely right: with greater profit came greater risk. If this Akhentepi character's riches were buried with him, then it was likely his tomb was warded against intruders. Curses and traps might indeed be in the group's future.
"Even if there was something more I wanted to bring, I don't have the coin to buy it," he answered Djehuti. "I'm ready to go,"
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'Buried with all his wealth', huh?
This was sounding more and more promising. But, as the ever skeptical Luke reminded himself, Amal was entirely right: with greater profit came greater risk. If this Akhentepi character's riches were buried with him, then it was likely his tomb was warded against intruders. Curses and traps might indeed be in the group's future.
"Even if there was something more I wanted to bring, I don't have the coin to buy it," he answered Djehuti. "I'm ready to go,"
"We'll see if we can manage any coin from Akhentepi's tomb to support further work. Since Marwanun told us Akhentepi was interred about a decade before the Plague of Madness his tomb may have already been pillaged. Hopefully we'll find some historical information of note so we can at least qualify for the discount."