"Place is creepier than every acre of the Dame's homeland put together," the Taldan sighed, a lock of hair loosening in shaking his head. Of course, he had never seen benighted Ustalav himself, but then Jolánka's every mention of the place had indicated how this was a blessing.
"I think this is the kitchen." Turning away from the mutilated corpse, Luke faced another darkened room to the north. He took some careful steps inside, suspicious eyes slowly taking in every worksurface and utensil left. "Maybe there's some spices left here to satisfy our clerical comedian..." Might as well give this space a quick look-through too.
In the kitchen, two stone tables sit against the western wall of this room, while a third occupies the southeastern corner. A small, square wooden butcher’s block stands in the northeast corner, now almost collapsing under its own weight. A stone oven sits in the middle of the north wall. A humanoid skeleton lies beneath the northwestern table, surrounded by smashed crockery. A door to the east and an open doorway to the south exit the room.
The skeleton is not animated like the ones at the front door, a rusted and pitted dagger lodged in its ribcage. Other than shards of broken pottery and vermin bones, there is nothing else of interest in the kitchen.
There is a door out of the kitchens to the east and doors between the kitchen and shrine to the east .
Djehuti follows at the rear of the group, their head buried in their notebook as they do their best to document everything the group is seeing.
"The mob we saw in the haunting, I think. Crazed with hope that there might be some protection behind these walls." Djehuti shakes their head. "Another terrible tragedy. No wonder the Necropolis is haunted."
"Looks like everyone here died a violent death. I wonder what happened."
"We could ask them," Senemheb mentions. He is looking at the skeleton, not with pity nor with disgust, just mere interest.
"But I hope we would find a corpse that really knows something of worth."
Jolánka grimaces at Senemheb's suggestion, but holds her tongue.
Senemheb peeks into the dining room.
"I hope no more surprises await there."
"Luke, Amal... Would you mind going in first?"
"At the very least, we're certain to find this Imanish, whoever they are," Djehuti says in response to Senemheb's expression of hope. They hang back near the end of the line, as they had already established from prior encounters. The slender elf is curious, not stupid.
An enormous stone table, the marble top polished and smooth, runs parallel to the west wall of this large room. A much smaller stone table stands in the east side of the room. Splintered piles of dust and wood lie in the corners and along the walls—the only remains of chairs after untold years. A strong, fetid stench pervades the room, the source of which is seen by the gruesome display on the table.
Half a dozen human skulls have been set upon the western table. Each skull is polished clean and balances atop a tarnished silver goblet standing on a tarnished silver dinner plate.
As Amal heads into the dining room, the skulls' sockets glow with a pale bluish light and begin to rise from their perches to fly towards the bloodrager.
Four of the flying skulls lunge for Amal, two slamming into him while the others whiz past harmlessly . The other two hover above the table.
"Not this year, not yet!" Jolánka exclaims, drawing the spiral on her chest.
Then she loads her new crossbow and takes a shot!
Djehuti throws a handful of acid at the closest skull.
Senemheb slides into the room after the frontliners, and slices the nearest skull with his Bardiche.
Yup, real creepy. The young man now felt all but affirmed in his impression of the bathroom scene earlier. Specifically in how it was a scene, something arranged and staged. While the infinitesimal chance existed for the burned, headless corpse there to be the result of some sort of incident - perhaps history's most unfortunate combined shaving/exploding toilet mishap - what greeted the group in this latest room confirmed it: the mansion was home to some ghoulish artiste with death their choice of medium.
Just our luck to wander into the den of the one monster less interested in cracking skulls than turning them into flower pots...
A rather ignoble way to end one's days. Even Luke, not fond of Osirion's near-worship of their dead, had to admit that much. Yet such was the sight here: craniums set up in some macabre tableau. The long table and silverware brought to mind a bizarre dinner gathering, though whether the heads were supposed to be guests or the feast he couldn't surmise. And thank every god for that. The Taldan didn't want to share a single thought with whatever madman had dreamt this up.
Of course, the next second showed that it might very well be the Court themselves who were on the menu. "Aw hells!"
Gritting his teeth, Luke reflexively ducked as the skulls suddenly flew their way like murderous meteors. "I take it this isn't more of your extended family, Sen?" Dropping his sword from one hand, he instead gripped his club in the other. Right then! A bat and what might pass for softballs if one squinted... This almost reminded him of sports with the mates back in Taldor! With that comforting thought, he swung the club wildly.
Jolánka's bolt goes wide, as does Djehuti's acid and Amal's strike, but the others have better luck. Both the wizard and the occultist know these are beheaded, simple undead used as wardens or agents of minor terror. While there are many variations of these, the ones currently harassing the Court are the most basic and common variety.
Luke's club smashes one skull to dust, Senemheb cleaves another in two.
The other two beheaded rise from the table and join the fray. One attacks Luke, two attack Amal, and the fourth rushes at Senemheb. Luke dodges his attacker, Amal is struck twice , and Senemheb takes a blow to the temple .
Ra's golden light bursts from Djedefre's holy symbol, blinding even in the dusty room. The silver goblets and plates - even tarnished - reflect the light back. The beheadeds do not even leave dust behind, removed from the battle.
Other than the six goblets and the plates , there is nothing else of note in the dining room. The silverware is in the style of Ancient Osirion, so a collector might pay full price for the set.
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Jolánka blinks the spots out of her eyes from Djedefre's awesome display of Ra's power. She takes some time to admire the table fixings.
"Indeed," she muses. "Better they be cleaned up and sold to someone who will actually use them. I had a great-aunt with a massive collection of foreign tableware and porcelain, and it just sat in dusty cabinets for her to stare at while she ate with the same chipped dishes and bent cutlery every day the whole time we lived with her."
She pauses.
"I wonder if she's still alive, come to think of it..."
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Blink and you'll miss it. One second the space was all skulls flying at them as if substitute-tomatoes hurled by the most vitriolic - to say nothing of morbid - of audiences. Then a flash, and the next - nothing. The dining room fell silent save for the light clatter of silverware wobbling and tumbling in the wake of the positive energy pulse unleashed by the cleric. There wasn't even any bone left to thud to the floor.
"You know, I'm coming around on this Ra fellow," an admittedly impressed Luke whistled. "Might not like how he works, but I respect the results. Like a gong farmer. Everyone alright?"
All but Amal who had taken the brunt of the aerial assault, but he was quickly seen to by the selfsame priest. Another point in the celestial's favor. This left the Taldan free to inspect what really mattered: that glittering crockery.
"Better they be cleaned up and sold to someone who will actually use them. I had a great-aunt with a massive collection of foreign tableware and porcelain, and it just sat in dusty cabinets for her to stare at while she ate with the same chipped dishes and bent cutlery every day the whole time we lived with her."
"That's funny," the young man replied, somewhat distracted in shoveling the stuff into his pack, "In my case it was dear old dad. While the tableware was this 1200 year-old Osirian clay mug he insisted on taking his morning tea from. Chipped the rim of it with his teeth one day. Was depressed for a week afterwards, the old fool..."
These archeologists... They might pretend at being 'men of science' and all that malarkey, but Luke knew better. He knew they were more sentimental than the national anthem as sung by drunkards. It was why they got into the gig, out of sheer love for the lost and forgotten. Well, those who weren't just in it for the money, anyway. Like himself.
"I wouldn't mind if you took the lead for the next room."
"My turn to get jumped?" The lopsided grin was only half-cynical. "Sure. Fair enough, kid."
Which it really was. Luke was under no pretense that his primary job on these expeditions was anything other than taking blows and dishing them out in kind. He wasn't like most others in the group - or indeed his dad. He didn't have that appreciation for history in him. What he had was a moderately strong arm and the stronger will to see a job through. And it was with that the young man cautiously marched back to the staircase they'd spied earlier. After all...
"No room left on this floor, is there? Time to see what monster is hiding in the attic..."
"These could have been made as long as 8000 years ago!" The elf sounds scandalized at the idea of eating off literal history. "They should be somewhere everyone in this city can see some of their ancient heritage."
"Better they be cleaned up and sold to someone who will actually use them. I had a great-aunt with a massive collection of foreign tableware and porcelain, and it just sat in dusty cabinets for her to stare at while she ate with the same chipped dishes and bent cutlery every day the whole time we lived with her.""That's funny," the young man replied, somewhat distracted in shoveling the stuff into his pack, "In my case it was dear old dad. While the tableware was this 1200 year-old Osirian clay mug he insisted on taking his morning tea from. Chipped the rim of it with his teeth one day. Was depressed for a week afterwards, the old fool..."
These archeologists... They might pretend at being 'men of science' and all that malarkey, but Luke knew better. He knew they were more sentimental than the national anthem as sung by drunkards. It was why they got into the gig, out of sheer love for the lost and forgotten. Well, those who weren't just in it for the money, anyway. Like himself.
Jolánka blinks in surprise.
"At least he used it for what it was for," she says, slightly amused. "Your father sounds like a good man."
"They should be somewhere everyone in this city can see some of their ancient heritage."
Heading up the stairs, the Court finds themselves on the balcony seen from the fight with the sandman below. This balcony wraps around a twenty-foot-square opening in the floor, overlooking the inner courtyard below and connecting the rooms of the second floor. Above, a square skylight in the ceiling provides natural light to the ground floor and ventilation for the entire building. Traces of a wooden railing around the balcony, long rotted away, can be found with only casual examination. Six different sets of doors lead off of this balcony.
"Quite the palace they had..."
So many doors to open. But perhaps easiest to start with the first one. Senemheb sets himself next to the door, and nods to Luke - their chosen point man for this door.
At the back of the group, Djehuti murumurs a minor spell to allow them to see magical auras and idly looks around at the doors as they form up to enter room 1.
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"Your father sounds like a good man."
The grunt she got in reply was so noncommittal, the Dame might as well have remarked on a patch of dust. Suspiciously so, in fact. For Luke was indeed less than eager to share about the man, his feelings on the recently departed still raw. No, not just raw - complicated. Had he been a 'good man', he wondered? The Caradoc patriarch had been a kindly soul, for sure. Patient. Helpful. A hard worker. All good qualities, yet 'good' men didn't leave their families with a hamlet's worth of debt upon passing. Good fathers in particular didn't leave humongous messes for their sons to clean up.
Sand crunched beneath his boots as the young man climbed the stairs. Grah, not the most salient subject right now, he told himself, not with ghosts and ghoulies round every corner. This new perception of his dad - this torn portrait of his father hanging in Luke's mind palace was his own to deal with on his own time. He regretted mentioning him at all, here of all places.
Why had he even brought him up, the young man questioned? The anecdote had just blurted out so casually. Probably because of Jolánka herself, he realized. The Dame had mentioned her own father on more than one occasion now. That good ol' Taldan upbringing, code of courtesy ingrained and inescapable, demanded one reciprocate. People really were nothing but trained dogs, huh? You could take the Taldan out of Taldor, but you couldn't take Taldor out of the Taldan.
Luke reminded himself that he should ask her why she kept comparing him to her dad one of these days.
"Huh." Having reached the second floor, the nearest door gave the foreigner pause. "Doors. None of those below."
A mere coincidence of architecture and Father Time? Or an intentional bit of upkeep from whatever monstrosity resided here? They'd already seen indications that someone here appreciated ghoulish ornamentation. Did that extend to domestic maintenance? Somehow the young man had trouble imagining the undead with hammer and nails...
Eh, whatever. "Here goes." Nodding to the others, he kicked the door in.
The Taldan, not waiting for Djedefre to vocalize that there were no traps, kicks open the stone doors. This spacious room has entrances in the southern and eastern walls. The aged remains of dressers, a large bed, and a divan lie in ruins. The husk of large hornet’s nest, gray, papery, and devoid of life, occupies one corner of the ceiling. The spaces in the northeast and northwest corners appear to be closets. Their wooden doors have all but fallen off their hinges, and heaps of disintegrated fabric mingle on the floor. Between the closets stands a single lacquered dresser covered in dust.
Djehuti's spell pings with magic in the room. Assuming they wait the three rounds, the elf detects a faint aura in the hornet's nest.
Turning to Luke, "Maybe wait for me to find any traps. Remember the flooded chamber? Haste makes dead explorers."
No monster jumped from beneath the bed upon their entrance - as if from a child's nightmare - although only a sorry excuse for monstrosity would be able to hide there given the dismal state of said bed. The chamber was evidently a bedroom. Everything here bore the same signs of cruel time's passing as the rest of the mansion. Everything with the notable exception of the dresser. Lacquered and no doubt expensive, it had withstood the ages and immediately drew Luke's eye. Were the contents as well preserved?
Yet it was the contents of an entirely different sort of container that took precedence. Was that some sort of wasp nest? Dried and withered, it didn't look home to any vermin now. Not unless the hornets were, like, undead or something. Aw hells, was there such a thing as undead hornets? The image conjured in the young man's head, that of a swarm of wasp husks hungry for flesh, was unpleasant to say the least.
Stowing away the club, he slowly reached into a pocket, rummaging for his flask of liquid fire. Just in case. An ounce of prevention and all that...
"There is something magical in this room," Djehuti says as soon as Luke opens the door. After a few seconds Djehuti points at the hive. "The aura is inside there."