"So Akhentepi WAS a fat cat after all," Jolánka comments. "Looks like you'll get a chance to stick it to him then, Luke. At the very least, the tomb of a wealthy man means bas-reliefs on the walls, which we can provide rubbings of for that discount towards future purchases...and information about Akhentepi's life and the world he lived in that we can learn from."
It was doubtful that the kind of information Jolánka was really looking for would be found on the walls of a retired military man's tomb, but she'd be damned if she let doubts like that stop her from seeking.
"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,"
Djehuti nodded at Luke and grinned at the others. "Well let's try not to be the last ones to the gate, then! Let's go!"
The crowds moved to line the streets, watching the adventurers receive their assigned sites and march off towards the necropolis. A squad of the Voices stood at the gatehouse, watching both the approaching groups and the grounds beyond. You can see the footprints from recent traffic out of the gatehouse, even catching a glimpse of a couple other groups heading east into the necropolis.
A Voice steps up and checks your materials, speaking in Osiriani. “We’ve been informed of the locations to be exhumed and have patrols along major streets to provide support should it be needed. We recommend not wandering too far from these streets, as we do not have the manpower to keep watch over the entire necropolis. Be safe and wise.” He confirms the map is marked with landmarks, places the Voices will attempt to patrol, and the locations to avoid Marwanun had mentioned before.
You can't tell if its your imagination or not, but as you step through the gates you feel as if all ambient noise is muted. The wind was an exhale, the crowds seemed distant, and a chill ran up your spines. The streets beyond bear miniature dunes of sand, pieces of rubble lie in the roads and in alleyways, and the only other creatures to be seen circle overhead. Occasionally a cat skittered down an alley, or some buzzing locusts and flies, but it truly feels dead here, abandoned, forgotten.
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Amal had missed the feeling of great calm that the Necropolis brings to those who know its alleys well. The silence is so complete, so serene, that one might feel just as if they had just dived underwater. The noises of the city suddenly seem faraway, muffled; distant.
He spares only a glance at a cat's tail that disappears around the corner of one tomb. Another of his mother's spies, perhaps - but even then, there is only a brief pang of irritation that washes away, like an empty bottle that the waves carry onto a beach before the current picks it up again and quietly makes it disappear from view forever.
The Tomb of Akhhentepi is on the other end of the Necropolis, in an area that Amal has not often visited. Still, they know the way well. "If we follow this road," they point at a path. "It'll take us past the well and the Sanctum of the Erudite Eye, and near the Tomb of Akhentepi."
Djehuti hurriedly scratches down observations in his notebook as the group walks through the Necropolis, less actual notes than quick observations that they can use later to recreate their thoughts from the day. They look curiously at Amal. "Is that the Umbracene Well that Marwanun told us to avoid? Or just a well?"
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Amal frowns. She did? They didn't remember. That's what you got from not listening. "No, that's the one. Alright, we can cut in front of the Dance Hall."
He has to be reminded that the site is off-limit as well, and to be given a summary of all the places they're supposed to avoid. His brow furrows even more as the list goes on. "If we cannot come near these buildings, that would force us to go right and take quite a big detour. Let me think."
They fall silent for a few seconds as they think; at least it's clear they know the Necropolis well enough to know its layout, with or without map.
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Jolánka frowns a bit as she takes in her first sights of the Necropolis. The quiet feels familiar. She'd been in plenty of places like these before. In Lepidstadt, in Caliphas, and in many villages and towns between. Ustalav was practically a kingdom-sized necropolis. She thinks on the rules: Remember How This Came To Pass, Every Slave’s Hut Is A Memorial, Honor The Departed. Would people one day explore Ustalav the way they were exploring this place? Osirion at least had the advantage of etching their history on their walls. Most of Ustalav's history was written on parchments that would eventually molder and rot in the misty damp air. Still, all she can say is "Reminds me of home."
She cranes her neck to read over Djehuti's shoulder as they take notes.
"May we compare and share notes at the end of the day?"
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"... Remind me never to visit Ustalav."
Lucilianus Caradoc wasn't particularly well travelled. Osirion marked his first foray beyond Taldor's borders. He had never seen Ustalav. He had especially never even heard of such exotic locations as parallel dimensions like the Shadow Plane.
And still this was the uneasy sensation the young man couldn't name upon first entering Wati's famed Necropolis: that he had stepped into a parallel world, its strangeness only made more eerie by its familiarity. For Luke was familiar with cityscapes. He had grown up in Oppara, capital of capitals. Yet this was like no city he had ever known. The place appeared initially... normal. And why shouldn't it? Wati's Necropolis being the most literal definition of one such, a city for the dead, it had once been part of the town proper, now walled off for a new, more morbid purpose.
Small surprise then that what greeted the group on the other side of the gates looked like merely another of Wati's districts. Which was precisely what made its smallest idiosyncrasies so very uncanny. The sand gathered in otherwise preserved streets, as if no one walked them. The shutters and even brick sealing every house, as if no lived there. And above all, the silence. That total silence. Noise was an unavoidable consequence of any gathering of people. Cities were by their very function loud places. Not here. Here silence reigned as it had for centuries. The necropolis looked like a city by any definition, but felt like something decidedly not by any instinct. Like a werewolf garbing itself in human skin, it felt "off". And it all gave Luke the creeps.
"You've been here before, huh?" he said, addressing the apparently well acquainted Amal in trying to shake the heebie-jeebies off himself. Although surprising, he was only too happy to utilize every advantage they could get here. "Lead the way, kid."
The Taldan followed in this fashion, one hand on the pommel of his sword and eyes steadily searching for danger. He would prefer avoiding those ghouls supposedly prowling here.
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"Yes," Amal answers succinctly. "My father too. This way," they confidently lead the party down what he knows to be the quickest route, and he reminisces...
Some of these streets he knows by heart - here or there, he recognizes the spot where he'd sit in the shade, or the potter's shop where he'd seen and sketched Khnum for the first time. But of all the memories he has, his most vivid is the one of Hafiz's own story of finding The Book.
"I still remember the man well. He wore a long, embroidered robe, of a rich red and ill-conceited beneath his plain cloak. He seemed impatient, and wary, and he pretended to be a scholar, a seeker of knowledge, but I knew him to be a mage, of course. Other archaeologists kept their book nearby, and they wrote notes in them - but the man kept his book close, and never wrote anything. Perhaps he thought that in a profane, foreign city, such as we were, we would not be able to tell the difference - much less a child of nine with rags for clothes, such as I was. But while I could not read his alphabet nor understand his language, I was observant. What mysteries I could not decipher made my imagination run wild. I, who was weak and could not fight like the other children, had always dreamed of having power at my fingertips. Magic, whose dangerousness we were frequently lectured about, held on me a strong fascination. Back then, there was nothing I had ever wanted more in my life than a spellbook of my own, which my parents' poverty would never be able to afford. I knew this could perhaps be my only chance."
"There were a few men with him carrying swords which he had introduced as paid mercenaries for his protection, but they did none of the talking. The man was the only one who spoke Osiriani, and the only one I spoke to. Those who would explore the tombs often turned to the children to gather information before going in, as we could be cheaply bribed, and often could point them to a way in without raising the suspicion of adults."
"I was not one of the most experimented guides, or even one of the more adventurous ones. Even back then, I was quite frail, and I must confess, not very brave. But I knew that this would be my only chance to find a spellbook before they attracted the attention of the thieves and scavengers of Bargetown. They were well-equipped men, and if they had got their hands on the spellbook first, I would never have had the means to buy it from them. I knew I would have to act quickly."
"In the City of the Living, I offered to lead them to the biggest archives in the Necropolis - but my plan was to guide them far deeper than I was accustomed to. To talk in public in such a manner was not safe, and to leave a false trail for any smuggler who might be listening in would give me some time to scavenge the man's belongings myself, if he and his companions did not walk out of the Necropolis. So quite deep I led them indeed, to the Sanctum of the Erudite Eye, which I professed held much greater historical and esoteric importance than the Archives of the Ibis - closer to the entrance and many more times pillaged by other groups of adventurers. They did not believe me at first, until I persuaded the man to inspect the ancient hieroglyphs on the outside walls, and his face lit up. They had appeared to me to be wildly different from the ones that covered the rest of the buildings, and I had hoped that it would bring credence to my lie; I did not know then how to decipher arcane writing."
"I was tipped more generously than initially agreed on, and they went inside. I climbed on a nearby roof to watch the door for their coming out, until the cold forced me to go back home to my parents'. I did not tell them, of course, what I had been up to."
"On the next day, they had not reappeared at the inn, and I was quite disappointed that they could have disappeared within the tomb with their treasures. It happened fairly often, and scavengers would sometimes try to rob the would-be adventurers before they even went into the Necropolis, so afraid were they of their loot going missing where they could not reach it. Still, confident that I had the lead in that matter, I resolved to go inside the Dead City and look for the book myself, before anyone could find it or determine its real value."
"I do not recall exactly how many times I went in to search for the book, but I am sure that it lasted several days. The sand had erased all footprints from the unfortunate party, as I had hoped - but while I knew where I had led them and seen them last, I could not know if they had moved from the Sanctum after I had left. To find anything in such circumstances was, I realise now, a very flimsy hope indeed. Even at nine years old, young and naive as I was, I began to have terrible doubts that the plan I had initially thought quite clever was in fact desperately flawed. Yet I did not stopped hoping, against all odds, that I would succeed in securing the book for myself. Desperation is the strongest of fuel to any doomed strategy."
"That I did find the book is, in retrospect, certainly no demonstration of intelligence, and rather a stroke of luck. I saw it half-buried in the sand, through the window of what purported to be a shop - I remember a great hieroglyph of Hator on the inside, covering up the right wall. How it had got there, I would never know. Aware of the double transgression I was committing, I entered, picked it up, hid it under my tunic, and ran out of the Necropolis as far as I could, persuaded that monsters would pursue and eat me - though I saw and heard nothing. I consoled myself, for a while, with lies that the man and his companions had perhaps simply turned and left, perhaps greatly scared by shadows. But as I grew in age and experience, the absurdity of that scenario soon appeared to me. A mage would give up their spellbook on their dead body."
"I still didn't know how to read magical spells, and the delusion that I could somehow teach myself that skill soon collapsed when I realised it was impossible. I instead doggedly strove to be able to transcribe the writing as best as I could, since I could not read them, until my calligraphy improved so much as to draw attention from the other adults, who began to speak of Tephu's Academy of Scribes. The repeated recommendations, as well as my own begging, eventually won my parents over, and we began saving for money - though I do not think they ever suspected that I was less interested in being trained as a scribe than in being trained as a mage. When I took the entrance exam, they were quite shocked to learn from the jury that their thirteen-year-old boy was very skilled in writing magic - though I never revealed to anyone how I had learned. I was lucky to benefit from a grant to be able to attend the school as a boarder and be trained in magic; since I devoted all my time to study and perform well, it was always renewed. And thus my life as a spellcaster began - enabled by the death of another."
"I still have the book with me, of course - although I have quite grown beyond what spells it has to offer. A mage's spellbook must always be treated with the greatest of respect, and I keep this one safely stored away, to protect its aging paper - another trick I learned at the academy. I often thought of reaching out to its possessor from beyond the grave to apologize - but none of the spells we tried ever worked. I can only hope he made it to the other place, and is quite unconcerned about such material matters now. I am quite worried about the alternative."
The tale, and the sight of the old book - aged and its pages a bit yellowed and covered in bizarre handwriting - always made Pallavi shiver. She hated the Necropolis.
Amal, on the other hand, had always kept an eye out for a shop with a big hieroglyph of Hator on one of the inside walls. If only out of curiosity.
Pharasma's Needle is a black stone obelisk capped with a meteorite pyramid, standing just beyond the gates to the Necropolis as a testament to the Lady of Graves and the respect her church holds for those interred here, both before and after the Plague of Madness. From its towering majesty the Vulture Court heads north towards the Dry Veins, once a shipyard but repurposed into a layered cemetery, sealed off from the Asp River. There are four Voices stationed here, nodding as you approach but otherwise keeping their eyes open and most perceiving into the Veins.
From here you turn east, walking for twenty minutes now, and you approach a large crossroads. Two Voices step up and address you. "Are you going past this point? If you are, you'll need to be escorted. This area isn't safe."
Should you reference the map, this is the Umbracene Well.
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Djedefre nods to the guards and replies, "Yes we do."
He adds for everyone, "I can imagine why this area isn't safe. The Well predates Wati's original founding, originally covered by a great stone plug. During the Plague of Madness the Well was uncorked and used as a pauper's grave. Thousands were tossed into the seemingly bottomless depths. Hopefully someone was there to pray for them as they were disposed of in such a manner."
"Sounds like something out of my father's war stories," Jolánka comments grimly.
Djehuti steps forward and nods at the 2 Voices and gestures to the northeast. "We've been assigned the tomb of Akhentepi. Thank you for your assistance."
The elf chuckles and adds to Djedefre's comment. "Some say this Well delves straight into the Darklands. Others say it was a prison for something unspeakable, perhaps from the darkness between the stars. The living and the dead avoid it, as just below the lip and as far down as can be perceived countless gnashing mouths line the Well instead of stone, licking and smacking their lips hungrily." From their tone, Djehuti appears to think the scary rumor is nothing more than a ghost story.
They nod at the 2 Voices. "We will be glad for the escort past the scary Well, friends."
[dice=Knowledge (local)]1d20
Jolánka immediately stiffens at Djehuti's words. "Darkness between the stars." She'd heard those words before, in ceremonies back at the University, where chants were spoken to ward it off. She'd read them in the Manual of the Order of the Palatine Eye as something just as terrible, if not more terrible than the Whispering Tyrant. That there were things lurking there. Terrible, cruel things with alien thoughts. A dominion in the black. And the light of the Order's scholars was one of the only things keeping their manifold, squamous eyes blinded to Golarion. It was good that the Voices were guarding this thing if that was the case, but they had no idea how much worse it might actually be. Couldn't have. Osirion was the birthplace of the Order's beliefs, but clearly they'd neglected it for too long.
She pulls out her tome and begins sketching a picture of the Umbracene Well and hastily scribbling notes about it as the Voices gather the party and escort them away.
She cranes her neck to read over Djehuti's shoulder as they take notes.
"May we compare and share notes at the end of the day?"
Djehuti smiles back at Jolánka. "Oh, yes please. No one can see everything, can they?" They tapped themselves on their temple. "My real notes are in here but writing things down helps to solidify them in my memory. When we get back and I can write out my full journal I will be happy to compare notes to see what I missed."
The elf chuckles and adds to Djedefre's comment. "Some say this Well delves straight into the Darklands. Others say it was a prison for something unspeakable, perhaps from the darkness between the stars. The living and the dead avoid it, as just below the lip and as far down as can be perceived countless gnashing mouths line the Well instead of stone, licking and smacking their lips hungrily."
Luke gave a dry snigger. "Yeah, and it continues clean through the globe to Tian flaming Xia where it culminates in a tower home to the emperor and all his dragon-wives."
He had to shake his head at the elf's yarn, colourful as it was. The Taldan was no scholar. The nearest he'd gotten a tome this year was in getting in people's bad books. But even he knew patter such as this originated from the stinking gobs of drunkards in between the barfing of material equally worthless.
"This part of a historian's job too? Sifting the real from the rubbish? 'Cause I feel like I can tell you this one belongs in the garbage heap." The bright eyes squinted in the harsh sunlight at the two Voices, vaguely annoyed at being halted when Amal seemed perfectly confident in guiding them. "Let's focus on the gnashing mouths marginally more real. We should finish this job before nightfall."
The ghouls were still on his mind. Luke wasn't afraid, exactly. No, 'sensibly cautious' was what he was. Any mission carrying a degree of danger was a game of risk management, and it was with this in mind that he'd rather not tarry in this strange place any longer than necessary. On that note...
"You gonna let us pass or what?" he chided the Pharasmins, still in his native Taldane. "Chop chop, corpse nannies, we have work to do."
"This part of a historian's job too? Sifting the real from the rubbish? 'Cause I feel like I can tell you this one belongs in the garbage heap."
"Among other things," Jolánka replies through gritted teeth.
"You gonna let us pass or what?" he chided the Pharasmins, still in his native Taldane. "Chop chop, corpse nannies, we have work to do."
"Are you going to do this to every priest we come across besides Djedefre?" she chides as they walk.
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Djedefre has to almost physically put his eyes back in their sockets as the impudent foreigner antagonizes members of the Voices.
He hurriedly tries to cover for the rude Taldan by telling the Voices, "1,000 pardons most honorable Voices! This man is a foreigner and I fear between the sun, the heat, and experiences with our potent drink and spicy foods, it's given him a rather sour disposition. He means no offense; he's just an ignorant who doesn't know when to hold his tongue - or his beer!"
"Djedefre, did you just imply the priests running the Lottery willingly let an intoxicated man into the Necropolis instead of doing the responsible thing and passing on him until he sobered up?" Jolánka mutters to Djedefre with a grimace.
The Voices do not seem to comprehend the Taldane spewed at them, though one seems to catch the sarcastic tone. "Follow me, please." He says in Osiriani, giving Djedefre a weary but understanding nod.
One of the Voices gestures you to follow him as he hugs the walls made by the standing buildings, avoiding the Well as much as possible. He barely even glances its way. Due to the early hour, you find yourselves in the shade for most of this walk, before reaching the opposite street. If anyone looks or glances towards the Well, you at first think a tower has cast a long shadow over the primordial hole. However, you remember there are no towers north of you, nor do shadows stand erect against the sky.
Blinking or rubbing the sand from your eyes, the shadow is gone.
Reaching the needed street, the Voice hands you over to another pair before sprinting back the way he came, almost grazing his shoulder against the walls. The new pair of Voices briefly confirm your destination and wordlessly send you on your way.
Jolánka hastily scribbles down more notes on the "shadow." There clearly was something supernatural with this Well.
"Deploy excuses!"
"Hm? I heard 'beer'. What are you on about?"
"Are you going to do this to every priest we come across besides Djedefre?"
"Dame," the young man huffed, "they're Pharasmins and we're tomb raiders, no matter our pretty justifications. You think they have the least respect for us?"
Just spokes in a wheel, that's what they all were, the 'Vulture Court' included. The Pharasmins didn't like the lottery, but here they were, doing what they had to. He didn't particularly like Osirion, but here he was, doing what he felt right. Just pieces playing their part, all of them, and Luke didn't particularly mind being cast as the antagonist of the morality play that was every priest's headspace in the process.
Condemnations came free, food and roof didn't; let them think what they want so long as he got his gold.
These were the foreigner's thoughts as he, more concerned with terrestrial threats, never even noticed the curious shadow.
"I'm Pharasmin too, you know!" Jolánka replies.
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Senemheb had been following along in silence the whole morning. Occasionally mumbling by himself and casting odd glances towards his shoulder bag - but otherwise largely ignoring what went on around him. Until the well.
"Darkness between the stars? Yes, yes.. I feel something terrible down there..." he says and presses his back against the wall, keeping his distance to the well. And he certainly breathes easier once the thing is behind them.
"Dame," the young man huffed, "they're Pharasmins and we're tomb raiders, no matter our pretty justifications. You think they have the least respect for us?"
"Regardless of the mutual feelings, it is usually unwise to further antagonize the law enforcement. Is this different in your lands?" Thus far Senemheb has been mostly amused by the foreigner's antics, but mocking the Voices seems pure folly. And a risk to the whole group.
"We are lucky most of them do not understand Taldan. Feel free to criticize our ways in private, but guard your tongue around the Voices."
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Once the Vulture's Court is beyond the hearing of the Voices Djedefre steps in front of Luke.
"Exactly what Senemheb said. If you want to remain here to make coin you'd be wise to watch your tongue. Or you could continue to antagonize the local authorities until they revoke your invitation. It's your choice. I thought you a pragmatic enough man to make economically sensible decisions. Perhaps I thought wrong."
Done with the topic Djedefre continues along the path, eyes alert for any oddities like the shadow near the Well.
With the others all already confronting Luke about his attitude, Djehuti doesn't pile on. Instead the elf scribbles notes in his notebook, trying to remember the exact feelings the Well gives them as they pass it by. They can already tell it is going to be difficult to properly describe it in writing when they make the entry in their journal later.
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Amal is a bit surprised to see the Voices stand so far away from the Well, but they follow along without questioning it. It does seem a little exaggerated. As far as he knows, nothing has ever been spotted within the walls of the Necropolis - and surely that looming shadow was just a trick of the light. Osirion's harsh sun sometimes made you see strange things.
But then again, there was the mystery of the mage's disappearance, as well as all of his guards, back when Hafiz was a child. Perhaps the Voices knew something they didn't.
"I'm Pharasmin too, you know!" Jolánka replies.
"Yeah, well..." the Taldan shrugged, momentarily taken aback, "That'll make for some interesting conversation come your turn on the spire, I guess. But that's between yourself and the Lady."
Initially surprised at hearing the Ustalavan describe herself as Pharasmin, Luke supposed this wasn't too incongruous in light of their chat yesterday. It was his understanding that disturbing the dead ranked pretty highly on the church's no-no list, hence the surprise. No average worshipper would join in on the lottery.
An adventurous idealist, however, might. He thought back on that conversation, peering trough the gossamer veil of arak that hung over his recollection. Here to preserve knowledge forgotten and recover knowledge lost was what her patter had amounted to, an ambition he had dismissed as purely idealistic. Now the young man wondered whether she wasn't piling piety onto idealism. Was Jolánka here as a Pharasmin too, not just a historian? Reasoning perhaps that if someone was to molest Wati's dead, then it might as well be her hand that did so, academically trained and religiously committed as it was?
How almost noble. And if true, not a goal Luke saw any reason to oppose. Whether the jewelry on Akhentepi's bones were yanked away by his hand or carefully pried by hers made no difference to him. All that mattered was the antiques' worth in gold.
"Regardless of the mutual feelings, it is usually unwise to further antagonize the law enforcement. Is this different in your lands?"
"Oh, but how the tables turn!" In the total silence of the Necropolis, even the foreigner's low chuckle sounded like uproarious laughter. "Now who's being prejudiced? Naw, I can promise you any peevishness on my part is not due to nationality. Actually, Taldans are a pretty patriotic lot. Me, I just don't like goons, no matter which side of the law they belong.
The tone was, as ever, more so irreverent than meanspirited, in the vein of the dock workers, brick layers and muck haulers of the world for whom harsh language was as nothing compared to a harsher world. Luke had spent more than a little time pub-crawling with this strata of society during his more raucous years.
Though in truth his dislike of 'enforcers' was more so a problem with authority itself. Cynicism might have buried it like the sand dunes of Osirion buried entire pyramids, but the young man had a rebellious streak in him a mile long. He'd done away with it in focusing on rescuing the floundering Caradoc family, yet the god-spawn, chronicler that he was, was about to unearth this past.
"If you want to remain here to make coin you'd be wise to watch your tongue. Or you could continue to antagonize the local authorities until they revoke your invitation. It's your choice. I thought you a pragmatic enough man to make economically sensible decisions. Perhaps I thought wrong."
Already squinting in the sun, the Taldan's brow sank another notch at this critique. Candid as he could be, he thought nothing of his remarks to the two Voices. Where was this coming from, he wondered? "Back off, bright-eyes. I asked them to hurry up, not to defile their dear old gran's grave."
Somewhere beneath the stolid surface, the rebellious streak stirred. "No, that would be your own government. They're the economically sensible ones. They're the ones to force the church into organizing this whole shindig, inviting the world at large to turn graveyards into quarries with your dead as mere collateral, whether digging for history or gold."
Luke blinked, just a bit surprised at himself. This wasn't a tangent he'd excepted to let slip in asking Djedefre to calm down. A derisive snort escaped his nose. It was only directed at himself.
"'Scuse me. Didn't mean to open that particular can o' worms right now. And fair's fair, I'm not Osirian. I'm not here to be offended on your behalf. If you want me to shut my trap on this, I will. But the point is, you're right. These Pharasmins? I don't respect them. Not a bit. Why would I? These are the pikers who rolled over for your pharaoh, obeying managerial writs over holy scripture. They couldn't even stand up for their faith. ...Somehow I doubt they have the guts to stand up to me."
Sand crunched underneath sturdy boots as the foreigner continued down the directed path. He was annoyed, both at the subject of his thoughts and his own mind for bothering with them. The lottery, with all its concessions to power and pretentions at propriety, had sparked just a little of that youthful fire he had thought lost. Luke was reminded how he really hated bureaucracy.
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As the party renews its moral discourse, you'll find yourselves in the midst of some ruins. In the center of which stands a box-like structure, weathered by centuries enduring the elements. It stands 12ft high, 20ft wide, and 35ft long. Facing you are a set of stone doors, half covered by a small dune of sand. The doors appear to open outwards, so it will be necessary to clear the sand from the threshold.
There isn't a cloud in the sky, but the dead trees provide minimal shade. It is still early morning, but Ra unveiled is still a cruel aspect of nature and it will only get worse.
"Oh, but how the tables turn!" In the total silence of the Necropolis, even the foreigner's low chuckle sounded like uproarious laughter. "Now who's being prejudiced? Naw, I can promise you any peevishness on my part is not due to nationality. Actually, Taldans are a pretty patriotic lot. Me, I just don't like goons, no matter which side of the law they belong."
At this, Jolánka chuckles.
"Father would have liked you," she says. Then she gets a sad look on her face. "I hope he recovers soon."
When they finally reach the tomb, Jolánka sighs as she realizes she'd forgotten one of the most important excavation tools of all.
"All my preparations, and I forget the most important law of the desert: the sand covers all."
She opens her pack and pulls out a pot.
"It'll have to do," she says as she begins trying to scoop sand up into it to drag away.
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After realizing he doesn't own any of the tools one would expect to need, and quite a hit to his perceptive nature that realization is, Djedefre does notice a couple of details. He points them out to the others:
"Look here. There are marks of forced entry along the inner edges of the doors, and the wax seal usually used to ensure the sanctity of the tomb is missing. Someone might have been here before..."
Further examination leads him to conclude, "This intrusion was maybe a few centuries ago and not at all recent. Damn!"
Thinking of what he does have on him Djedefre unhooks his shield and begins using it as a scoop to move the sand...
"So, perhaps all the valuables were stolen centuries ago..?" Senemheb looks at the door, where Djedefre is pointing. His head hangs a little - this is not a great start for their tomb venture.
Following the priest's example, Senemheb takes out his shield and starts scoop the sand. "A shovel would be a good investment, it looks. If only they weren't so cumbersome to carry around."
Djehuti frowns at the idea of the tomb being looted centuries earlier. Surely no, though- if anything relevant to the Witch Pharoah had been found that long ago it surely would have turned up by now. In that case, the elf could concentrate on taking notes. "In any case the Pharasmins will want to hear about the condition of the tomb. And if it has already been looted that means less danger for us. Maybe we can get in and out quickly enough to get another assignment today."
"Dammit, I think you might be right..."
Luke sighed in examining the crumbled wax seals up close, having scaled the sand dunes obscuring the tomb's entrance. Blow though it was, he could only concur with the general consensus: this Akhentepi guy had hosted visitors before. It would seem his poor luck in exploration sites wasn't letting up even here, in what should be a grave robber's paradise. Or historian's, whatever.
Perhaps that was just it. Wati's Necropolis was too tempting a target to have sat unexplored for so many centuries. Now who's the naive one, the Taldan chided himself.
Still, they were here. Having a look-see inside should still be worth the effort. Even if doing so could prove quite the effort. He looked to the sand barring them from the doors. "My shovel broke on my last dig," he admitted, feeling a fool for not replacing it. Money was just that tight and he'd hoped that with the nature of the Necropolis - it being the remains of a proper city - excavation wouldn't be necessary.
"I'll chip in if you want to run for the nearest tools peddler, kid." Fishing through a pocket, Luke held out a tarnished gold piece to Amal, his very last. Even as he did so, however, he eyed the nearest dead tree. No leaves on it, but if he could find a branch with enough offshoots, it could suffice for sweeping the sand at the very least.
Amal rushes back towards the gates to the Necropolis, drawing raised eyebrows from some of the Voices but they ignore them as he doesn't otherwise draw the patrols' attention. Used to rushing in and out of the Necropolis and knowing where to start looking for a merchant selling tools, Amal quickly purchases and returns with a brand new shovel. Eventually, the loose dune sand is cleared from the doors, a cool breeze washing over your sweaty skin in mild relief.
Atop the door frame there are ancient Osiriani hieroglyphs, reading "General Akhentepi, Born 2416 AR, Died 2488 AR". The faces of the double doors bear the fadded left and right profiles of a stern man wearing a shield shaped like a scarab, fine armor, and a khopesh. There are no handles on this doors, so you will need to .
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Amal doesn't mind carrying the shovel the party bought.
He's a bit annoyed at running short of another crucial tool - why didn't he think of a crowbar - but readily volunteers to try and open the door. "I'm not tired," they insist, dropping their backpack to their feet to avoid being encumbered.
They drop their backpack to their feet before they have a go at opening the door.