Lucilianus "Luke" Caradoc's page

"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.

Perception: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (15) + 6 = 21

"Was that one of you, or...?"

No, the Taldan realized in turning to the now incandescent shrine, glowing like a mountain peak at sunrise. This buoyant warmth flowing through him hadn't been provided by any member of the Court exactly. "Hm. Still some celestial juice in this shrine, eh?"

He could only assume so, whatever powers associated with the altar deigning to reward the others for tending to it. Funny that, the young man mused as the light slowly dimmed: apparently, his own indifference towards the Osirian deities was strangely mirrored in those gods themselves. Namely in how they did not care for his disinterest in them; all that mattered was their interest in him.

Bah, as if. Don't get too high & mighty now, Luke told himself. There was no way this little divine lightshow actually meant something, some ancient almighties blessing the lot of them with intent and purpose. Least of all himself, certainly! More likely was how he'd just been included in some sort of supernatural fallout really meant Djedefre or someone. Well, intended recipient or not, the young man wasn't going to turn away any advantage handed. They needed every edge possible in this madhouse.

As became abundantly clear in the adjoining room. Luke could only stare bewildered, even disturbed, at the mutilated body propped up on the bog there, burnt and headless. "...Hell of a way to go," he muttered. What else was there to say? What in the world had led to this bizarre display? Because that was what it felt like: a display, something intentionally set up by what had to be a twisted mind indeed.

Despite these misgivings, practicality demanded the young man swallow his concerns and give the small space a quick look-over. A very quick one. He prodded at the corpse with his sword. Stavian's fire, if this thing jumped at him...

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (9) + 5 = 14

"And if no one else would like to dress in Qadiran styles, I could give this a try."

"Very fashionable, I'm sure."

Hadn't the locals here been under the Keleshites' thumb until relatively recently? Luke didn't really know his history, to say nothing of that of other nations, but he couldn't imagine those easterners being particularly popular around here. Foreign occupation tended to do that. What was public sentiment on their fashion like, he wondered?

Of course, while Luke himself harboured no personal vendetta against the Kelish, he was Taldan. A sort of generalized dislike against their southern neighbour, their ancestral enemy, practically came with one's mother's milk. It was a sentiment he'd suspected he shared among many in Osirion, this place he otherwise felt so alien in. Regardless, the young man's practicality trumped any such vague ideas. Of course Senemheb - and Jolánka for that matter - should take whatever magical whatsit found that might prove helpful. Not even the plain monetary value of such artifacts could sway him on that. No point in hoarding gold that could be spent saving their lives.

Well, not unless it was a lot of gold.

"The divine menagerie again, huh?" Luke wasn't too interested in the shrine uncovered in the next room, merely standing by whilst the more scholarly inclined examined the animal-headed gods. His eyes roved the other corners of the space, club in one hand and sword in the other. With skeletons and sand monsters about, who knew which of the implements would be called upon next!

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (13) + 5 = 18

Oof. One hand clasped the other's aching knuckles even as the sabulous head crumbled mid-flight. Turned out that punching wet sand was pretty rough on one's fist. Whatever life force it was that animated elementals, it was apparently extinguished the moment the head splattered to the tiled floor; the decapitated sculpture that remained collapsed into a shapeless pile that same instance. Good riddance. The young man couldn't suppress the same childish satisfaction one felt in knocking over a sand castle...

"He punched its head clean off, I barely did anything."

"Wouldn't say that," Luke remarked somewhat distractedly in digging the strange grit out of his eyes. "Think it was about to take a swing at me when you turned its face into a mud pie."

Said eyes naturally grew that much clearer at the sight of treasure buried among the courtyard's dunes. Another gainful excursion! Although they dimmed just a bit at Djehuti's theory. "A colleague?" Luke wondered dubiously at the postulation on Imanish. "No, surely not? Why would a grave robber stash their loot here of all places?"

The Taldan couldn't guess at any reason to do so, given the dangers of the necropolis. Well, none beyond the immediate and desperate need for a hidey-hole, for whatever reason, the intent being to return for the stuff later. A thief that met his untimely end before he could do so, perhaps? But no, the aasimar was right: the sand spirit had spoken of this Imanish in the present...

He suddenly realized. Someone here yet unable to take the treasure? Someone who mayhap had returned for it after his untimely end, even? Aw hells, did the party have more undead on their hands?

Not particularly taken with either the crossbow or armor, but someone else might want - and has my blessing! - to equip the latter.

"Hnh?"

It wasn't the most welcome of wake-up calls, but then the situation didn't exactly allow for birdsong and pancakes. Luke started, consciousness lurching back into action like a whip to a horse's rear. He blinked and the eyes felt crunchy. His prone perspective - all dust, hurried feet and downed teammates - added to the momentary confusion. What was happening? How long had he been out?

The bottom of the animated sand sculpture surging into view gave him focus if not answers. It was so close he could taste the grit. Right. The 'sandman', he recalled. Stavian's fire, what a stupid name. The young man's annoyance at the oh-so-clever witticism only added onto what was now a great big pile of grievances, plenty of reasons to pummel this fiend into literal dust. Yet chief among these reasons was this: that it came down to them or it.

Foregoing picking up the dropped club, Luke instead rose, pushing out with his arms to get his feet under him. And from this half-crouch, the legs thrust him up like one of his nation's Jack-in-the-box's, clenched fist first. Because never mind the weapon. Immediate offence took precedence! The uppercut careened into the outsider's amorphous chin, exploding it in an instant.

Attack: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (11) + 5 = 16
Damage: 1d6 + 6 ⇒ (4) + 6 = 10

Embellishment there at the end, but just imagine a Mortal Kombat uppercut. Move action to stand up (and provoke in the process), and then standard to attack unarmed. Luke has the feat for it. Fists are also bludgeoning as it happens.

Will: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (12) + 1 = 13

Someone's gonna have to take Iron Will next level.

Alas, a mere 1 out of 4. For although spite nestled at his heart like a mangy dog to a stove, late night reading, panic and imported coffee were not part of the young man's regular diet. Perhaps that was why he, unlike Jolánka, felt the effect of the sandman's dust keenly.

"Whu, um...? Whuzza... Whuzz habbenin'...?"

Slurring every word, Luke's mouth felt every bit as heavy as his eyelids, a sensation slovenly yet surely travelling through the rest of him. Something gritty was settling into his eyes, something that cemented them shut even as the most curious muffling feeling settled over his mind like a great big duvet of leaden feathers. A small voice under there insisted it wasn't his bedtime yet. But like that of all willful children, it landed on deaf ears.

The club thudded to the dusty ground quickly followed by its wielder.

Like the proverb said, forewarned was forearmed. Thanks to Djehuti's warning, the Taldan wasn't taken by surprise at their sabulous host's turn, demeanor and appearance both shifting into the decidedly more monstrous. Instead he rushed forward like a racehorse hearing the starting shot, club gripped in both hands.

Hope you're right about bludgeoning being the way, elf!

His own momentum adding to the force behind the weapon, Luke swung the cudgel as lumberjacks did to trees, the impact sending sand scattering in every direction.

Attack (club): 1d20 + 5 + 1 ⇒ (19) + 5 + 1 = 25
Damage: 1d6 + 9 ⇒ (2) + 9 = 11

That central part of the courtyard isn't difficult terrain, is it? I've moved Luke up and attacked in the hope it isn't. If so, I guess the better action would be moving as far up as possible and readying an attack instead?

Also, in honor of King Tut day, everyone gets a hero point.

Never heard of it, but I'll take it!

"Sandmen? Sandmen who put people to sleep? Stavian's fire, is this thing a walking pun?!" Luke could only shake his exasperated head in realizing that the elf was, in fact, not joking. What utter fuddy-duddy chuckled themselves to sleep on starched bedsheets after coming up with that one? As if disliking academics and their damn taxonomy wasn't easy enough. Honestly now, how witless did you have to be to name the earth elemental with sleep inducing powers after the figure from folklore?

No, hold on. Was this maybe one of those, whatchamacallit, reverse causality cases? Surely this was too on the nose to be mere interplanar coincidence? Could this creature be named not after the mythical figure, but in actuality be the original inspiration for said folklore? Was it the chicken or the egg?

Did it matter? Nah, not really. Not if it meant to deceive them and... smother the group in their sleep? Was that what sandmen did? Whatever the creatures' wonts, homicidal tendencies took precedence over etymology. And so the Taldan slowly, trying not to arouse suspicion, reached for his pack. He kept a cudgel there - little more than a hefty stick, blunt as blunt could be - for just such occasions.

The Taldan could only look on bewildered as sand sculpted itself into a pretty young thing only to start babbling at them in something he only vaguely recognized as related to the local cant. "...I understood some of that."

Although his grasp of modern Osiriani was rapidly improving, its ancient equivalent was still beyond Luke. Whatever the language, however, he did know he didn't trust her. Strange women propositioning strangers in haunted mansions? These were the sort of girls his mother had warned him about! Or she should have, at least.

One hand clenched about the sword handle. Would a blade even harm whatever this was? Ghost or not, the lady was made out of sand. Suspicious eyes roved about her shifting form, he letting the others talk whilst wondering at how to put the being down if necessary.

Would that holy water have any effect here? Hold on, would plain old water? Maybe enough of it would turn her into a mud puddle...

"Lover boy springs a fever in that vision only for Sen to start burning up? After touching what's probably the very ring the pair were lookin' for?" Luke could only agree with the elf's theory. "Yeah, if I was a betting man, I'd guess this too is the work of whatever spirits are mucking about this place."

He squinted into the dusty ceiling, as if expecting to see ghosts flittering there like flies. "I'm thinking you just got treated to the spectral equivalent of a leper coughing in your face..."

Which was terribly rude, really. Of course, whether this made Senemheb's condition more or less 'real' was anyone's guess. The Taldan certainly had no idea, feeling increasingly out of his depth in the haunted mansion. Even so, he hated the idea of retreating. Whether it was kings in their castles, corpses in their fancy tombs, or indeed ghosts in their darkened halls, Luke couldn't stand surrendering to the powers that be, whatever these be. His rebellious streak ran too deep to accept surrender.

So if the maybe-necromancer said he was willing to continue, then continue they should. Luke looked to the ominous staircase leading up to the second floor. "Eh. Probably best we clear the ground floor before venturing anywhere else." This said, he turned to the room directly north of them.

Perception: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (13) + 6 = 19

Moving carefully up to the room above this one?

"Well, for now," the foreigner chimed in, voice light with levity and brow heavy with concern. "Once we get back to the Tooth & Hookah you really will be sick. 'Cause we're spending this loot there buying nothing but fermented fish. And I'm gonna make sure you eat till you puke, you skunk."

He gave the shoulder he'd been supporting a comradely thump in letting go, Amal and himself propping the stricken man from each side.

Yeah, hope you had a lovely day, Amal.

"You seem to be a strong man, Luke, to withstand the monster's venom. Or is it what passes for food in the north that makes you immune to lesser poisons?"

Was it some deep-seated emotional issue or plain machismo that rendered the young man so hostile to compliments? Whatever the case, as had been demonstrated before, he responded far better to honest critique or crude humour than he did kindness. Senemheb's little barb proved no exception. An amused snort escaped the straight nose. "Oh hello, Pot. Name's Kettle. Have we met?"

It struck him that this particular idiom might not translate across the Inner Sea, only to realize he didn't really care. Luke was picking up the local cant well enough; why not educate the natives in turn? "That's rich coming from the land of boiled cow trotters, fish cooked by burying it in sand, and that darn fermented camel milk." The Taldan had been treated to more supposed 'delicacies' than he cared for in his voyage through Osirion's inns. Of course, what he hadn't realized was how their proprietors had treated the lout to the more acquired tastes merely to see the rude foreigner squirm.

Yet even in downing enough jellied cow hooves to shoe the giant centipede would Luke ever defend his own home country's food culture. While decadent Taldor might consider itself the height of refinement, its haute cuisine could charitably be described as... inimitable. So much gold garnish...

All thought of food was rather put aside at the haunted house flexing its incorporeal muscles, however. The sudden vision had the young man more than a little spooked, looking in every direction for ghostly assailants as the surroundings returned to their dilapidated state. He didn't like ghosts. Beasties out for one's guts he could defend against. Ghosts that went straight for one's brainbox? Not a lot a bloke with a sword could do about that. "Great," he grumbled, "Star-crossed sweethearts whose love extends beyond the Boneyard... Way to put the romance in necromancy. Be real cute if we weren't caught between their spectral tryst."

Honestly, it was almost enough to put a treasure hunter off evaluating all this silverware they came across. Almost.

Appraise: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (16) + 6 = 22

Hesitant as Luke felt about handling what might be haunted items, he couldn't help but note the state of the first person to touch these. "You alright, Sen? Looking a little flushed."

Was there some hitherto unknown link between the aristocracy and centipedes, Luke had to wonder? Because as it happened, both bled blue. One and the same in being vermin, certainly. He wiped the ichor, whatever it was, from his blade. The last death spasms were still passing through what remained of the giant monstrosity, and when you had what looked like a million legs, that made for a lot of spasms.

"Tidy work, people," he huffed, still catching his breath. It was true; the beast had gone down in remarkably efficient manner, far quicker than he'd feared. Perhaps there was truth in that whole "the bigger they are, the harder they fall" phrase.

Though on the topic of falling, Senemheb's recently risen abomination had shattered like so much porcelain at first contact with the centipede, one sweep sending bone fragments raining all over the yard. It had at least served as a decent distraction: the rest of them had been able to get up close and personal thanks to the doubly deceased. "Are condolences in order?" the Taldan asked the maybe-necromaner. "Not sure what's custom when the one biting the dust is already dead..."

At least that settled the issue of spelunking with the undead for now. No undead, no issue. Well, until Sen animated one of the other two skeletons still more or less whole.

"I believe I have resolved the physical damage but I don't know if the centipede injected venom into Luke."

"Eh, I feel fine." Luke made a measured swing of the arm as he took stock of his own facilities while the cleric applied another round of curatives. He could only conclude that the venom hadn't taken hold. Maybe the giant bug was like one of those overpriced, fancy taverns: showy glassware, but weak drink... "Hey, where are you going, friar?" The young man interrupted his own thoughts at seeing the aasimar go back into the house.

"We were just in that haunted mansion. Went out to check the perimeter and now we're going back in? What are we investigatin' first? Make a decision." Despite the light grumbling, he was quick enough to follow. "Going in and out like damn cats..."

"Spiders aren't insects? What are you on about? Of course they are! Next you'll be telling us tomatoes aren't vegetab...!"

The young man fell mute mid syllable as something even more egregious than the scholarly elf's affront to common wisdom - difficult as this might be to believe - demanded all attention. Indeed, the colossal centipede that rushed their way from the dried pool was an affront to the eyes! Stavian's fire, what was this monstrosity?! Luke had anticipated more of those dog-sized arthropods - plenty big enough themselves! - not some squirming nightmare fit to constrict an elephant.

Worse still, while its bulk was beyond measure, the beast apparently had all the speed of its smaller cousins. In an instance it was upon them. Specifically, the pincer-like mouth was on and even within the Taldan.

"Grah!" he cried as wriggling talons the learned types like Djehuti might be able to inform him were called forcipules dug into his flesh. What needn't be said, however, was what these carried. Luke was plebian enough to be familiar with centipedes, and cynical enough to guess this overgrown variant was at least as venomous too.

Fort save: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (11) + 5 = 16

Aw, just one short! Poisons suck so expending a hero point and rerolling.

Fort save: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (19) + 5 = 24 Better!

Knowing no way out but going further in, the foreigner gritted his teeth and stepped up to the beastie, pursuing its undulating head even as it retreated with his blood trailing the mandibles. He had no idea whether he was poisoned or not, but that was a question for when this thing lay dead!

Attack: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (8) + 5 = 13
Maybe expending 2 stamina to ensure that hits, but honestly, I fully expect the stellar rolling above to have finished this already.

Damage: 1d8 + 9 ⇒ (3) + 9 = 12

No sooner had Luke voiced his hope that the bone whisperer could keep his unholy abomination under control than selfsame admitted he wasn't even sure how the magic worked. Worse still, the one running the show was supposedly his pet skull, an assertion the Taldan didn't know what to make of. Was that dusty death's head even anything more than a morbid bauble? If so, Senemheb was apparently surrendering the control of undead to... other undead? If not, the guy was crazier than a parliament of goblins. Luke might not be the only one hearing voices...

Either way, his confidence in this whole scheme plummeted like a lead anchor. Still - one had to laugh at the absurdity. "Hells below, Sen." The chuckle was dry as the withered courtyard. "An undead to govern your other undead? As if middle management wasn't unholy enough."

Seemingly serious though it all was, the young man thought he could afford the humor, or so he hoped. After all, even if the skeleton should go berserk on them, one such was a manageable threat, especially as a group. Just had to keep a close eye on it. And if nothing else, Senemheb had certainly earned the chance to prove this madcap idea.

Besides, they might have more immediate concerns to contend with.

"Look here; insectoid tracks of some type. Does anyone know what might have made them?"

"I'd wager an insect." The bright eyes glancing over the manifold tracks were a bit too innocent to be anything other than sarcastic. "Maybe a big insect."

Far from maligning anyone, this was merely the foreigner's world weary cynicism at work. Of course some hideous bug was lying in wait for them here. Why should anything ever be easy? Sword drawn, he stepped further into the garden, boots crunching carefully over the sand. Hopefully this went better than the last time he took point.

Deploying meat shield.

So how's your day going, Luke?

Not too great, Luke, thanks for asking. First, ghosties took up residence in my brainbox like cats in a damn hamper, and I think I might be hearing voices.

That's unfortunate, Luke.

Real unfortunate. Then the group's resident oddball - an achievement in this ragtag crew! - turns out out to be not just some weirdo who carries out one-sided conversations with a dusty skull...

Well, that's nice...

... but rather a simple necromancer!

... From the lion's den to the dragon's lair, eh?

That about summed it up, yeah. The Taldan made no attempt at hiding his dismay at seeing the scattered bones reassemble themselves like so many jigsaw pieces. Brow furrowed, he lifted his foot for a thighbone clattering its way across the floor. There was good reason to be skeptical of Senemheb's display, of course. Necromancy didn't have the most positive reputation, especially among the common folk. And Luke was nothing if not common.

Even so, his practical side had to admit there was a certain appeal in battling the undead with walking skeletons of one's own. It spoke to the ironic cynicism in him. "... Fighting fire with fire, huh?" The scoff that followed was wry, though no unamused. "As long as you can keep the thing under control, Sen..."

A shrug of the shoulders denoted the foreigner's reluctant acceptance of this necromantic tool. After all, he reasoned, who was he to judge? Being a self-professed tomb robber, Luke was in no position to condemn others' dodgy vocations. That would be the height of hypocrisy. As his conduct with the Pharasmins evidenced, he wasn't fond of hypocrisy.

If only he wasn't almost equally unfond of the undead.

Erk. Give me the creeps.

Turning away from said creepy skeleton, he joined the cleric in examining the shriveled garden. "What's up? You seeing something out here?"

Perception: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (5) + 6 = 11
Aid on Djedefre's perception if allowed?

"I'm fine," a sheepish Luke replied brusquely, brushing away the cleric's concerns like the manly man he was. The only wound he'd received was to his pride. "I dunno what happened... Last clear memory I have is of us standing by the gate. Then..."

One hand rubbed at the unkempt head as if nursing a hangover. "Were those bones walking earlier?" he asked in pointing to the scattered remains. "I remember things in bits and pieces. Just not sure which of those bits are genuine... It all feels like a fever dream. That crazed mob battering the closed gates - I know now that can't have been real even though I almost still hear them..."

Luke looked to the broken portal. The corroded bronze couldn't hold back a kitten now. "Worst part is, somehow I feel like the voice I heard inside was entirely real..." He turned to the darkened foyer, dust and ill portents alike dancing in the scant sunlight filtering through the high windows. "There was this woman - and a man I think? They were scared, screaming somethin' about 'them' making it inside the house."

One didn't need to be a sage to reach the obvious conclusion: the House of Pentheru was all sorts of haunted. Not the sort of obstacle a sharpened bit of metal could resolve. "What about you? You lot alright?"

Have six seconds, the duration of lesser confusion, passed? Can Luke try to open the doors from his side?

The magic designed to protect against a very specific tag does not protect against spells with that very specific tag. God bless you, PF.

GM Screen: 20, 20, 19

what in the Crawling Chaos?

Dang. Djedefre just saved the day.

Like a compass in a lightning storm. Even in his disoriented state, head spinning, Luke's grasp on reality loosened by the second. Every certainty seemed to exist in a frame of its own, all hung in the gallery of his mind despite half contradicting the other. That whole Plague of Madness business - that was all centuries in the past, right? And yet it was happening now. That gate they'd all crossed - it was completely busted and dilapidated, right? And yet it was all that protected them from a wild mob now. And, notably, it was daytime at the moment, right? Surely as basic a fact as this could be verified.

So why is the sun rising?!

The radiant burst let loose by the cleric washed over everyone present like a tidal wave of light, uncomprehending foreigner included. He didn't understand. The world seemed to have fractured into unrelated events, no transition or causality linking them. One second there was peace, then people were screaming bloody murder. One second the dead had been walking, then they were just gone. He didn't understand. But he did know. Luke knew that they all needed to get away from the outer gate before it burst at the fury bearing down upon it.

"Inside!" Something crunched beneath his boots as the young man rushed into the building. Only to be met by all new realities. Where did the light go? He stopped, nearly toppling. Where did the others go? Eyes bright with a feverish glow tried to pierce the darkness now surrounding him, trying to find the rest of the party. It was as if a curtain had dropped, leaving him alone and confused on the theatre stage. Gods, he wished he knew what his lines were. All was still now, a panting he dearly hoped was his own the only sound breaking the silence.

A sound quickly joined by a voice even delirium couldn't disguise as his.

"What?" He turned, looking for a figure that wasn't there. "'They'? Who? Who's here? What do you mean?" Something crawled beneath his skull. "What family? Pentheru? But they're already dead. Aren't they? I-I don't understand." Were headaches supposed to worm down your spine to the rest of you? "No, shut up. Shut up! I'm not doing anything! Just shut up!"

Despite his protests, he could feel a nameless something settling over him. Obstinate as the Taldan could be, his will was not such that he could resist the lingering spirits of the House of Pentheru.

Will save: 1d20 + 1 + 2 ⇒ (5) + 1 + 2 = 8 Uh-oh. But wait!

Then again, he didn't have to. Because a certain someone ensured her companion had a guardian spirit of his own. Luke gasped as it suddenly felt like a godsdamned tea cozy was pulled off the kettle that was his mind.

"What the...!" Where the hell was he? What was going on? Disparate events rapidly slotted within his head like so many puzzle pieces. Hold on, was this the foyer to the house? Then the disembodied voice he'd heard here earlier... Could it belong to...? "Aw sh*t." The slimmest sliver of light caught his gaze, shearing through piles of bones littering the floor. Bones that Luke now remembered had been walking just moment earlier. The gaze followed the light up to its wellspring: the slightest crack in the door the others were trying to force open. "Aw sh*t!"

It was a chagrined Taldan that leapt to pull open the doors, wondering how he was going to live this one down.

Another bad roll, but Jolánka placed Protection from Evil on Luke before he skedaddled in. PfE blocks all mental control "including enchantment [charm] effects and enchantment [compulsion] effects" of which Confusion is counted!

If it's servants and residents of the house wouldn't they have been coming out of the house to chase Luke into the street?

I read it as being the other way around, that it was some mob outside the gate trying to force their way in. Given that the effect only kicked in upon us crossing the threshold and it necessitating the delusion that said gate must somehow be closed, I thought the only way Luke could go was inside. Sorry if I misunderstood anything.

You are correct, Luke. Give yourself a hero point for that callout, and you may attack as you posted.

Woo. Much obliged.

Added a botting blurb to profile. And hope you and yours enjoy your trips, Jolánka and Senemheb.

However, thanks to his panicked state, he dodges them all and keeps running on his turn.

Counterpoint (that any GM is free to ignore being the GM): consider how "a frightened creature flees from the source of its fear as best it can. If unable to flee, it may fight." Looking at the map, Luke can't get further away from the source of his fear, the gate, without fighting these skellies. No? If so, just ignore the post. Not like it matters with these rolls.

"What's with this place?!" a very agitated Taldan exclaimed as the first thing to greet him upon tackling open the front doors was a sword's edge. Three of them, in fact. Not that there was much of an edge to any of these. In his mad dash away from he knew not what, Luke had run into a far more tangible threat: the undead waiting within swung weapons as worn as their wielders. Clearly the rumours about the house of Pentheru were well founded.

Yet the young man was in no state to ponder the implications of their presence. Still gripped by a feverish madness, Luke dodged every blow directed his way and answered them in kind, desperate to get away from the gate and whatever nebulous danger it represented.

Attack: 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (6) + 5 - 2 = 9

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (5) + 5 = 10

Will: 1d20 + 1 + 1 ⇒ (7) + 1 + 1 = 9 Oh dear.

Luke might have commented on the Dame's unerring ability to make her homeland sound like the very worst of tourist destinations. He might have if he'd heard her. Because as soon as the young man stepped over the gate's threshold, his ears were assaulted by a singular clamour, it sneaking up on him like a tiger from the grass. And with roughly the same impact too. Without warning, the world was rent by the clatter of metal and screams of the desperate. He whirled about, uncomprehending, in drawing his sword.

"Get away from the gate!" was all he could shout, knowing - as the fever stricken know their delusions - that a maddened crowd was inches away from toppling the whole thing over them. Wide eyes searched for some escape, feet backing away as the frantic mind behind both tried to grasp what in the world was going on.

Cause Fear leads to the shaken condition at minimum, but a failed save means Luke's just straight up tries to flee the situation. And given the nature of the vision, I'm guessing this means he goes somewhere within the courtyard or house? The GM will have to decide where!

"...What's this all about?" More so wondering aloud than asking anyone in particular, the Taldan ran his fingers down, through and within the dents, crags and pits of the battered bronze. "Cruel though he might be, this damage wasn't done by Father Time. These doors look more like they've served at Lastwall. As if someone tried to batter them down."

A siege? On a private residence? The bright eyes looked up to the statues looming above. "Who did you two tick off?"

It seemed a fair question, especially as it related to his own purposes here. If some group or another forced their way into the place however far back, they'd likely helped themselves to whatever valuables hit upon. Or so it seemed to Luke. Then again, the inner doors appeared perfectly intact. Perhaps the invaders, whoever they were, hadn't gotten so far.

Queries that wouldn't be answered unless the group stepped in to investigate. Waiting for the OK from an inquisitive aasimar, he entered the compound, choosing to slip through what space the yawning doors afforded over pushing them open. No telling whether the old things wouldn't just collapse if forced.

"Look at the base of the statues. Hieroglyphs, worn from time."

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (13) + 5 = 18

"So there are," Luke nodded, looking to the worn pictograms. By his moving lips, it was obvious he was trying to spell his way through them - with some difficulty. Giving up, the eyes panned up to take in their next site instead.

"It might not be a proper grave like the old general's..." he assessed, "but this place is something of a mansion. Plain folk don't flank their gates with statues of themselves. These Pentheru guys were men of no small means."

Which boded well for the Vulture Court. Assuming it hadn't been ransacked in centuries prior, this dwelling could make for a tidy payday. Lady Luck was still with them. Walking up to the dilapidated bronze doors, yawning open like broken jaws, the Taldan peered through. While he didn't cross the threshold, waiting until the others were ready, Luke was keen to peruse the site.

"Hm. They would that do that, wouldn't they? Try to get back at me through underhanded means rather than actually confront me, the cowards... A finger scratched at the stubbly chin. "Fine. You're right. No reason to jeopardize my pay for their sake."

”Eh, I guess some holy water would be worth lugging around,” a somewhat reluctant Luke conceded at the magic men’s conference on the noble art of killing that which had no body. He wasn’t particularly eager to spend his hard-earned gold. What was the point of these ventures if every coin won was sunk into the next foray? But his was a practical soul. They’d convinced him. Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it, right?

”You,” he barked in stopping the nearest Pharasmin in their duties. ”Fetch us some holy water. And make sure it’s the good stuff, yeah? None of that tepid pond water some spotty acolyte crossed their fingers over, probably still full of crocodile muck. If a saint doesn’t recognize it as their own sweat, I’m not buying it.”

Putting these holy men to work would probably do them some good. It was just this thought, however, that added to the Taldan’s hesitation to fritter away any more than he had to on precautions like these. Because should the group encounter any spectre, he frankly expected Djedefre to handle it! Luke was perfectly willing to tangle with any and all threats the Court roused as part of their expeditions. Well, within reason, anyway. That was his role on the team and he accepted that. But ghosts? Phantoms? Apparitions without hearts to stab, heads to bludgeon?

Not his department. Spirits were the responsibilities of the spiritual guy. Let the angel-spawn earn his keep! Yes, fine, the foreigner granted within his own quiet mind in navigating Wati’s streets: Djedefre’s curatives alone were worth his weight in gold. But the point still stood!

Buying a flask of holy water at discount. Have deducted its price from Luke’s sheet.

"Most unseemly. Perhaps she is someone important where she's from and expects such preferential treatment here?"

"She's Taldan, yes."

Rich and varied as his grousing of the great nation of Osirion was - entirely justified, thankyouverymuch - Luke wasn't above critiquing his home country.

"That isn't legal-" The Taldan's handler wrung his hands helplessly.

"Nowhere in the rules does it state adventuring parties cannot exchange information." Hypaxes glares at the Pharasmins around them...

"Yeah, shut up, you," the other Taldan concurred, not sparing the poor priest a glance in dismissing him. Luke didn't have the most favorable impression of the madame, but he was infinitely more interested in this supposed treasure trove of hers than the Pharasmins' impotent 'rules'. What were the god botherers going to do? Report the pharaoh's money-spinners to the pharaoh? Yeah, right.

Predictably, she didn't have much to share, however. Quite the opposite in fact.

She's willing to pay for info from us?

Information gathering for other explorers wasn't exactly what the young man had come here for. No, he was the explorer. Still, a little side venture had its merit, as long as it didn't interrupt the group's own expeditions. Of course, this was all a moot point anyway seeing as Luke didn't know the first thing about this Eye place.

It was Senemheb who seemingly harbored some knowledge of the site, and so it was to him the foreigner looked as Hypaxes sauntered away. "I do believe," he drawled in a lighter tone, "that the young lady just invited you to a party, Sen. You sly dog, you. Yeah, she was talkin' to both of us, but you're the fella with the facts. She's all yours. Good luck."

He'd need more than luck dealing with a chit like that... Luke chuckled before returning to business with a sigh. "So, what are we thinking? Is this worth pursuin'? Personally, I'd think it obvious that digging up our own prizes is more worthwhile than helpin' someone else find theirs."

Now knowing her full name, I don't suppose a fellow Taldan recognizes the Hypaxes as someone of note?

Know (local): 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (16) + 3 = 19

"Indeed at the Temple of Ra we always hear tales of the unsettled dead roaming the Necropolis. What manner of monsters could survive in such a place though?"

Rhetorical or otherwise, Luke answered the question even if his low murmur was more so intended for himself as well. ”Something that hates people enough to prefer the dead. Something capable enough to handle those dead when they wake.”

A something like that sounded pretty dangerous, a something best avoided. Of course, this was pure conjecture on the young man’s part and he knew it. Speculation based on anxious hearsay & rumour was like a brewer making a distillation of vinegar: the result could only ever be sour. Still, there was a case to be made for imagining the worst possible scenario. Fretful hands prepared for disaster. Assuming the worst was how people stayed alive. This was especially true in their business.

Such assumptions found fertile soil in knowledgeable Senemheb’s revelation on the nature of the ‘Eye’. ”An old temple?” Well, that followed. Places of power invited the powerful, benevolent and benighted both. It wasn’t without reason that most churches were fortified and heavily guarded. An abandoned place of worship in the Necropolis now playing home to some manner of ghoulies made perfect sense. Which was to say, it surely made sense enough in the addled brain of whatever beast roamed there.

This wasn’t Luke's primary takeaway from the exchange, however. ”Are we to understand,” he queried of the woman, ”that you have your eye set on a particular site in the Necropolis? What, do you have intel on a good score there?” Renewed interest lent a dull gleam, like that of gold, to the sceptical gaze. He wasn’t about to trek there on his lonesome, stealing whatever prize this Hypaxes intended for herself. No point in provocation, especially not with the Vulture Court having at least two more sites of their own to explore. For once, there was plenty of pickings for everyone. But the tomb robber was always interested in potential leads.

Does Linguistics work like this?

Not really as written, no. But this specific use was very much intended as just a bit of fun, Luke being ‘fluent’ in swears no matter what the language. To be clear, I meant this as him only recognizing the individual curse words. Not something I’d try using in a more serious scenario. Although I suppose it does make enough sense in my own head, using the one language skill in the game for language related purposes. You and I might not speak French – well, you might, I don’t know – but we can both do a real-life DC 10 Linguistics check to recognize “merde” when we hear it used.

"You." She points at Luke, speaking in Taldane. "Have you heard of or come across the Erudite Eye?"

”Is that an Opparan pub?” the fellow countryman queried by way of answer, dismissively.

And a dismissal it was, he not at all appreciating the haughty woman’s tone. The bright eyes darkened beneath his sinking brow. Senemheb might liken the two of them, two rude foreigners cut from the same cloth. Yet while Luke wasn’t about to correct that innocuous remark, he’d protest if pressed. The supercilious air hanging about this “madame”, thick as a cloud of flies, was that of entitlement and superiority, the prerogative of the privileged. Where that privilege stemmed from, whether blood or station, he could not say. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was how it riled him something fierce. The young man had run out of patience for Taldor’s privileged few before he was old enough to drink.

The hypocrisy of him getting annoyed at another foreigner being rude to the native population was of course lost on simple Luke. Even so, if confronted with this double standard, he would reject the notion of their conduct being in any way equivalent and vehemently so! This Hypaxes was seemingly criticising the Pharasmins for failing to cater to her interests. The tomb robber criticised them for being craven sycophants who chose tonguing the pharaoh’s feet over their own faith. Not at all the same. No, he would not hear any argument as to ‘political concessions’, ‘sensible compromises’ or similar spineless nonsense! People should stand for what they believe in, even if – especially if! – this meant standing up to The Man.

This Erudite Eye, though… Luke had brushed aside the woman’s question reflexively, but considered it seriously the next moment. Not that he’d tell her regardless, but had he ever heard something like this mentioned?

Know (local): 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (5) + 3 = 8
While he does have Know (local) trained, that's not even enough for an aid on the check.

Linguistics: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (19) + 4 = 23
The boy might not have the stats for it, but an uncharacteristic aptitude for language is part of his character and so the dice gods oblige.

"Kam vargti mokantis kalbos, jei viskas, ko ją naudosi, tai menkinti tą kalbą ja kalbantiems žmonėms?" Jolánka mutters under her breath. "Kruvinas nepilnamečių kultūrinis postringavimas šūdas."

"Hah! Careful, Coliukė," the foreigner chided through a grin, as inured to slurs as a pig to mud. "Even on foreign shores, you never know who can follow your native twaddle. I might not have caught every word of that, but I am a damn polyglot when it comes to curses. You ašilas."

Far from offended, the young man appeared - much like the previous day - genuinely amused at Jolánka's insults. For what were some barbs between friends? Or comrades, anyway. Nothing but affirmations, really. Taking and doling proverbial (even literal) punches was the the foundation of male bonding from playground onwards. And Luke? Luke hadn't done much growing up since first vying for his seat on the seesaw.

With a final, very reciprocal, Varisian insult to the dame - If I'm a camel's backside, then you really are a stubborn ass - he sauntered through the door. Wati's streets were busy even at this early hour, and the foreigner navigated them only slowly. The visit to the local bank was as brief as the Abadaran clerks allowed for, followed by a quick visit to the markets. There a weapons dealer sitting in a tent full of enough sharp metal to end the Blood War threw in a new string for the ancient bow if the stranger bought some of his more niche arrows.

These errands completed, Luke looked to the sky. More specifically, he looked to the spires shearing that sky: Pharamsa's church was the group's next destination. Making his way there, he saw - not coincidentally - other members of the Vulture Court fresh from their own market trips. They had all agreed to meet at the Pharasmins' for their next site. My, Senemheb and Amal appeared rather more well armed.

"Expecting trouble?" he asked by way of greeting the pair, nodding to their newly sharpened and reinforced gear.

Sorry if I'm assuming too much here. Have I entirely misunderstood, or were we not supposed to check in with the church for our next mission? Also, we already found some cold iron arrows in the tomb, Djedefre.

"I think we learned quite a lot about Akhentepi and who he was from his resting place. How any of us feel about that notwithstanding."

She shoots an aside glance to Luke.

The pale eyes answered hers in turn, furrowed and looking all the more ridiculous for it glaring over a bowl of fish curry. "The man was an ass, yes," Luke nodded in a pragmatic tone of voice only somewhat obscured by the mouthful around which it had to navigate. "And frankly, I question the validity of any dissertation of yours that doesn't include this verifiable fact."

Verified in every cut, scrape and bruise. What good was a historical biography that couldn't call out its subject for the scum he'd been? Call a spade a spade. There was a time for hedging one's words, sure, yet those times were very few indeed in the Taldan's mind. Meeting the future in-laws and funerals, mostly. Plain speak was the first line of defense against incompetence and tyranny both. It wasn't without reason that his own home country knew no biography but the fawning kind...

The empty bowl was set aside with a satisfied sigh. It wasn't that Luke was particularly bitter at Akhentepi, anyway. No, he'd slept soundly, no thought of the old general interrupting his well-earned rest. The guy was in the dirt, his grave goods were scattered to every corner of the market, and his parting brand was erased. What did the young man have to linger on? Mission accomplished. Right now, sitting among the many treasure seekers of the Tooth & Hookah, his thoughts were more so on the next such mission. The purse secured away in his pack had room for more gold yet.

Although not all that much more. The group's first payday had been greater than anticipated. A visit to the Abadarans this morning could be worthwhile, he mused; deposit all that gold into his bank account. That made two churches he had to endure today. Bleh, Luke didn't particularly like Abadarans or Pharasmins...

Still. They certainly had their use. On the topic of cuts, scrapes and bruises, yesterday's had been the first foray he'd returned from without all three. Djedefre's healing really was a miracle. "That symbol there refers to disease, right?" he remarked over the wise heads examining the cleric's tapestry. "But it's pronounced like... 'oasis'? ...You really have the most horrid language. I'm choosing to interpret that as Akhentepi fell into a lake and caught a deathly cold, the idiot. Don't any of you dare to correct me."

The foreigner left after thanking Farhaan for the meal - in Osiriani at that, however broken. He had some shopping to do before their next excursion.

Buying some 1 gp common arrows (and a dye arrow just for funsies) for the new shortbow, and selling Luke's crowbar for half price. That is assuming he can find a 250 gp Traveler's Any-Tool to replace it with. Think I'll just leave it at that.

"Trenziano, I realize your kind is more used to dealing with fiends than actual people," Luke opined with the patient air of a schoolteacher before the Chelishwoman. "Now, I'm considering your offer keepin' this in mind. And hell, I respect you usin' all your little half-truths, flattery and fancy legalese in fleecing those abominations. It's the only reason I'm not real upset with you right now."

He leaned closer, one paw settling onto the funerary charms that were in contention, his brow sinking into the grim aspect of an entirely different sort of teacher: that ubiquitous disciplinarian happy to dispense his critique through a firm cane. ”But if you try to swindle us again, I’m reporting you to the local Abadarans. And you’d best know the powers here aren’t gonna give foreign entrepreneurs like us a fair shake. Those knick-knacks are worth twice that and you know it!“

They weren’t really – worth all that much, that was. And the Taldan, for his part, knew this. But they could fetch a higher price than the Osirionologist had initially offered, and such was the crude art of haggling, all knowing exaggeration and feigned outrage. One party suggested a valuation to their own advantage, one completely beyond the pale. The other reared in fury with a different price, equally ludicrous, and from there the two could approach a genuine estimate, one wounded contention at a time. It was like two armies trading blows, driving their opponents back scant feet across the battlefield one day and losing as many the other before finally settling on what would become the border of their respective lands. In this particular battle, Luke thought he had more verbal soldiers to spare than the Chelaxian.

”C’mon now. Be reasonable, yeah? Give us your best offer and the eggheads –“ he pointed to the likes of Djehuti and Jolánka ”– will give you the story behind the charms too, free of charge. You call yourself a historian, right? Well, I call that a good deal.”

The young man didn’t particularly like the theatre of such negotiations, direct as he was. Even so, if these were the rules of the game, he’d play to best of his ability.

I do apologize for my absence this past week. Have taken on more responsobilities at work and it's killing what I guess you call the work/life balance. But yes, I too am more than willing to chip in those 112.5 gp to petition the church for a wand of CLW.

Linguistics: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (20) + 4 = 24

Luke let out a brisk bark of a laugh at the obscenity. Taldane or Osiriani, now the kid was speaking his language. "Hey now," he replied, voice equally low in volume yet loud with mock-concern. "If you can't watch your language, I'm afraid I'll have to inform your mother."

The young man made made to rise, intent on searching the mansion for the fabled Mrs El-Irfan. A feint, of course, just to get another rise out of poor Amal. He dropped himself back onto a cushion, chuckling around another bite of stuffed eggplant. A fellow black sheep, huh? So he guessed by the response; he hadn't known the kid to be overly sweary in their admittedly brief acquaintance.

Bit of a shame, that. For Luke had been ready to drop all semblance of sympathy towards what he had suspected to be a hapless urchin when said boy was revealed as the little princeling he truly was. Compassion, as all other things, was a finite resource. Why waste it on the privileged? Besides, business relations like these tended to go a lot more smoothly without pesky camaraderie muddying the waters. Yet now a sense of blasted kinship was roused within the Taldan, one problem child to another. Yeah, darn shame.

Though on the topic of swearing and propriety, even the Caradoc scion had learned some common courtesy. "Thank you kindly, Mr El-Irfan," he duly said, rubbing at his now entirely smooth forehead. Submitting to foreign magic was never agreeable, but he held back from checking whether the elder wizard had added a pair of rabbit ears or something to him in the process. Similar restraint saw the foreigner hesitate before adding, "You know, your Amal was a real asset out there today. Handled himself well."

Another attempt at embarrassing the Wati native? Perhaps. But if so, it was delivered with one hell of a straight face. Maybe his intent was to embarrass Amal. Maybe his intent was more benign. After all, Luke knew that one's father could be there one day and be gone the next.

Bare feet trailed water in following the others into the sitting room, Luke having decided to leave his well-worn boots in the pool. Might as well get them cleaned while they were here. What was the point of hospitality if not to abuse it?

The young man gave a little sigh at his own thoughts, always a dire portent. No, of course generosity was not to be abused. And a part of him - the part that spoke with his mother's disappointed voice - worried about seeming rude. But he couldn't help it. Luke had a rebellious streak wider than the Pit of Gormuz, full of ill-tempered beasts much like that infamous crag. And nothing roused their tempers quite like inequity. The fat cats, the moneybags, the lords of the world. People like Akhentepi in his gilded tomb. People like the elder El-Irfan in his magical mansion. It wasn't that he begrudged people their success. Hells below, everyone was entitled to the sweat off their brow and all that. Nor did he resent anyone the circumstances of their birth. No princeling could help being born into wealth.

It was just the abuse of such power. That was what rankled at the Taldan, mayhap precisely because he was Taldan. Once the navel of the globe, today the decadent nation was only the epicenter of degenerate nobility, corrupt politicians. He couldn't help but be suspicious of anyone in a position of power.

No title, Luke thought to himself. Though the others called him 'Master', this was a plain honorific afforded a gracious host. So, he considered in eyeing the older man, this Hafiz probably hadn't inherited whatever riches it took to construct a manor like this. Actually, considering the arcane nature of the place and the guy's vocation, he may even have built it himself. One of these so-called self-made men, perhaps? Wielding this thought like a lion tamer did his whip, the foreigner fought back the snarling somethings of his mind. He wouldn't judge. He would be civil. He'd try to, anyway.

An increasingly difficult task as it turned out. "Abadar's golden balls..." he swore lowly, shaking his head as ephemeral musicians and dancers were conjured out of thin air. Such ostentation! Fearing his own tongue, Luke let the others talk, distracting himself with the nearest food. A stuffed eggplant kept his mouth occupied. A particularly shapely shadow-dancer kept his eyes similarly so. Yet his ears - those couldn't help but catch the uncomfortable tone in Amal's voice.

The heck does the kid have to be worried about?

It seemed a reasonable query. His father playing the perfect host and his family home the lap of luxury, Luke initially didn't understand what Amal should be embarrassed at. The boy was even back with good tidings, their mission a success in part thanks to his own sword arm.

Oh. Oooh. An accomplished wizardly father. An equally impressive mother if the casual mention of a continent spanning trip was anything to go by. And a son who bludgeoned desert bugs with a sharpened stick. One of these was not like the other. The thuggish Taldan thought of his own academic family. The two of them might have more in common than first suspected.

He leaned somewhat towards the younger man before pointedly asking, "Hey, so does the 'black sheep' expression translate into Osiriani?" The usually so cynical eyes were looking less so.

The mad lad did it. We have a new GM, God bless.

"Not blue blood," they almost snatch the scroll away from Marwanun, in their hurry to go away. "We're not aristocrats."

"Could've fooled me." A fish so colorful it might have escaped a kaleidoscope nibbled at something caught under his toenail, the Taldan watching along dubiously.

Those same wary eyes rose to take in the group's abundant surroundings. The high vaulted ceiling. The coral fish occupied fountain. The sheer space. The sheer magical space, notably. Even having just entered, it was clear how the place was brimming with hocus-pocus, from the endless water to the unseen servants to the seemingly extradimensional hall that housed these. Hells below. Magically illiterate as Luke was, even he knew quarters like these required some serious wizardry.

It was a far cry from what he had imagined for Amal. Wondering what drove someone so young into tomb spelunking, he had speculated whether the job was one of desperation for the teenager. Did he come from a struggling household, perhaps? Was there a home to return to at all? Was the young companion an orphan? Blunt as the foreigner could be, he was not without sympathy. He knew that his own upbringing had been rather privileged by most standards, the Caradocs counted among Taldor's scant upper middle class, a precarious social strata constantly eroded by the nation's established old money.

To which he now felt a fool. For Luke might as well have been raised in a pauper's hovel compared to the arcane manor Amal apparently called home. Sympathy really is for rubes, huh? The blackened nail that was cynicism dug a little deeper into his heart.

Turning to the newly revealed rich kid, Luke was about to ask what was up with the sour expression, he looking like he'd just rinsed his sinuses with vinegar. After all, what could a princeling such as he possibly have to worry about? This inquiry was interrupted by a new arrival, one demanding their attention. The slight man descending the staircase was presumably the master of the house, a fact that set the Taldan's spine rigid. For any master of a home such as this likely wielded not-insignificant power, magical or monetary.

"I suspect that the expedition was successful, then?"

"It was." Direct as a barreling bull, the reply was delivered in native Taldane despite the speaker's apparent understanding of Osiriani. "Though not without some snags." A long finger pointed to the hieroglyph branded into his forehead. "You the elder El-Irfan? We were told by a Marwanun - from the church - that you could help us remove these."

So on the topic of selling loot. Luke has that trait which allows for selling "relics of Ancient Osirion for 60% of their listed price, rather than the normal 50% value." What constitutes a relic is of course up to the GM, but given that it's usually just PC equipment like weapons, armor, magic stuff and the like that's beholden to this 50% convention, there's isn't that much among the loot this trait applies to.

The armor, I'm guessing? Along with perhaps the MW longbow, but the GM will have to confirm whether these count as 'relics'.

Not sure about the group receiving more than our allotted locations, but realistically, finding the right buyers and whatnot would likely take a few hours, right? So it'd be approaching evening before we could get back to the Necropolis. I got the impression that the place isn't so welcoming at night.

"I agree. And the sooner you get your brands removed the sooner I get my hat back," Jolánka adds.

"No takesies-backsies among thieves," Luke drawled, a wryly humorous glint in the bright eyes avoiding the Dame entirely. "Looks better on me, anyway."

Jolánka was free to retrieve her hat at any time, of course. She'd planted it on his head and could take it back whenever, if she could manage. It wasn't like the Taldan was particularly bothered by anyone seeing the brand beneath. Though no doubt intended to shame tomb robbers, he regularly introduced himself as such. There was no staining a blackened pot.

No, the young man's desire to get rid of the mark was purely a matter of pride. He didn't want it obvious how Akhentepi had gotten one over him. Although on a more practical note, haggling a decent price for the old general's goods would probably be a fair bit easier without very literally carrying a sign reading 'thieves'.

"The wizard it is then," he therefore concluded. "Could you lead us there now, 'sister'?"

Looking forward to your lengthy post introducing your dad, Amal!

Amal and Luke engage in some pretty vitriolic rivalry

What's funny is that Luke thinks he's been downright nurturing to his young padawan.

"We are licensed thieves." Senemheb muses.

A sentiment the self-described tomb robber could only agree with. "Hah. Like the privateers of Taldor and Cheliax." An amusing enough image, the group sailing sand dunes rather than the great big blue, uncovering what was buried rather than sunken. He was about to ask Senemheb whether he had come round to the idea of raiding ruins when a shadow descended upon the young man.

The hat didn't fit particularly well.

"..."

'Dumbfounded' was a strong word, but the occasion did find Luke struck dumb. Stopping mid-stride to watch the Ustalavan stroll away without a word, he had to wonder what she was playing at. This query was stymied by a notion obstructing his mind. While he hadn't caught her in the act, it somehow stood out to him vividly: the inane image of the slight woman tiptoeing in reaching to place the hat on his head.

An unbidden smirk tugged at the stubbly mouth. So she insisted, huh? On 'building rapport'. He shook his head, wide brim and all. Come to think of it, Jolánka had compared him to a camel's backside on more than one occasion, yet it seemed to him the missie was as stubborn as the camels she was so intimately familiar with.

The harsh sun actually wasn't so bad in a hat like this. Gradually, without his noticing, the smirk transitioned into something not so cynical, not so wry; something like the closest approximation to a genuine smile the foreigner had worn since arriving in Osirion. Stubbornness was not a bad trait in his book.

"Oh ... oh dear. That's not very flattering, now is it?"

"You should see the other guy."

Luke was content enough to let the others discuss the finer points of corpse desecration, he keeping a sharp eye on the albino crocodile throughout. If the 'sister' thought the beast safe, then he would abide by that judgement. Outsider that he was, the famed reptiles weren't familiar to him. Nevertheless, one hand never left the pommel of his sword. Hell's horses, the thing was big enough to swallow a halfling whole.

"Yeah, adorable," he muttered, an ironic little burr joining in the Ustalavan's admiration.

When matters turned to the monetary, the Taldan gave a light kick to the rope-bound chest imprisoning the ornery construct. Just as intended, the container began rattling in demonstration. "I take it we're free to sell any artifacts as we please? I have a couple market opportunities I'd like to follow up on."

Selling to the highest bidder would of course be preferable. Though on the topic of monetary gain, he was somewhat surprised when Marwanun offered the scrolls free of charge. "That's... very good of you. Thanks. Are you sure we can't pay you for those? We'll have the funds for it soon enough."

While not one to reject charity, Luke didn't like being in anyone's debt.

"May Ammit feast you slow, thiefs!"

"He'll choke on us first, you rumdum!" the Taldan answered in equally broken Osirian.

The adage of suffering no fools gladly went double for what he assumed to be drunkards. Luke plodded onwards with the rest of the group, one squinting eye on the church's steeples in navigating Wati's streets. He'd found that Pharasmins' love of spires was a good waymarker in most cities. Although even in leaving the belligerent natives behind, he could only nod in agreement to Senemheb's call for a cold beer. They earned one today.

"You may want to adopt a hat or scarf or other head covering for the next few days."

"Not leaving it that long," Luke replied in shaking his head emphatically. "Don't want to give the old general the satisfaction."

Surely some spell-for-hire could be found in town, someone to magic away what amounted to temporary scars? Not that the young man really believed Akhentepi was observing them from beyond the veil, grinning and hooting. It was just the principle of the thing. You didn't let spiteful misers win.

Erase is an amusingly broad spell. I remember it canonically being able to erase even tattoos in Rise of the Runelords.

He listened. That, at the very least, was something. Crude as the tomb robber could be, he had that curious sense of honour that demanded one hear out one’s detractor before laying them out flat. Alas, the furrowed brow only sank lower with the Ustalavan’s every word. By the time she’d said her piece, Jolánka might as well have opened her mouth to reveal a giant slug for a tongue, such was his grimace. Build rapport? Look out for him? Was this chit for real?

This was Miss Vesta all over again. Miss Vesta had been the Caradoc siblings’ tutor, one of these young governess types. A nice enough girl, he now realized, although that hadn’t always been his sentiment. As a child, he couldn’t stand her. Always after him about playing nice with the others, minding his manners, not climbing the trees, and, above all, to ‘be good’. And not in any nagging way, either. No, that was the worst of it: that she was so damn saccharine. The lady was wholesome as freshly baked bread, genuinely wishing to set him straight for his own good. “Kindness doesn’t cost a thing!” she’d say, smile honest as if she’d just stepped down the Mount o’ Heaven. Gods, Luke could still hear her voice, hear the smile in her voice, echoing through the dimly lit halls of his mindspace. She’d be all for Jolánka’s rapport.

Of course, he wasn’t the black sheep of the family for nothing. Somehow this earnestness, this conviviality, never sat right with him, well before he understood why exactly. And so, to the sincere Miss Vesta’s grief, he had continually rebelled. Orders were defied, classes skipped, chores sabotaged. To his limited credit, Luke felt just a bit bad about this now. The young miss hadn’t deserved a hellion like himself. But it’d been one such mutinous excursion that had clarified the nature of the rift between them, why he found her ‘goodness’ so intolerable: the night of his first drink.

He remembered it clearly. He’d been fourteen and had snuck out at night. His destination? The Bell & Rooster, a nearby tavern. His goal? To get drunk. His reasoning? Nil. Just dumb youthful rebellion seeking out the forbidden fruit precisely because it was forbidden. He’d anticipated some obstacles on this quest, notably the city guard wondering what a kid was doing meandering about so late at night. What he hadn’t expected was the chief obstacle being the purveyor of the brew himself. For upon reaching the inebriating Elysium and slamming stolen gold onto the bar, the landlord, a bald, burly bloke with a striking resemblance to his own barrels, had refused him service. Not only that; he’d laughed him off. ‘Snot-nosed whelp,’ he’d called him. ‘Pipsqueak’. ‘Stripling.’ ‘Half a head removed from a halfling.’ The young Caradoc was dismissed as all this and more before being advised to return in some years’ time. A dog’s age, perhaps.

Predictably, a vain teen hadn’t taken kindly to this. Words were exchanged, words of such nature as would make the good Miss Vesta faint. When tempers reached their fever pitch, the young man was told in no uncertain terms to p*ss off. When he refused, he was introduced to a most persuasive argument in the form of the landlord’s fist. His recollection of events was fuzzy after that. He remembered waking up to a city guard demanding to know why he was lying on the street in the dead of night all bruised. He certainly remembered his parents’ reprimands the morning after. But the memory that stood out most vividly, the sensation the young man still carried with him today was this: pride. He’d been insulted. He’d been cussed out. He’d been beaten. He had, in other words, been treated like an adult. And this, this he realized, was the schism between himself and the really very nice governess. Miss Vesta was good to him and his siblings, yes. But only because she saw them as something to protect, something innocent, something beneath herself. She wasn’t wrong, of course. They were mere children. Yet for Luke, laddish as he was, this was intolerable. Nothing less than total equality was enough for him. And equality meant accountability. Sometimes, as he learned that night, that meant taking some punches, verbal or literal. That landlord, crude as he was, had treated him more fairly than Vesta ever had.

‘Nice’ was patronizing, condescending, infantilizing. An empty gesture given to keep people in check. But a harsh word, a swear, a fist to the face, even? There was nothing more honest than that.

The Taldan’s narrowed eyes shifted, attention drawn by some commotion at the tomb’s entrance. He looked back to Jolánka, this university girl who objected to his harsh words, who wanted to make nice. "Dame... Just buy a guy a drink."

With that, he turned to deal with the intruders. She was overthinking this. Big surprise, the egghead overthinking things. Luke didn't dislike her. He didn't dislike anyone among the so-called Vulture Court. That was precisely why he wouldn't do them the disservice of speaking anything but the honest truth to them, vulgarities and all. Anything else would be disrespectful.

She should call him a camel's arse more often. He didn't like it, but he respected the sentiment.

I’m sure he’s just playing hard to get.

The half-elf's eyes were not downcast, taking in her party's surroundings, and when her eyes fell on the Vulture Court she smirked, giving someone among you a wink.

"What are you looking at?"

The foreigner managed to growl as much in passing, the other group disappearing among the sund-dusted ruins soon enough. He rubbed at his branded forehead in thought.

"Nah, never seen 'em before," he answered Djehuti's speculation. "Probably just gloating at the label Akhentepi stamped onto half of us." Dammit, they really needed to figure out how to remove those.

Haha. Int 8 Fighter quoting an obscure 400 year old politician. :D

The Int 8 Fighter from an academic family with an entire class feature dedicated to memorization, akshually! We numpties are gonna have to stick together against these elitist Ivy Leaguers, Amal.

"What? What did I say?" It was a strangely startled Luke that looked to the Ustalavan as she, not for the first time, compared him to a camel's backside, his peepers seemingly growing in unfurling from their typical squinting cynicism into wide-eyed confusion. The confusion was genuine, too. Accustomed as he was to the direct, often rude, speech of scoundrels and the most laddish of lads, the young man didn't always grasp the more oblique social ways of... well, most normal people, really. Or indeed women, if one was to be trite.

Hard-headed as he was, however, he recovered quickly enough. The Taldan had never been one to let an insult go unanswered even if he wasn't entirely sure what their dispute was. Something to figure out along the way. "No, listen, why don't you walk your clever clogs over to this 'common ground' of yours and leave me be, yeah? Facts are facts! The armour's bad and that's that, alright?! And the kid's sword arm is as good as mine!" He wedged another chest under one pit to point towards Amal. "And you’re right to call me out just as the elf’s wrong for keeping mum! We should say what we mean! And I hope your dad’s alright!" A pause heavy with aimless energy. "I don’t know what we’re arguing about!"

Nope, not this time. He was still in the dark as to what this whole confrontation was about, his defence meandering. They already had common ground in raiding tombs! What more could a group need?!

Deciding on exiting the conversation by force, Luke merely huffed and climbed the rope, following his younger brother-in-arms and the priest. They needed someone with heft topward to pull all this stuff up, anyway.

Perception: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (3) + 6 = 9

A task he found himself too preoccupied with to spot whatever had Djedefre and Amal so occupied.

Nice roll, Jolánka.

But yes, think I'll take the compound shortbow with arrows, thanks for the reminder, Djehuti. The +2 Str rating makes up for the lower damage die compared to the longbow. Adding these to Luke's sheet.

Djehuti shrugs. "It is not my place to question the judgment of the leaders of the Church."

"Sure it is." His expression was hidden behind the chest jostling on one shoulder in traversing the complex's halls, but Luke's tone was direct, as pragmatic as only a tomb robber's could be. "You're a person, aren't you? What do you think the church's leadership consists of? Just people, that's all. Them having fancier robes than you doesn't make them right."

If anything, the young man's admittedly limited interactions with the fat cats of decadent Taldor had given him the impression they were usually wrong. It was a notion buoyed on the rebelliousness so typical of the young and disaffected. Like a hoary dragon stirring from its century-long slumber, this anti-authoritarian streak reared within him.

Not that he could muster much fire right now. No, the day's trials had been entirely too tiring for that, so Luke merely went on, calmly: "There's this saying back home my dad once told me. An nescis, mi fili, quantilla prudentia mundus regatur? It was said by this statesman to his son, upon the latter being intimidated at the idea of joining the ranks of great politicians himself or whatever. I don't speak Azlanti, but I'm pretty sure it translates to, 'Do you not know, my son, with how very little wisdom the world is governed?'"

His long strides were regular, even in stepping over the husks of the bugs they'd bested earlier. "It's true. The silk-stockings in charge are as dumb as the rest of us, and when they fail, ain't no one gonna kick their generous backsides in order but us. So don't dismiss your own opinion, elf. Respect isn't worth the cost of self-respect."

The foreigner's inclinations could evidently express themselves in something beyond grumblings about native cuisine and local history. Which didn't feel incongruous to Luke himself. After all, a healthy dislike of the high & mighty of society was in part how he justified ransacking their tombs.

"This is some really impressive armor, to have survived fully intact for so long...I have to wonder if maybe its value to us may be more than monetary. I think one of us may be able to get it refitted to them and wear it, especially Luke. What better revenge against Akhentepi than to wear his armor into battle and earn greater fame than he so it becomes known as YOUR armor rather than his?""

"Oh, get off it," Luke replied, pursing his stubbly mouth as if in dismissing flattery. "I mean, yeah, that's some quality spite you're serving and I approve wholeheartedly. But you're barking up the wrong tree. 'Fame in battle'? Dame, I'm a grave robber, not a glory hound. I don't want fame. That tends to be an obstacle in this business, getting in the way of what I actually do want, that being cold hard dosh."

The supposedly so pragmatic man set down the chest with a thud, the group having reached the entrance shaft. He huffed in squinting up the darkened tunnel. The rope hung there still, easing the long-brewing fear at the back of his mind that they were all going to starve down here. "Still," he huffed, "if you've got any other ideas for spiting Akhentepi, don't hesitate to speak up." The sceptical eyes fell on the eponymous armor. A practical man had to least see what the fuss was about. "And maybe pass me that thing. Lemme have a look at it."

The inspection that followed was as brief as its conclusion, however. "Trash." The ancient armament was tossed back to Djehuti like a dirtied rag. A rejection so offhanded for so fine an armor called for some justification which Luke, to his limited credit, tried providing.

"No, listen," he said defensively. "This isn't just me being all snide with all things Osirian or what have you - even if this design is gods-awful... This thing is one step removed from the stuffy sweater your grandma made you that one birthday! It's just cloth! I don't care how much witch juice its been soaking in! Not when the leather I'm already wearing is twice as durable and half-again as thick. My stream could punch through this rag after a late night at the tavern!"

Glad as I'd normally be to receive so valuable an item, I'm going to pass. Yeah, the -2 to AC just isn't worth it, even with the fancy enchantments. Besides, I'd feel plain guilty to deny the party a whopping 5000 gp.

Speaking of, that comp. shortbow would suit Luke pretty well if no one else wants it. It'd make for another tool in the kit, and he has both the Dex and Str for it.

I recall it needing a new string, GM. How much would that usually cost, and what's the Str rating on the thing?

"In Osirion the belief is that if a person is remembered they never truly die."

The foreigner's face twisted into the sort of world-weary frown one might expect on a melon farer in Irrisen. "Remind me to run into a wall and give myself a concussion on the way out, then..."

He shrugged one shoulder, settling the weight of the chest in carrying it out.

"Shall we close this back up and head out?"

"See," Luke sighed through a wry grin, "you say that as if our work hasn't just begun."

He looked from the treasure chests here to the grave goods in the previous chamber. A whole lot of plunder. And more still waiting in rooms traversed earlier. "Funny thing about about treasure huntin' is how if you're successful, you have to take on a less glamorous part next: pack mule."

The Taldan began tossing their varied findings into what seemed the sturdiest of the chests before heaving it up on one shoulder. Man, hoisting all this stuff up the entrance shaft was gonna be a pain.