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His eyes meet Luke's.

The Taldan gave a vague shrug in reply. "I mean, I'll give it a try. I guess. If you think it's all that..."

Adamantine, huh? He'd heard of that. Wasn't it that fancy steel? The one idiot rich kids bragged about to their idiot rich kid friends? "My horse is of this-or-that lineage, my stockings are so-and-so silken, my sword is made from what-ever-the-heck ore"? Those sort of nonsense trophies blue-bloods used to one-up each other in the endless pageantry that was their lives, all just meaningless status symbols. Gods, he hated the aristocracy.

Well, meaningless in all but expense. Luke was unsure whether he should be impressed at the weapon or not. He was fairly sure the material was beyond all but the biggest of bigwigs, and while this triggered his healthy dislike of high society, it conversely also tickled the young man's avarice. Not only that, now sensibly minded Djehuti assured them the metal had actual practical value beyond being a badge of prestige. Strong enough to batter down a wall? An exaggeration, surely.

Albeit an intriguing one. With only slight reluctance, he accepted the proffered flail from the elf. It was heavy, heavier than it looked. And it looked plenty heavy. In truth, the tomb robber was somewhat attached to his plain longsword, it so clearly being an artifact of Taldan design. He might have more than a few issues with his decadent home country, but patriotism was a notoriously difficult dragon to slay. Some vestige of it would always cling to the mortal soul. That said, the utilitarian appearance of the weapon appealed to him. Given how it was so sought after by the rich and powerful, Luke had expected something gaudy and glittery. This was not that. The handle was worn and plain. It could just as well have terminated in a farmer's hoe as a striking head. And said head, made of that much vaunted adamantine, was merely black and dull.

It was odd, actually. While seemingly so innocuous, there was a contrast between the handle and flail that only became apparent with scrutiny. For while one was weathered, the other was... immaculate. Almost unnaturally so. It wasn't just that the metal appeared entirely unmarred, as if freshly forged. No, it was subtler than that. It was in the coolness of its touch. It felt cold in Luke's hand, even in the midday heat. It was in the dullness of its surface. The Osirian sun hardly reflected on its exterior, no matter how bright. Holding it in one's hand... It was the strangest sensation, but holding it felt as were you grasping something inviolable, something the world about it was powerless against. Never mind its hardness; even heat and light could not pierce it. Impervious as a paladin's oath. Centuries could pass, empires could fall, stars could blink out and this thing would remain. Not a metal - a piece of permanence.

But not trusting funny feelings, the practical young man frowned and then shook first his head and then the flail: he suddenly swung it at an errant brick. The piece of stonework had survived falling from one of the dilapidated buildings. It did not survive contact with the formidable weapon. When little but dust remained, Luke lifted the adamantine head to his eyes. There wasn't a scratch on it.

"...It has a nice heft to it," he nodded, not unsatisfied.

Yeah, the thing is worth a lot of cash, but adamantine weapons are indeed great and I'll happily keep it. Pretty much a strict upgrade for Luke.

Merry Christmas, you filthy animal(s).

"Your father sounds like a good man."

The grunt she got in reply was so noncommittal, the Dame might as well have remarked on a patch of dust. Suspiciously so, in fact. For Luke was indeed less than eager to share about the man, his feelings on the recently departed still raw. No, not just raw - complicated. Had he been a 'good man', he wondered? The Caradoc patriarch had been a kindly soul, for sure. Patient. Helpful. A hard worker. All good qualities, yet 'good' men didn't leave their families with a hamlet's worth of debt upon passing. Good fathers in particular didn't leave humongous messes for their sons to clean up.

Sand crunched beneath his boots as the young man climbed the stairs. Grah, not the most salient subject right now, he told himself, not with ghosts and ghoulies round every corner. This new perception of his dad - this torn portrait of his father hanging in Luke's mind palace was his own to deal with on his own time. He regretted mentioning him at all, here of all places.

Why had he even brought him up, the young man questioned? The anecdote had just blurted out so casually. Probably because of Jolánka herself, he realized. The Dame had mentioned her own father on more than one occasion now. That good ol' Taldan upbringing, code of courtesy ingrained and inescapable, demanded one reciprocate. People really were nothing but trained dogs, huh? You could take the Taldan out of Taldor, but you couldn't take Taldor out of the Taldan.

Luke reminded himself that he should ask her why she kept comparing him to her dad one of these days.

"Huh." Having reached the second floor, the nearest door gave the foreigner pause. "Doors. None of those below."

A mere coincidence of architecture and Father Time? Or an intentional bit of upkeep from whatever monstrosity resided here? They'd already seen indications that someone here appreciated ghoulish ornamentation. Did that extend to domestic maintenance? Somehow the young man had trouble imagining the undead with hammer and nails...

Eh, whatever. "Here goes." Nodding to the others, he kicked the door in.

Blink and you'll miss it. One second the space was all skulls flying at them as if substitute-tomatoes hurled by the most vitriolic - to say nothing of morbid - of audiences. Then a flash, and the next - nothing. The dining room fell silent save for the light clatter of silverware wobbling and tumbling in the wake of the positive energy pulse unleashed by the cleric. There wasn't even any bone left to thud to the floor.

"You know, I'm coming around on this Ra fellow," an admittedly impressed Luke whistled. "Might not like how he works, but I respect the results. Like a gong farmer. Everyone alright?"

All but Amal who had taken the brunt of the aerial assault, but he was quickly seen to by the selfsame priest. Another point in the celestial's favor. This left the Taldan free to inspect what really mattered: that glittering crockery.

"Better they be cleaned up and sold to someone who will actually use them. I had a great-aunt with a massive collection of foreign tableware and porcelain, and it just sat in dusty cabinets for her to stare at while she ate with the same chipped dishes and bent cutlery every day the whole time we lived with her."

"That's funny," the young man replied, somewhat distracted in shoveling the stuff into his pack, "In my case it was dear old dad. While the tableware was this 1200 year-old Osirian clay mug he insisted on taking his morning tea from. Chipped the rim of it with his teeth one day. Was depressed for a week afterwards, the old fool..."

These archeologists... They might pretend at being 'men of science' and all that malarkey, but Luke knew better. He knew they were more sentimental than the national anthem as sung by drunkards. It was why they got into the gig, out of sheer love for the lost and forgotten. Well, those who weren't just in it for the money, anyway. Like himself.

"I wouldn't mind if you took the lead for the next room."

"My turn to get jumped?" The lopsided grin was only half-cynical. "Sure. Fair enough, kid."

Which it really was. Luke was under no pretense that his primary job on these expeditions was anything other than taking blows and dishing them out in kind. He wasn't like most others in the group - or indeed his dad. He didn't have that appreciation for history in him. What he had was a moderately strong arm and the stronger will to see a job through. And it was with that the young man cautiously marched back to the staircase they'd spied earlier. After all...

"No room left on this floor, is there? Time to see what monster is hiding in the attic..."

Could of course go out and see the full extent of the yard, but we might as well finish up the house while we're at it.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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."

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.

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.

I too will be boring and take the halved hit die. Simple faire for Fighters, though.

+1 BAB
+8 HP (6 HD, 1 Con, 1 FC)
+2 Fort
New feat: Combat Stamina
All of two skill points which, given how others are covering Know (local), I think go in Perception and Stealth, the two skills I'll be pumping going forward.

That should be that. Except for the background skills which now see Luke speaking modern Osiriani in the most horrid accent imaginable (think Brad Pitt's Italian in Inglorious Basterds). Also deducted two torches from his equipment.

While he didn't didn't disapprove, Luke too was surprised at the willingness to shear open the general's bindings. He'd been content to abscond with the golden mask, not even having noted the precious stones woven into the wrappings, but certainly wasn't going to object. Working with this group was perhaps going to be easier than feared.

Looming over the open coffin, the bright eyes followed Djehuti's long fingers with appreciation, the digits obviously as skilled with brittle corpses as sensitive mechanisms.

Perception (or should that be Sense Motive?): 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (16) + 5 = 21

Yet perceptive as they were, those eyes caught onto something else entirely, landing on his less than pleased compatriot.

Oh boy. Kid's looking more sour than an ogre's socks.

The Taldan sighed. Self-professed tomb raider though he was, it wasn't as if he didn't understand Amal's misgivings. Heck, he'd been the one railing against this whole state-sanctioned grave robbing malarkey and the church's hypocrisy in facilitating it. Yeah, he himself was profiting from the venture and happily so, but that didn't make it right. He was a scoundrel! He wasn't to be trusted on matters of morality!

Maybe that was why the Pharasmins' part in all this bothered him so, Luke reflected. While riddled with a great many faults, the young man was at the very least self-aware. He knew there was no honor in grave robbing. The reason he was able to engage in it regardless was the ability to compartmentalize, to pack that moral compass of his into a deep, deep pocket while he did what needed doing. That was what made him a scoundrel. That was what made him a hypocrite. And how was it the saying went? 'The fox smells his own trail first'?

Like recognized like. And no matter his own stink, Luke thought this whole expedition reeked to high heavens.

But as said, he could compartmentalize. He could brush off the supposed angel on his shoulder in favor of cold, hard dosh. Yet he knew that wasn't the case for all. It shouldn't be so for all. The eyes narrowed, taking in the kid. He huffed. Sometimes he really wished he was the dumb brute some assumed. It'd make for a simpler existence, one not plagued by stupid ruminations on ethics like these.

"Hey, Djedefre," he said, turning to the god-spawn. "You wanna maybe, I dunno, say a few words? You know, something traditional, preferably ancient? Just as we close the coffin again. To be respectful and all that."

He didn't deserve it, Luke thought to himself. Akhentepi, that was. That slave-keeping warlord had tried to drown the lot of them and didn't deserve anything but the fire of whatever hell he surely found himself in now. But the foreigner figured maintaining a group was much like maintaining a marriage: it was about the give-and-take. Or so his mother had told him, anyway. That every party involved had to give some concessions to the other.

He wasn't sure a gesture like this would appease Amal, but he thought it worth trying. After all, the group had more tombs to raid.

Woo, level.

When they make eye contact with Luke, the look Amal gives him has a distinct air of "I-told-you-so" - though it's more irritated than smug.

Appraise: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (18) + 5 = 23

"Keep glaring, kid, the Taldan chuckled over one shoulder, looking up from the grave goods. "You need the practice. Like the death stare of a puppy..."

The high lament of cloth being torn was heard, Luke emerging from the many boxes, urns and chests like a diver from the surf. In his hand was a clasp still grasping a few disintegrating threads. It was in the shape of a scarab and appeared to be solid gold. He smiled wolfishly in examining the glittering prize beneath his torch. "Don't know what's got you feelin' so puffed up, anyway. We find the dragon hoard and the only thing guarding it is an unlocked door and some bugs? I was right. That threat was toothless."

Bugs waiting on the intruders to conjure them at that. Yeah, he felt more than a little vindicated in calling the warning outside for the posturing it was. So let Amal or whoever else smear away! He could sling mud with the best of them! Never mind ancient Osirian curses; the foreigner was damned with entirely too much machismo to let baseless accusations lie.

Which was why him ignoring Djedefre's harsh charge - that he had nearly gotten them all killed - might appear odd. For Luke let those words pass unanswered, unfair though they were. Pardon the grave robber for being the one to investigate a sarcophagus among this supposed team of investigators! Besides which, that animated obelisk had jumped him before he'd even touched it! Go ahead, blame travelers for trolls leaping out at them from under bridges. And who was the priest to levy all of this anyway?! The god-spawn had been the one nipping at his heels climbing that dais!

His brow sank into the curmudgeonly. Even so, Luke's tongue remained firmly clenched between his teeth. Because, in truth, he didn't particularly mind being the bad guy. Not for the right cause. It was a role one consigned themselves to when taking up tomb robbing. The right cause in this case being Amal. Because as near as the Taldan had surmised in the chaos of the burial chamber, it had been the kid who'd activated the flood trap. He couldn't be sure, of course. But it was after all he who had messed about with the northern doors.

And so what? So nothing, as far as the Taldan was concerned. All blame lay squarely on Akhentepi, the murderous warlord who designed this giant puzzle box. No village was responsible for provoking a rampaging horde of orcs. Yet if the rest of the group were this eager to direct blame at one of their own, then he wasn't about to divert that blame onto one so young. That sort of thing could wreck a growing boy, self-reproach especially.

So it was that the foreigner merely busied himself rummaging about the ancient's generals provisions for the Great Beyond whilst the others fussed with the spell-trap. Although, he thought looking up from a quiver full of fancy arrows, it was odd. The trap being at the far wall, behind the goods. If Akhentepi wanted to protect these grave goods, then why not place the glyph on the doorway here? That didn't make much sense.

Unless whatever was beyond the secret door was even more valuable.

"Let's," he answered Senemheb.

Luke still thinks Amal is quite a bit younger than he really is. Also, don't know who's keeping the loot list up to date, but good job!

"Amal, Luke, Senemheb! We have to shove these doors closed or we're going to drown!"

"Little busy here!" an irate Taldan yelled back, only just audible over the rushing water. What had him so occupied was of course the ton-heavy animated brick stomping about. For there was nothing so urgent as eventual death than immediate death. 'Maiora premunt,' as the learned and/or pretentious of Oppara would say.

All Luke could think to say was "Whoa!" in darting back, saving his precious little toes from becoming precious little pancakes as aforementioned brick crashed down just where his foot had been. Yet as it turned out, the young man had not been the aim of this stampeding foray. Swinging its mighty bulk around, the sarcophagus collided into Amal instead, recently joined in the foray. At least the kid managed to keep himself from being subsequently swallowed, even if the damn thing hit like... well, like a stone coffin flung through the air. Calistria's quim, this was madness!

Fortunately, both were bolstered by Djedefre yet again. The cleric opened his being to the divine, acting as conduit to power beyond this world. The golden glow radiating from him wiped away the bruises from Amal and Luke like light wiped away shadow. Which certainly helped. "Thanks, holy man!" But if they were to survive this, the foreigner thought he needed to put the 'pro-' in 'reactive'.

Dropping the crowbar where he stood, Luke drew his sword to clench both hands about it. This was going to take all his strength. Rearing back like the great warhorses of his homeland, he brought the blade down in an overhead swing, one with all the power and subtlety of their opponent. Which was to say plenty of the former, nil of the latter. But then the young man had always preferred fighting fire with fire. So much more satisfying to beat the bullies of the world at their own game.

Attack (longsword): 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (20) + 4 = 24
Crit confirm?: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (15) + 4 = 19

Damage: 1d8 + 9 ⇒ (4) + 9 = 13 That gets doubled for 26.

The shock of the blow, steel on stone, was such that Luke's mitts were rendered momentarily numb. All the more gratifying to know it must have felt worse still for the construct, he thought, grimly pleased. Only to realize that an animated contraption such as this probably didn't feel anything at all. The stubbly mouth drooped into a frown. Way to rob a man of the simple pleasures, Akhentepi.

Keeping Luke's HP up to date.

Oof. Well, at least that ate up a crit, I guess. Do you want to treat that at as a crit, GM?

So this was what being caught in a mouse trap felt like. A crackling sensation with accompanying pain shot out from Luke's ribs as the heavy lid of the sarcophagus snapped shut about his middle, crushing him against its stone shell. As far as hurting went, this ranked up there for the young man; somewhere in between that kidney shot he'd taken in a bar brawl, and the aftermath of confessing to that girl he then learned was a distant cousin. Who proceeded to take it upon her to laughingly inform the entire family. At least the whole whizzing red thing had only lasted a few days. His sisters still wouldn't let him forget the latter affair...

As though sensing a challenge, the coffin didn't relent. It wasn't done with its prey yet. The hefty lid hammered down a few times more, treating Luke as were he a particularly tough bit of gristle, every 'chew' working his lungs like worn bellows. Wind knocked out of him and thoroughly incapacitated, he could do nothing as the animated thing then did what only seemed natural after such treatment and swallowed him. Trampling against his unsteady legs, the Taldan fell into the casket. The lid shut. And all was dark.

The shouts of the Vulture Court, the roar of the rushing water; these were muted into distant nothings the instant he found himself in this strangest of fates: locked in an Osirian sarcophagus a million miles from home. Eyes blinded, ears deafened and body gasping for a breath that only came in pained hitches, an unbidden thought entered the tight confines, wondering whether he was already dead. Yet the truth was worse still. Broken, battered, but still breathing, Luke was one step away from being buried alive.

And so he might have been if not for the proverbial light in the dark turned literal. Suddenly a golden gleam burned before the foreigner in the shape of an outline: the outline of the coffin lid. Sturdy though it was, the sarcophagus was not perfectly airtight. Crucially, it wasn't sealed against divine energy. Pure positive energy showered through this most miniscule of cracks running along the lid. It rained down onto the casket's occupant where it fulfilled its celestial purpose: begetting life. Luke felt his fractured ribs repair themselves.

"I'm not dead yet, you giant sock drawer!" he snarled, cathcing his second wind and spirit buoyed on this holiest of stimulants. Drawing his legs up, he set his feet against the lid and pushed.

Escaping grapple CMB: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (18) + 7 = 25

As near I can tell, one doesn't take the -2 penalty that comes with grapples on checks to escape that grapple.

The +2 to breaking stuff that apparently comes with crowbars might help.

"Kid, you don't look old enough to bring down a mug of ale. But you got grit, so I'll let you help me crack it open, yeah?"

Kids, always out to prove themselves. Luke shook his head. Well, nothing wrong with wanting recognition, he mused. Heck, it wasn't that long ago he'd been that kid himself. Problem was that going first carried the risk of death in vaults like these.

And there was no way informing the crying parents of their dear boy's demise was falling to him! Not happening. Luke couldn't stand weepy mothers. And so he jabbed his crowbar into the hair-fine line Djedefre informed him was the secret door's jamb.

Str to break: 1d20 + 4 + 2 ⇒ (19) + 4 + 2 = 25

Battle had a curious way of stretching seconds into eternities. A result of the hyperactive mind, one supposed, more anxious and alert in life-or-death combat than anywhere else. A blessing from Gorum he had once heard it described by a holy man looking for a fight. A simple bodily humor - adrena-mill or something - a scoffing alchemist had called it. Luke didn't know the truth of it. Luke didn't care. But whatever the reason, watching bleeding Senemheb tumble to the dusty ground felt like it took eons.

"Oh, crud," the Taldan breathed though clenched teeth as the unconscious ally finally fell prone. That was one man down. And he'd find company down there soon enough unless they managed to put an end to this serpentine horror quickly.

Putting thought into action, Luke jabbed out with his sword, not aiming to cut. No, that approach had already been proven useless. Instead he aimed it at one coil of the now mud-like snake, momentarily pinning it in place and halting its constantly swaying form. It was the opening he needed. One hefty boot came crushing down like an anvil, squashing their opponent.

Attack (unarmed): 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (15) + 4 = 19
Damage: 1d6 + 6 ⇒ (1) + 6 = 7

Dearie me, lucky 1 on that enemy damage roll. That could've just taken me out.

It spatters harmlessly on the tomb floor...and some of it on Luke.

"PFFT, what're you playing at, Dame?!" a spluttering Taldan hollered as that keen concentration both product and requirement for battle was unexpectedly broken. By a shower to the face of all things. An answer came by way of the elf. Water slows it down?

Chin still dribbling, Luke's eyes darted back to the twisting sand lash that was their foe. Hell's horses, this wasn't just some bizarre desert predator camouflaged in sand, was it? This thing was actually made out of sand! No wonder Amal's blade had slipped through it harmlessly. Well then. Water and blunt weapons, eh?

Few were the enemies that waited while their opponents strategized, however. And this elemental was no exception. Before the young man could decided on a course of action, it leapt forward, amorphous form splitting apart mid-jump to envelop his middle. Then, like a constricting anaconda, it crushed. "Grah!" Luke nearly heard - certainly felt - his ribs creak. For a moment he experienced the strange sensation of being caught in some horrid amalgam of quicksand and a giant vice, one he wouldn't recommend anyone.

The next second, the creature darted back in avoiding yet more blows from the so-called Vulture Court. This left a hurting foreigner still reeling. Though not for long. While far from vindictive, the man had his pride. He wasn't one to let a blow go unanswered. Heck, this was partly why he was here in Osirion: just recompense. This was to say that far from being deterred by his aching side, Luke was only more determined to see this beastie fall. How to aid in this was the question. He carried no club or the like.

But Luke was nothing if not a blunt instrument himself.

Attack (unarmed): 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (12) + 4 = 16
Damage: 1d6 + 6 ⇒ (5) + 6 = 11

He didn't lash out. The group had it cornered up against the broken wall; the creature couldn't escape. He could afford to wait for the right moment. More to the point, he needed that opportune moment. The blasted thing was quick, coiling and undulating like only a sentient pile of sand could. He needed the right opening to strike back. What was it Djehuti had said about water?

Suddenly the cleric conjured a great jet of the stuff and with it said opportunity. Heavy and cumbersome as waterlogged clothing could be, the effect was that much stronger when the saturated something was what passed for one 'flesh'. As soon as the elemental was doused, Luke struck, hoping to squash the now hopefully sluggish serpent's head between an errant brick and his fist.

Readied action waiting for someone to hit opponent with water, hoping for a lesser AC, then striking with unarmed (blunt) fist. Luke has Improved Unarmed.

EDIT: I keep forgetting to add the +1 bonus to damage from sharpening the blade with a whetstone

I'd say your memory's just fine remembering such a minor bonus from that far back. I forgot it myself! Although sadly it only applies to the very first damage roll after use, so it's long gone by now.

The foreigner gave the elf a quizzical look in wiping his sword clean from gunk. "What, are you saying we should expect more creepy crawlies?"

Spiders and beetles, both giant, neither appreciated. He looked over the shoulders of Djedefre and Djehuti as these examined the wetly glistening carapace. The arachnids' last meal, huh? Was there an entire ecosystem of great big bugs feeding on each other down here, Luke wondered? Not a welcome thought, to be sure.

Burrowers, the elf had said. The Taldan held out his torch and walked the perimeter of the space, peering into its dark corners. Was there some tunnel here showing where it had come from? Or should its skittering legs be counted among those tracks they'd seen earlier, the ones from the door leading west?

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (13) + 5 = 18

Just a quick look around. If there's nothing of interest, we can probably try the other direction.

"Fascinating!" Djehuti hurriedly scribbles down a description of the glyph and effect in their notebook. "Does that hurt? Do you feel sick? What does it feel like?"

"Like a hot poker to the face! What do you think it feels like, you weedy waste of immortality?! Sh*t!"

It was a wise, if not holy, man who once claimed that profanity provided a relief denied to even prayer. Luke was neither wise nor holy, but it seemed the occasion for some choice expletives, clutching his burning head and trying to stem the moisture in his eyes. If not when taking what felt like a branding iron to the forehead, then when?

Only when the pain had subsided did he walk up to the mirror to assess the damage. The hieroglyph seared into his flesh was unknown to the foreigner, though not the similarly afflicted Djedefre. "Thief, huh?" Thoroughly miffed at this humiliation that he was, something like laughter slipped through the scowl at this. Was this irony? He'd never quite grasped the meaning of the term, but surely there was some twisted humor in the self-professed tomb raider being very literally labeled a thief.

"Oh, it's on now, old man," he rumbled, meeting frowning Akhentepi's glare still aimed at him in the mirror. "You're going straight to whatever passes for a poorhouse in the afterlife, 'cause this thief is stealing every dime your stupid bones were buried with." Luke had nurtured an irrational, even childish, grudge against the high and mighty of Ancient Osirion ever since his father's demise to a mummy's curse. It was a grudge he deep down knew to be absurd. Yet Wati's old commander had just given him ample cause to indulge. Robbing this grave had merely been a job earlier. Now it would be a pleasure.

Flush with vindication, the Taldan promptly followed the others into the adjoining room. Only to be immediately beset by the god-spawn's aforementioned vermin.

Know (nature): 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (7) - 1 = 6 Is this gaming the system? I can technically roll this one...

Luke couldn't identify the crawling horrors beyond being giant spiders, but that was plenty information for him. He knew they were dangerous and had entirely too many limbs. What more was there to know? And on that note, he stepped forward sword first to address that excess of appendages. What was a fair number for these beasties? Nil? Luke was thinking nil.

Attack: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (13) + 4 = 17
Damage: 1d8 + 9 ⇒ (8) + 9 = 17

Just stepping forward and attacking Red. Two-handing (which means dropping the torch again) and Power Attack. Have moved forward, Djedefre.

Guess who's going to call dibs on the khopesh if it's treated as martial?? :DD

You're welcome!

And yeah, another enthusiastic hurrah for block initiative. You might even want to extend it, GM, to identical enemies like these so a first turn would go:

Senemheb and Djehuti who won initiative.
-
All the baddies.
-
Then the entire party, rolling round 1 into round 2.
-
Baddies again.
-
Whole party again and round it goes.

Granted, there is a certain danger in having all enemies effectively act together, but that's a sacrifice I know some go for in the name of smoother play. Still, I'm not at all opposed to how things are run now.

As for the hardness question, Senemheb, the hardness score is apparently subtracted from all damage, including energy, although vulnerabilities are apparently an exception. Hardness is incredibly poorly utilized as a term in PF, the same word describing at least two completely unrelated forms of damage mitigation. I had to look this up for Iron Gods.

Apologies for being MIA the last few days. The end of the school year is kicking my butt.

Linguistics: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (15) + 3 = 18

Appraise: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (17) + 5 = 22 Assuming Djehuti informs the rest with that catch...

"Nard?"

It might not compare to that let out by the beasts felled by Ahkentepi the great hunter, but the foreigner's torch gave a little roar of its own as he turned from the weapon racks. "The perfumed oil?" Bending down to the urn, he took a couple experimental sniffs. "Never liked the stuff. Always smelled like wet dog after rolling around in a pepper plantation to me. Still, pricy stuff." The fragrance might not be to his taste, yet the bright eyes were pleased once they looked up again. "Someone will pay a pretty penny for this."

This said, he returned to inspecting what was presumably the late general's armory. Luke was no weapons aficionado. They were tools like any other, a means to an end, that end being defending oneself. It just so happened that one had to do just that fairly often as a procurer and even seller of antiques. Having an eye for weapons was prudent in this line of work. And that bow was quite impressive, if given a new string.

Certainly more impressive than the funky sword. "You can't be serious, kid." He raised an eyebrow at Amal still admiring the ancient blade. "That thing's bent like a hag's spine. It can't possibly be any use. Must be some sort of display piece."

Surely not even Ancient Osirion could mess up the simple science of 'sharp-metal-go-stabby-cut'? This was what passed for a sword back in the day? What was wrong with designing a normal sharpened length of steel? This sandbox and its pretensions, honestly...

The Taldan's plain longsword jostled at his hip as he briefly looked over the shields - missing the magical one in their midst entirely - before descending on the chests. No traps, huh? "No objections to opening these, right?"

"I can't tell if you were joking, Luke, or if you seriously believed that little monologue would disguise the fact you were suggesting we sell the chest to someone while its trap is still armed and not tell them?!"

"What? No! No, of course not." No child caught with their arm down the cookie jar had ever looked so aghast, no politician caught pinching from the treasury had ever looked so injured at the mean accusation levied him by the Ustalavan. Him bleeding upper-crusters dry of their unearned wealth without regard for their safety? What an entirely unfair allegation. Of course he wasn't suggesting selling the box without warning.

Not when such a warning would only increase its value! "Of course we'd warn 'em! You're an academic. You must've met these crazed collector types. Ancient traps and ominous curses? That's what gets their monocles popping, the stupid nobs, something to brag about to their stupid nob friends. A trap only proves whatever's inside is worth protecting. It'd be awfully silly of us to leave a fact like that off the negotiating table."

Cold as gold, while this bargaining ploy was no doubt cynical, that cynicism was undercut by the smirk through which it was delivered. For Luke was in fact winding up the young woman. Well, mostly. One had to find one's fun where available. Which was to say that, yes, he had precious little sympathy for the silk-stockings of the world, yet even so he wasn't about to sell any such dangerous artifact without due warning.

Especially as the Caradoc household knew all too well just how dangerous these relics could be.

A moot point, regardless. For although the Taldan was reluctant to admit it, an unhealthy curiosity was among the few things he had inherited from his late father. This box was too intriguing to let go unopened. Fortunately, Djehuti was there to sate that curiosity.

"Nicely done," he said, really quite impressed. "Where did you pick up those nimble fingers? A previous life as a housebreaker?"

While meant as merely another jest, Luke regretted the comment the next second. The elf's past wasn't any of his business. Besides, he realized, with the fair folk's famously long lifespans, the idea of a 'previous life' separate from the scholar standing amongst them now wasn't completely inconceivable. Not that the self-professed tomb robber was in any position to judge.

"Lemme take a look at those," he therefore moved on, asking Senemheb to pass along the sturdy books. Archeology might not be his strong suit, but he'd watched aristocrats haggle over museum pieces far too often not to have gained an idea of the worth of antiques.

Appraise: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (20) + 5 = 25
Appraising the lot and maybe the box too while we're at it?

Linguistics: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (3) + 3 = 6

Linguistics: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (20) + 3 = 23

Know (local): 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 3 = 4

Some swingy dice.

"Hrmh. 'Great woe befell the house' and some such, huh? Yeah, join the club, buddy."

Less than cultured though he might be, the foreigner demonstrated some aptitude for ancient hieroglyphs, apparently gathering the gist of them in the sort of dismissive glance over one's shoulder others might deign a bawdy tavern sign. Of which his favourites included The Lady's Legs, famed for always being open; The Half-Pint, staffed entirely by halflings; and The Dirty Oar, a port dive in Cassomir which had evaded the city's obscenity laws for years.

None of which he would ever partake in again unless the group found something of worth down here. And on that topic: "Beloved pets, you say?"

Luke joined Jolánka in looking over the mummified cats. The gleam in his eyes was of a significantly more material bent than the scholarly young woman's, however. Bespoke work, he thought. Artisanal too, with both historical and - the golden symbols gleamed beneath his torch - monetary value. Surely the right buyer would pay a fair price for these?

Appraise: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17

Something to keep in mind. For now the Taldan let the twin pets be. Once the group had fully explored the tomb, they would have a better idea of what was worth bringing with them. It was on this note that he looked to the dark hallways stretching opposite directions. "Anyone have a preference here?" he queried in turning south.

North = 1, South = 2: 1d2 ⇒ 2

"I hope you were not transporting oil or water in that thing."

"What, like this?" A slovenly sloshing was heard from the russet, little flask Luke shook in his hand demonstrably. Even corked a sulphurous stink like a cornugon's breath wafted from it. "Give me some credit, kid. Took out anything like that before tossing the pack. I'm not so stupid as to..."

A wet sheen glimmered bright down the trapped hall, the reflection of his torch. The dusty stone floor had been treated to a small gallon of water. While the Taldan had remembered to retrieve any fragile equipment of note, he had overlooked his waterskin. "...Dammit."

Looking at Luke he concludes, "Some things are priceless."

"We don't know the same fences," a none too pleased foreigner replied in pulling a dart free from his backpack, now soaked and worse for wear. As long as there were amoral merchants and bigwigs with more money than sense, everything had a price. So as far as he was concerned, things were worth whatever buyers were willing to pay for them, and grimy pottery with history did not command the same price as shiny gold with history.

Let's see about finding some. Luke looked up from his pack to the doors at the end of the hallway.

Will move on once Djehuti gives the OK. Should we distribute those alchemist's fires found earlier? Better done so now than in combat. Luke's already carrying one so I'll forgo claiming them.

They gestured at the disk, then the grooves in ceiling and floor. "It must be the door, Luke. Otherwise the tomb of Akhentepi is just this room. It must roll to the side."

"Yeah?" The Taldan cocked his head, eyes roving the floor-to-ceiling wheel. A rolling stone, huh? That accounted for the groves. But not for what it doing here. Specifically, how and why was it sitting in its proper place, blocking their way?

The group had gathered that someone - presumably grave robbers - had forced their way into the tomb at some point. Three had entered, two had left. For the latter two to close the outer doors only made sense: no reason to advertise their crime to patrolling Pharasmins. Yet why bother with this inner door? Why roll it back into place, especially considering its sheer heft? Luke tapped his fist experimentally against the enormous rock. Obviously the rolling stone wasn't visible with the outer doors closed. And any patrol dead set on investigating Akhentepi's for whatever reason would discover the theft regardless. So why bother?

Was there perhaps something about the groves' design that rolled the disc back into place if moved? Was Djedefre's grave guardian theory correct, some ancient creature scaring off the scavengers before putting things back in order? Or maybe, just maybe, was Luke overthinking this?

His nostrils flared with a sigh. The young man didn't particularly like thinking, not with so little to go on, not when every inquiry led to mere speculative fancy. No, empty conjecture was the privilege of academics, one they were welcome to keep. He'd rejected their worldview at five the instance he found the view of the world from an atlas infinitely lesser than that provided by the tallest branch of an oak. And with that in mind, he'd might as well set himself to something more practical.

"Senemheb, Amal," Luke called in squatting down at one side of the rolling stone, "Want to lend a hand here? Not sure whether this will be worth it, but at least we'll have the great boon of knowing exactly why our backs are wrecked in old age." He began pushing out with his legs, straining against the wheel.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (9) + 5 = 14

Quick check whether there's anything funky about the disc, then just another take-20 on Str?

How could grave robbing be anything but honest work when it required so much honest toil? Luke let out a labored breath once the tomb entrance finally stood free of the sand dunes that had obscured it for however many years. It had taken some effort on all their parts and he felt it, back achy from bending down, neck hot as Crystalhue pudding and twice as clammy. This nation and its accursed sun, honestly. He could swear that wasn't the same light fixture trawling Taldor's skies.

The foreigner's muscles weren't burning quite as badly, though, and fortunately so. He eyed the ornate double door, less concerned with their elaborate carvings than their sheer weight. It would take more work still to get them opened. Not that he was averse to work. No, true to his practical mindset, Luke preferred working with his hands, much to his scholarly family's chagrin. There was a certain... dignity in actually sweating for one's pay.

Even so, cracking this box and getting inside couldn't happen quickly enough. He could do with some shade.

"Not looking to jinx us or anything," he said in jabbing his crowbar into the barely visible jamb of the door, "but on the topic of traps 'n curses, has anyone spotted anything fishy at play here? Magic men, you picking up any hocus-pocus at all? Or are we free to pull this thing apart like the rotten log it is?"

Calloused hands tightened around the metal bar.

DC 25. Oof, not much for it but a take-20 with aid. Step up, ye strapping lads. Deducted one gp, Amal.

"... 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.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17

Just keeping wary while we find our tomb.

Lucilianus "Luke" Caradoc wrote:

Yeah, sorry, there was definitely the stuff of a good back-and-forth there, but I didn't want to start something when it seemed time to move onto the next day.

We'll find the opportunity for them to connect. Or fight. Either's fun.

Sorry about that.

Nah, I think keeping up a decent pace is absolutely part of a GM's duties. You're doing great so far.

And yes, I absolutely clocked out this weekend.

"Heel to tip, heel to tip just like that. Not much to it."

The whetstone whispered its way along the foreign blade from hilt to point, leaving the edge brighter as the morning sun reflected in it. Luke had gotten right to demonstrating upon the younger man's request, albeit admittedly after sharing a somewhat dubious look. Still, there was something to be said for his forthright manner. He neither condescended Amal with good humor nor belittled him with grumblings. He simply sat down and showed how-to.

"Not about to tell you how to use your weapon, but on a curved sword like that you strike almost as you would with an axe. The arch here -" Luke pointed to the curve of Amal's scimitar. "That's where the force of your swing gathers. Some call that the true edge. It's different for different blades and you'll want to give it a few extra passes."

Soon enough the implement changed hands and the Wati native was drawing sibilant hisses - as if from some great iron snake - from his own weapon. The Taldan shared a few more tips as Amal got to work: how just as the name implied whetstones needed to be wet first; how the regular stones he'd seen could actually be used in conjunction with the dedicated type. Mostly though, Luke simply watched and corrected when necessary. All the better to think. Specifically, he was thinking on whether it was even right to bring Amal to the dig.

Hells below, he looked young. Luke had noted this earlier, but it hadn't really struck him until now they were sitting together like this. Never mind breaking into tombs, this kid looked young enough to be breaking into apple orchards. It bothered the foreigner, just a bit. As it happened, he'd seen a team mate die already. A fruitless excavation near Sothis. Pit trap. Hadn't been overly pleasant to watch, even knowing that the poor bastard in question was a scoundrel of the highest order. Luke would prefer not repeating the scenario with a child in his place. Hell, he would prefer not traumatizing this kid by himself dying in front of him.

He let out a sigh that could end worlds. Futile to ruminate on this now. Not his place to tell this boy to go home any more than the others could kick him out. Besides, he didn't know his circumstances. Might not be a home to go back to. A conversation for another day. Luke's job for now was simply to ensure they both stayed alive long enough to have that conversation.

"'Course, don't expect the new edge to last. Sharp is just another word for brittle. If it doesn't crumble on first contact with armor, the resulting caking of blood and fat will render it moot. Still, every little helps. Oh, and you'll want to keep some bandages ready. Expect to cut your fingers the first few times."

The Avistani displayed digits with prominent scars. "Use your left hand. You'll want your right whole and ready for today.

----------

A group name?

Luke's brow nearly sank to his chin. "Aroden's ghost, woman. Despite all the pretentions otherwise - no offense intended -" he added for the others, "- we're just a bunch of grave robbers, not one of those swanky adventuring parties. What do we need a damn name for?"

The wilder tresses of his brown hair shook free as he leaned his head back in exasperation. The others could talk this one through if they cared; he couldn't give an iota. A minute passed as a few suggestion were passed around. Something about Ra and guarding and nothing at all. Luke merely stared lazily into the sky throughout.

Wonder what that bird is.

Far above an avian shape stood out stark against the big bright blue. Something white and red and once quite holy. Some sort of local vulture? he idly wondered. He wasn't wrong. The Osirian vulture was unique to this part of the continent, long admired for its pure white plumage and figure so refined compared to its carrion eating cousins. Of course, it was also venerated in Ancient Osirion. A symbol of the mother-goddess Isis, it was believed that the species reproduced asexually, that all they needed to birth another generation was the dead they feasted on. In this role, as a symbol of turning death into life, they were venerated, living microcosm of the Osiriani philosophy that they were. Sacred and protected by select pharaohs, they were still known by a certain nickname: pharaoh's chicken.

Luke knew absolutely none of this. But his mild acquaintance with the local language - and unrealized talent for everything lingo - gifted him one insight.

Aren't those, like, the first letter... or pictogram of the alphabet? Hiero-bet? Or whatever? This was true. 'Aah.' That's how it's pronounced, I think. Aah. Like in Ra, I suppose. Raaah. This too was true. How's a language even supposed to work like that, when your letters are both sound and pictures and meaning all in one? Completely mental. I mean, every word would have a different significance when read phonetically or symbolically. So needlessly confusing! I mean, if I tried to spell this Ra guy's name using the vulture letter...

Hm. Then he would need another letter with an 'r' sound. Luke thought it over. He thought he knew of another phoneme - transcribed as a mouth - that should work. So if Ra was written like that, the name would translate to...

The mouth of the vulture? I guess that would be the beak of the vulture. See, this is what I mean! It's ridiculous, names of gods turning into some bird's bill. Such a stupid language. And extensive too. Wasn't there another hieroglyph that could be read as an 'r'? Right, that shenu symbol. Drawn as a circle. Symbolizes a circle too. Life and death or whatever. So if I use the 'r' of the circle and the 'a' of the vulture... A circle of vultures? A gathering of vultures? Eh, still dumb. Ra is the god king or something, no? Hm. Royalty... Something round to do with nobility... Crowns? Rings? No, doesn't make sense in the context of a group of vultures.

A group of vultures much like group of tomb robbers, he realized. Stealing from the dead. Yet benign in this case, most of the group only wanting to preserve. To beget new knowledge. Like the birth and renewal of Isis and her holy vultures. Vulture. Circle. Ra. Royalty. A gathering of noble vultures, all in a circle... It was on the tip of his tongue...

"The Vulture Court."

The foreigner spoke the suggestion without truly realizing it. He wasn't entirely sure where it had come from either. Didn't sound too bad, though.

Trying to show part of my work here. Went down a hieroglyph rabbit hole for a bit in thinking of a name. Am sure I've gotten something wrong in how I worked my way there, but that's perfectly appropriate for Luke. Hieroglyphs are, as it turns out, really complicated.

Gods, he really hoped the answer wasn't plain naivety.

Aroden's ghost, she was naive.

As Jolánka outlined her ambition in coming to Wati, it was all Luke could manage to nod politely throughout. And Taldor's theaters hadn't lost a great talent in him. The empiric search for knowledge? Uncovering relics for no more than their historical value? Actually donating selfsame relics to their home nation? Utter twaddle. Hogwash worse than his drink. Nonsense worse than the elf's assertion of Osirion being Caydenite holy land!

A surprise then, even to Luke himself, that he offered no protest beyond some token grumblings. The Ustalavan's spiel represented the very worst sort of wide-eyed idealism he'd feared in being assigned random team mates. Swill like this was what urged every fanciful first-year student down darkened steps into tombs lost to time - and then to promptly die in a pit trap. Swill like this was what drove every out-of-touch professor to translate hieroglyphs unspoken for a thousand years - and then to promptly rouse Grabthar the Eviscerator from his coffin. Swill like this was, in the politest term possible, an occupational hazard for those in the grave robber's profession.

And still Luke did not object. Because despite all his misgivings, hard-nosed skepticism and occasional disapproving looks, he honestly didn't mind listening to Jolánka's babble. The woman was clearly sincere. And that sincerity, frankly, reminded him of his late father. Just a little. They certainly shared an enthusiasm for Ancient Osirion, baffling as this interest remained to him. The old man could go on about that dead empire for hours as his exasperated son could attest. Listening to her now was... almost nostalgic. The two of them - Jolánka and the elder Caradoc - would probably have gotten along. The foreigner took another sip of his arak.

Tomorrow would tell whether she was in over her head, but for now Luke was content to let her prove herself without his griping.

----------

The young man didn't have much in the way of morning rituals. As solid a breakfast as circumstances allowed. A shave if time permitted. And sharpening his weapon, as classical an example of Avistani longswords as had ever been produced. This last practice had been adopted as a means of filling time in waiting for spell slingers to finish whatever hocus-pocus necessary for their magic. This morning he set aside the whetstone to peer critically down the landlord's well with the others.

"... Hold on, is this same well his drinking water comes from?"

Using a whetstone for +1 damage on the first strike of the day. Lv.1 PCs need every advantage they can get! Amal or whoever else is of course welcome to it should they wish.

"Well, nice to know I've graduated from 'grease spot'," a struggling Taldan replied to Jolánka as soon as he recovered from the drink Senemheb had recommended him. Luke looked to the offending beverage as if it had just insulted his mother. The heck was this? He'd graduated from camel milk to something that tasted like the in-between of a camel's hooves. This country, honestly.

The bright eyes lifted up to the Ustalavic scholar. She wasn't wrong, of course. He hadn't bothered with introductions earlier, not when their Pharasmin 'sister's' preamble had sufficed. Subsequent chatter hadn't been overly conducive to howdy-dos and other pleasantries. But if this chit wanted to be cordial, he wasn't going to rebuff her.

"Luke. Caradoc, Luke Caradoc." A calloused hand extended in greeting. "What's your deal, anyway? They teach language like that in whatever girls' boarding school you traipsed from?"

The tone wasn't adversarial, exactly, more so the rough, of-the-cuff candor common among those rough types with perpetually rolled up cuffs. The question was genuine too. Luke thought Jolánka something of a curiosity. And not just for her ability to devour pickled crocodile eggs whole, lords above.

"Seriously, what's a 'Dame' like you doing here? I understand most of the charming foreign clientele littering this place being here. Like myself, they're just looking for a payday. And I understand our local comrades being here to preserve their heritage and all that. But you," he pointed. "You I don't understand. You're no more Osiriani than me. What makes a 'scholar' like yourself choose to travel a quarter of the globe just to root around in the sand?"

It was his experience that most academics had few ambitions higher than some cushy job writing dictionary entries or some such. Or so it had always seemed to him. Luke loved his family, bless their hearts, but every one of them was most comfortable behind a desk, a fact the more raucous Caradoc had found endlessly frustrating in growing up. What compelled this particular bookworm to give up every comfort entitled her by higher education in favor of grime, hard labor and... well, the company of scoundrels like himself?

Gods, he really hoped the answer wasn't plain naivety.

The tomb robber took another, very careful sip of his arak. Hm. An acquired taste, to be sure. Not actually that bad, though.

Don't want to hold anything up, so I too am fine with moving on.

The divide between the haves and the have-nots of the world was well documented. Less obvious though no less pervasive was the gulf between those of common knowledge and the know-it-alls. Nothing built resentment quite like the first-year medicine student who thought they could correct the self-taught village midwife responsible for delivering four entire generations. Yet despite displaying much of the humble everyman's healthy distrust of the intelligentsia, Luke held no real contempt for the scholarly, much less schooling itself. Well, mostly. No, his disdain was more so colored by the inequities of ever declining Taldor, in this case the elitism of universities and the decadent aristocracy these were largely exclusive to.

Although his own upbringing may have admittedly added to this dislike. Growing up in a house of utter dorks wasn't easy when you were born a lad's lad. While his siblings got pats on the head for academic achievement, a young Luke only got swats to the bum for roughhousing. Hard not to grow a bit disillusioned coming from that.

All of this was to say that the foreigner was still perfectly happy to hear Djehuti out when the latter offered to explain. And he had to admit - the offending grave goods being less status symbols sequestered by selfish nobles and more tokens of respect freely offered by the bereaved? This he had not considered. Of course, he very much doubted it was as simple as that. The line between offering and obligation could be a fine one, and with the sheer endeavor necessitated by some of the richer tombs - exhibit A being those ludicrous pyramids - surely these projects were started by the eventual inhabitant well in advance, not their doting descendants.

Still, the elf's point stood. Especially as he himself readily admitted to the matter not being so simple. That was a point in his favor. This was no partisan trying to convince, merely a scholar elucidating. And for that Luke was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Yeah. Yeah, alright, I hear you. Which is to say I don't really buy the dead needing packed lunches - much less gold - in the afterlife, but I can see the point of these grave goods. From the perspective of those left behind and whatever. A sign of respect, sure." A moment's mulling followed. "I still think those showy tombs a waste, outliers though they may be. And I can't condone this trap nonsense. But I'll admit that I may have... transposed my dislike of my own nation's nobility onto your own. Maybe that's not entirely fair."

It was likely as great a concession anyone was going to get out of the Taldan. The young man could be stubborn and didn't often admit mistakes. Small surprise then when he quickly changed topics. "Are we ordering food? Because if so I need someone to tell the landlord to hold the camel milk. Seriously, I cannot stress this enough. Senemheb, help me out here. If I so much as see a pregnant camel again in my life, I swear... No. Camel. Milk, yeah?"

Luke proceeded to busy himself with ordering something edible from the Garundi, the next few minutes passing in a multilingual clamor of half-remembered Osiriani phrases from the former and broken Taldane from the latter. Which suited the foreigner just fine. Because his earlier shifting of subjects had in truth not merely been to avoid lingering on his concession. He needed a minute to think.

He was thinking of his father's funeral. This was not a memory Luke liked to revisit. Yet something was on his mind now: a pen. Specifically, the pen he had left inside his father's suit pocket to be buried with him. It had been a handsome thing. Its surface was all green jade, a gift Luke had gotten the old man one birthday. The senior Caradoc had quickly favored it, making it his writing tool of choice for letters, study, transactions, everything really. It never left him. Luke had never been quite sure if his father had taken to the pen because he genuinely liked it, or simply to please his son. He would never know this now. But on the day before the funeral, he had found that same pen on his father's desk. And, in a spur of the moment, he had reunited it with the corpse now in its coffin. The two were buried together the next day.

Luke had never really thought of the why behind this decision. It had somehow only felt right. But now, in hearing Djehuti speak of grave gifts, of tokens of respect granted the dead and so on... Now he contemplated what exactly lay behind that spur of the moment.

"I wish I could speak the local language!"

*Genie makes you speak in the most local of local vernacular that would make Trainspotting sound like a news anchor's reading*

"Stavian's fire, another academic..."

The Taldan ran a rough hand over his face as Djehuti joined Senemheb in chiding - however gently - the earlier invective. And in perfect Taldane at that, the sort usually reserved addresses delivered from the marble balconies of the nation. Or indeed his late father's Osirionology obsessed circles. Comforting though it was to know there was no language barrier between himself and the elf, this wasn't what Luke needed to hear at the moment. Heaven preserve him from intellectuals. If they didn't get him into this whole mess, then they were a burden in trying to fix it. How was this lanky beanstalk, looking like the ivory tower they'd no doubt stepped out of, supposed to be anything but a hurdle tomorrow? It was exasperating.

The stubble lined mouth opened. And he reconsidered. Personal feelings of Osiriani funerary practices aside, Luke recognized that thinking ill of this... Man? Woman? ...of this person was unfair. He began again in a wearier voice.

"Listen, I'm not trying to be an ass, I just... I don't appreciate fat cats taking their money to death-trapped graves, that's all. Is that so strange? What am I saying, you lot grew up with this nonsense. 'Course it's just standard procedure for you..." The foreigner let out the sort of sigh usually reserved single parents returning from work to find the morning's oatmeal upended on the floor. "All I'm saying is... it's not fair. Not for anyone left behind. Certainly not for the fools tasked with opening those graves however many centuries later."

Not merely referring to themselves, he indicated the many patrons seated about the Tooth & Hookah, chatting, eating and making merry before tomorrow's opening of the necropolis. "None of these people deserve to die for retrieving gold just collecting dust."

And to hell with any tradition or god that said otherwise. This last part he left unsaid. Because the elf was right. No matter his own sentiments surrounding the dig or whatever else, airing them only to antagonize the rest of the party served no one, least of all himself. For better or worse, the vagaries of fate had seen fit to group them into a band. They had to rely on one another.

Even if half of them were bookworms who probably wouldn't know which end of a sword to hold once those ghouls were upon them. Luke resisted the urge to shake his head.

"Anyway," he went on in counting out some silver pieces for the innkeeper, "excuse me for not picking up the language just like that. We aren't all blessed with book-smarts, shades." His tone was more so irreverent than adversarial. The young man didn't begrudge the elf nor anyone else their intelligence. After all, the Caradocs were a largely scholarly family. His mother would probably like this guy. Girl. Whatever. "Didn't seem necessary with most of the sandbox speaking Taldane too. Well, enough Taldane, I should say. Haven't been here very long either. Long enough to pick up local curse words, handy for the luck I've had here so far. And some smatterings like ⲕⲁϣ. And ϫⲱⲓⲧ. And ⲥⲃⲣⲟⲟⲩⲉ, like you, you gangly broomstick."

Deducting 7 silvers.

Turning west from the gates, you go two blocks to arrive at a cozy two story inn, a sign over the door depicting a crocodile wearing a pharaonic headdress puffing happily on a hookah pipe.

"Cute."

The sarcasm was thick - thick as the dust in whatever tomb they were due tomorrow. Luke shook his head. While he had spent more than a few uneasy nights in seedy inns, it was the foreigner's experience that even these had too much dignity to employ comic mascots in enticing customers. What sort of tourist trap had that Pharasmin sent them to?

He sighed in following the kid - Amal - inside. Beggars couldn't be choosers. And Luke was all of two gold pieces away from joining the mendicancy squad.

Thankfully the interior of the Tooth & Hookah was more promising, even if the ever skeptical Taldan remained wary. In the antiques trade one learned to be as careful of a shopkeeper's smile as that of a crocodile. "Did he just offer us seats?" he asked no one in particular among the group. Naturally enough the Garundi has engaged a party seemingly consisting of mostly locals in the local tongue, a language the foreigner still struggled with. "I thought I recognized 'seat'. Someone tell him we're looking for beds instead. B-E-D-S! Do you understand? Er, ⲕⲁϣ? Am I pronouncing that right?"

He wasn't. Nor did ⲕⲁϣ even refer to bedding in modern Osiriani, instead meaning 'reed'. Though, to be fair, there was an interesting shared etymology between these two lexemes that an enthusiastic linguist could extrapolate on. Even if any such linguist would be met with stony-faced disinterest by Luke himself.

Once accommodations were arranged, the grave robber did not hesitate throwing himself into one of the inn's seats. It had been a long day. Traveling to Wati, navigating lottery politics, getting foisted with this crew - it was more than a little exhausting and Luke could do with a decent meal followed by eight hours of dreamless slumber. Before anything of the sort could happen, however, he caught onto the conversation initiated by Senemheb: of what the worst thing they were likely to encounter at tomorrow's dig might be.

"Ancient curses. If the legends have even one-tenth truth to them those ancient curses are unrelenting and unforgiving."

"They are."

The words slipped him before he knew it. They were bitter as ash which was perhaps why some part of the young man had seen fit to spit them out. Of course, he had seen the Ancient Osirianis' tomb curses at work. He knew how dangerous these could be. The fallout of one such was the very reason he was here, seeking to mend his family's fortunes. But this wasn't a topic to be shared with strangers. Luke cleared his throat and swallowed some unspoken sentiments back to the black pit where they belonged.

"And if you ever feel bad for the miserable old misers in their fancy tombs, just think of those curses: that not only were they so greedy as to bury themselves with their kids' inheritance, they also saw fit to magically screw over whosoever looks at their resting place wrong. All to be the richest fop in the Great Beyond... Bunch of money-grubbing maniacs."

The foreigner's disdain for the upper-crusters of the world - whether above or below the crust - was evident. "I'll tell you what I fear most. That we're assigned some mass grave of paupers tomorrow and this whole trip will be for nothing."

Know (local) you say?

Know (local): 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 3 = 4

Never mind.

"That it ain't," Luke concurred with the god spawn. "Not for the ill-prepared or weary either. If we're to find more supplies or lodgings, we should do so soon. After all, town's crawling with scavengers... And I'd rather avoid paying premium for sleeping in some hustler's bare root cellar 'cause nothing else's available."

In truth, the Taldan felt as well prepared as he was likely to get for this excursion - as well prepared as his meager purse allowed, anyway. This talk of ghouls had him a bit rattled, however. He had actually encountered one boil of the pestilence that was undeath before. On a previous extralegal dig, one heave of a spade had uncovered a skull in the dirt, eye sockets empty save for a century of sand. Upon which the rest of it began unearthing itself. Damn thing clawed at his leg before they'd all managed to bash the bone bag to its final rest. Hadn't been too difficult or anything with a little backup. Turned out old bones broke and desiccated flesh tore, just the same as their living counterparts.

And still the episode had unnerved him. Luke didn't like the walking dead. Plain creepy, they were. And ghouls were supposedly in a league above simple skeletons or the like.

"I hate grave dodgers," he sighed ruefully.

Hopefully having holy men like this Djedefre along would help. All the same, the foreigner would keep his sword at hand. "So unless our 'big sister' here has more to say for now," he concluded, "perhaps we should be on our way. What was the name of that place you mentioned? The Tooth & Hookah?"

EDIT: whoops, wrote just as Jolánka posted.

Apologies for missing a post yesterday. No excuse, just found myself busy. Liking the chatter so far. Fun intro to the character, Senemheb.

"Quite brilliant wouldn't you say?"

"Brilliant indeed," Jolánka replies, her hat bobbing as she nods.

"Oh, it’s brilliant," the young man grumbled, seemingly more so to himself than in reply. "Brilliantly cynical."

Government coffers empty as their damn deserts, this pharaoh guy had opened ancient gravesites for plundering – old grave goods in gold and silver just sitting in dusty tombs being awfully tempting when one’s ledgers looked like they’d come from the floor of an abattoir. Sweetening the deal further, you didn’t even fund these digs yourself, instead just opening ‘em up for whoever cared risk their miserable lives there, whether egghead out for their latest paper or thug just looking to profit. Or worse yet, Luke considered in eyeing not so few in the group, wide-eyed altruists apparently out to preserve some sanctity of said sites. All pawns. As no matter their motivations, whatever these rubes dug up was probably sold locally anyway. The end result being the economy getting a healthy boost, artifacts being recovered and mostly kept within the nation, oh, and as an extra bonus this flock of religious nutcases set against the pharaoh were apparently also snubbed in the process.

All for the low, low price of a few stale cadavers being robbed of their funeral dress by what groups looked less like the bleeding-heart brigade here and more like… well, himself.

Did Luke have all this right? Because if so, this really was as scummy a scheme he’d ever heard. And he’d circumnavigated quite a few hucksters in his limited time skulking the antiques underworld. Hell, it might be worse yet. Osirion being broke after that whole occupation malarkey was only a presumption on his part, after all. For all he knew the cats in charge were loaded yet simply wanted more. It was possible this plan was less necessity and more greed. Honestly, he might actually have been impressed. If not for himself being caught as a tool in this plot. That stuck in his craw, that and a general dislike of black-hearted politicking. The Taldan was a simple man. Some ornery bastard aiming their sword at his gut? That he could deal with. A statesman aiming their quill at him from some castle a thousand miles away, however? Not a lot to be done about that.

Like knew like which was why it also hadn’t escaped the cynic in him how they were all – all of them – probably meant as scapegoats too. Should anything go wrong at any one dig – whether a ruin collapsing, a particularly egregious offence being committed, or even the dead rising – the administration could easily pass blame onto ignorant foreigners and amoral treasure seekers. In this at least their group had an advantage. More do-gooders than a Sarenite church. Well, so it seemed. Luke didn’t really know these people yet. But despite how the sheer unscrupulous gall of this whole ploy set his piss to boiling, he really couldn’t disapprove.

Literally. Because he was the scum this whole ploy in part relied on. He was the scoundrel ready and willing to rob these sites for profit. The sound of teeth grinding could be heard behind the wry smirk of the foreigner.

Putting Luke's thoughts in order as a reference for myself down the line.

Well then. Like Amal, I didn't entirely expect to be here, but am very glad to join. Looking forward to this.

Please provide a reference for botting if something IRL should come up, and let me know if you are going to be offline for a while.

Rush in sword first at danger, hang back thinking of profits and the occasional tipple at any other time. That should do. Though on the topic of IRL and going offline, you've caught me at an awkward time. Family over for Easter and stuff. I think I'll manage, but should I be missing for a day, assume I'm painting hieroglyphs on eggs.

As for coordinating the party, I too am very willing to adapt to the group's needs. In fact, Luke is sort of intended as just that, being a martial generalist. That said, I don't think we're looking too bad in terms of party composition. No obvious blind spots as near I can tell. Must be the Egyptian pantheon (and/or a GM) looking out for us.

I did, however, fix a couple mistakes in my own stats just now: an errant favored class bonus and a skill point too many. Those skill points will drastically lessen should I follow the original plan of going straight Fighter lv.2 onwards, by the way.

Oh, and happy Easter. That or meme day, depending on your denomination.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (17) + 1 = 18

"Oh praise be, you speak Taldane." One could imagine the sigh of relief that followed to have come from a goose long lost in a chicken coop, alienated and entirely out of place. Which wasn't exactly the case, but it sure was how the Taldan had felt ever since arriving in Osirion. "I've been trying to hack my way through the whooping cough you people call a language for weeks. Do you have any idea how hard it is to order a decent drink in this sandbox without speaking the cant? I swear, how many words for fermented camel milk can a language have?"

In truth, not that many, yet this was what more than a few barkeeps had foisted onto the less than respectful foreigner. Right before insisting that their Taldane didn’t extend beyond, “No refund.” Luke was yet to catch onto this bit of mercantile snub.

He did note Senemheb’s morbid ventriloquism act, however, or at the very least the end of it. The young man raised an eyebrow, an almost unfamiliar gesture given how used he had gotten to squinting in sunny Osirion. Perhaps not something to get alarmed over. Not yet, anyway. Tomb raiders were a strange lot at the best of times. One guy speaking to some unmentionable in his pack frankly wasn’t the worst Luke had worked with through his short career in grave robbing. Quirks were preferable to, say, treachery. The stubbled mouth furrowed at the memory. Damn it, that last dig should have made him a rich man already.

All the more reason to vet this new crew that much more carefully. They were a motley squad, to be sure. The heck was up with the one bloke’s eyes? They gleamed like sapphires in the sun. And was that an... elf? Luke pushed these misgivings aside for now. Honestly, he’d found the old adage of not judging books by their covers to be a faulty one. While it might serve the intellectual types well enough, the appearance of books absolutely mattered to the more martially minded black sheep of the Caradocs. Try bashing some ornery thug’s head in with a hardcover vs a paperback, and you’d know that a book’s cover could make all the difference. In the cutthroat business of tomb raiding, judging one’s teammates’ utility by their appearance only made sense.

Still, this Marwanun wasn’t wrong. Introducing each other by skillset, any skillset, was a good way to go about this. Luke knew enough by now not to dismiss even supposed ‘scholars’ like this Senemheb. Knowledge of the ancient, for example, went a long way when delving into ancient sites. As for his own qualifications...

”I’ll tell you what I can’t do,” the foreigner spoke once the androgynous kid had said his piece. ”I can’t feel the least shame about robbing these cadaverous fops blind. That reassurance enough?”

Just as I return to the thread having finished a cleric of Ra ready to blast undead with vitamin D infused channeling, I find it pretty full of divine characters worshipping those animal-headed gods. Which is cool! MM is the game for it and mystic warrior Ardeth Bay is a favorite of The Mummy, cited as inspiration by the GM.

But that's just it. Ardeth wouldn't be mystic and neat if every member of the cast was a follower of ancient traditions lost to time. So with that in mind I scrapped my original PC and present a more overt Rick O'Connell expy. Here's Lucilianus "Luke" Caradoc, foreign opportunist struggling terribly with this whole Osiriani language people in Osirion insist on speaking, but ready to rob some tombs.

If you managed to get through the above, thanks for reading. Some notes: despite having no interest in academia, Luke has in fact inherited some talent from his scholarly family. Guy's an unwitting savant with languages (see the Mnemonic Genius feature and linguistics skill I'll be pumping) which I hope to squeeze some humor out of.

On the topic of mechanics, the idea is to function as a martial generalist despite the PF system generally not appreciating those. Think I'll be going straight Figher lv.2 onwards. Why the one level of Ranger? Because favored enemy. I want to be able to say "I hate mummies," and actually have it mean something. Thanks for your consideration and thanks to the GM for hosting a game.

(I move in, now move out) Hands up, now hands down
(Back up, back up) Tell me what you're gonna do now
(Breathe in, now breathe out) Hands up, now hands down
(Back up, back up) Tell me what you're gonna do now
Keep...

Rollin': 1d4 + 10 ⇒ (4) + 10 = 14
Rollin': 1d4 + 10 ⇒ (3) + 10 = 13
Rollin': 1d4 + 10 ⇒ (3) + 10 = 13
Rollin': 1d4 + 10 ⇒ (2) + 10 = 12

Misspelled name and misplaced credit? Wish I could blame the amnesia...

Some great applications here. Tossing this one onto the pile: Voichita Crudo, the not so evil human cleric of Urgathoa. Thanks to Supreivo for the fun idea of writing things from the perspective of a patient record.

Congrats if you managed to read through all of the above; like everything I've ever sat down to write, it turned out longer than anticipated. Mechanically, Voica is intended as primarily a negative channeler, handing out debuffs and what have you while still functioning as party band-aid. Thanks to the Undead domain, she can even do so with said negative energy which I find rather fun.

Narratively, I've long found the idea of amnesia as a sort of time travel interesting. Real world examples have seen people 'wake up' from the 80s to suddenly find themselves in the present day, having to deal with a completely different cultural landscape, new media and aged relatives. I'm hoping for something similar with an evil cultist. With the years where she went from normal person to worshipper of a dark god effectively erased, how does she reconcile the newly returned morality of her younger self with the current reality of being shackled to an evil deity?

On that note, even though Voica has a background, I left her years in the cult intentionally undefined. GM is free to go wild with those should he wish.

Hope the thought of a neutral cleric of Urgathoa is palatable. Rules allow for it, of course, but despite being super evil and all, I've always liked the possibility of worshipping her as a sort of avatar of RL ethical hedonism and the ubermensch idea of the development of the self. Not sure if that angle was ever intended by Paizo, but certainly someone at the office put on their big brain cap when they gave her the Self-Realization domain.