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5 Pharast, 4714
I arrived in Wati last night, cutting things a bit closer than I would have preferred. Nonetheless, Pasha and I were on hand to witness the morning’s funerary procession to honor the Day of Bones. With all I have seen in my long years, it was still an impressive sight, and I do not regret the early start to the day in order to participate, even if only as an observer; alas, the temples of Nethys are too often lacking in ritual pageantry, for all that they inspire me in other ways.
Of course, once the procession was done, the priests lead the way back to the Grand Mausoleum, where the lottery occurred. There were nearly a dozen groups – “adventuring parties,” if you will – on hand to participate, most consisting of three to five people. The largest contingents were from the Pathfinder Society and the Aspis Consortium, and I can’t have been the only one in the crowd both concerned about the two of them attacking one another and grateful that they’ll be too wrapped up in their rivalry with one another to bother with the rest of us. I was the only solitary party willing to take up the task, as the Mausoleum’s clerics had warned me I would be last night when I put my name into the drawing. So be it then; I’m usually more comfortable on my own anyway. (Pasha says it’s because I dislike people. She’s wrong, of course. I like people just fine, but they don’t seem to much care for me. Whether they are intimidated by my intellect or offended by my passion for accuracy over social mores I neither know nor care; the end result is the same, and I have long since become accustomed to it.) Moreover, solitude allows greater freedom of communication with Pasha, without overly-inquisitive ears to hear her speak.
After a short opening speech I shall not bother recording, the Pharasmins proceeded with the lottery in pleasingly efficient fashion. When I presented my token, I was assigned the Tomb of Akhentepi, on the necropolis’ far edge. An auspicious beginning; a genuine tomb, and one so far from the gate access, has great potential for genuine discovery. When I received my assignment, Sebti the Crocodile, the Grand Mausoleum’s high priestess, took the opportunity to once more remind me of the three rules for this exploration by which I agreed to be bound: “remember how this came to pass,” “every slave’s hut is a memorial,” and “honor the departed.” She need not have bothered. I am a researcher, not a grasping tomb robber fumbling in the sand. Whatever I might uncover and turn toward mercantile purpose will be solely in support of my intellectual pursuits – my intent is to provide copies of all my research and discoveries to the Grand Mausoleum itself, as an expression of my respect and gratitude for the opportunity.
I have retained rooms at the Tooth & Hookah, where I will spend tonight as I did last night. I will assess the situation at the tomb once I arrive in the morning and determine then whether I will simply remain at my assigned delve or avail myself of the Tooth & Hookah’s hospitality further.
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6 Pharast, 4714
Well, if I had hoped for a simple, straightforward explanation, I am already disappointed. Osiriani tombs remain as troublesome as ever. And to think, when I found Pasha I believed that nothing else would ever be as dangerous or difficult again! (Pasha corrects me, as she always does; “I found you, silly boy.” And as always, she refuses to explain how she did anything of the sort.)
The map I was given indicated that the Tomb was deep within the necropolis, but it was still something of a surprise that it took an hour to reach the designated location. On our arrival, we found the Tomb of Akentepi quite easily; the exterior access is a rectangular mausoleum, thirteen feet high, twenty-five feet wide and forty feet long, located in the remains of a long-abandoned cemetery. Evidence suggests that the cemetery predates the Plague of Madness, and may even have fallen into disuse by that time. The mausoleum’s two doors were solid stone, exceedingly heavy, and half-buried in blown sand; they faced north, and hieroglyphs along their edges clearly indicated Akhentepi’s birth and death dates, 2416 AR and 2488 AR respectively. That Akhentepi died and was interred more than a decade before the Plague of Madness gave me hope that his tomb would be intact but in good order. Examining the doors carefully, I determined that they were designed to open outward, which meant that I needed to do something about the sand.
Thus, I spent another three hours returning to Wati proper and acquiring a shovel and crowbar with the last of my gold (which nicely settled the question of whether I would be back at the Tooth & Hookah tonight). Another hours’ worth of work brought me to midday, but also freed the doors from their sandy prison; the crowbar and a few minutes’ effort allowed me to lever the doors open. As I worked, I considered the question of the tomb’s relative exposure further, because I was less optimistic than I had been originally. The sand in front of the doors indicated a lengthy period of disuse, but I clearly saw marks in the mortar at the doors’ edges and seam suggesting I was not the first to apply a tool such as my crowbar to them. I had no way of telling whether my predecessor(s) had been successful in breaching the tomb, but I couldn’t doubt that someone had already tried. Pasha had not seen the marks, but took my word for it; perhaps sensing my concerns, she attempted to lift my spirits by reminding me that thieves look for gold, not learning, and even a tomb already robbed might contain hieroglyphs that could add to our store of knowledge about Osirion during the rise of the Qadiran caliphate. In this, her efforts were effective, and I slowly pushed open the doors with great anticipation.
The room within was a not large, a rectangle twenty feet east-west and fifteen north-south, with hieroglyphs and sunk-relief carvings on the east and west walls; in the corners were carvings of faces that I eventually determined to be sconces, and took appropriate advantage of. The faces in the southern corners were depictions of Pharasma, while the ones in the north were of Anubis, the Osiriani tomb-god. The carvings, in combination with the hieroglyphs, constitute a brief (and no doubt somewhat mythologized, as was traditional) biography of Akhentepi. According to the depictions, he was a stout military commander who lead the troops garrisoned at Wati in peacetime and completed several successful military campaigns during various times of strife before his death. Additional writing provided the traditional threats against disturbing the tomb: “Akhentepi’s tomb is well defended, and those who defile it tempt the wrath of the gods. The only thing the Lady of Graves despises more than the grave robber is the unsuccessful grave robber. Turn back while you can.” Well then – I shall endeavor not to be unsuccessful. Never let it be said I am not a pious man.
The southern wall was bare but for a large stone circle, marked with Pharasma’s holy symbol, nearly reaching the ten-foot high ceiling and with a weight I could scarcely guess. It was six inches wide and rested in a shallow trench I quickly realized was meant as a track for it to roll in – this was the entrance to the tomb proper. But at such a size… I had no hope of moving it, whether it wanted to roll or not. Which meant I had no choice but to destroy it.
First, of course, I wanted to make certain there were no surprises left by the tomb’s architects. The warding symbol on the stone might have been symbolic, or it might not have. However, several long moments’ study and a basic divination revealed no sign of traps, mundane or otherwise. Accordingly, I cast a spell to enlarge myself. It wasn’t a spell I had prepared today, but… well, ever since I found Pasha, I’ve found I can hear echoes, if you will, fragments at the edge of consciousness, that correspond to spells. If I focus on them for a moment, I can pull the fragments together and force the words out, almost as though I were pulling them from a scroll – but they come from within me, not an exterior container, and with astonishing power and swiftness. It’s draining, but almost unbelievably useful. Regardless, this is what I did now, with my morningstar held in a tight grip. After a brief moment, I found myself stooping to avoid hitting my head on the ten-foot ceiling, a morningstar the size of a greathammer in my fist. Taking a two-handed grip, I began to swing.
To make a long story short, it took two minutes of very loud hammering in a very small space to break the stone circle in half. In that period, though, the noise attracted the attention of a local denizen, a ghost scorpion about the size of my family dog back in Kyonin. Fortunately, it is difficult to sneak up on me and Pasha both, even while I am distracted hitting a stone wall over and over again, so I noticed it just as it crept into the chamber from the outside; two swings of my oversized morningstar were enough to crush the vermin before it could do any harm, and I went on with my hammering. Quickly enough I was inside, dismissing my spell to avoid getting a crick in my neck.
The next chamber was dark, only lit by the torchlight from the previous chamber and the sunlight still coming through the open exterior doors. It was a perfect twenty foot square, but most of the space was the ten-foot-wide square shaft leading downward. At the edge of the shaft was a piton, hammered in long after the original construction; a short stretch of rope, cleanly cut at the end, dangled from it. I grabbed a torch and brought it to the lip of the shaft, revealing a distant floor probably sixty feet below just at the edge of the torchlight. (Pasha can see in the dark, but give me at least a little light and I win out every time. I like to point this out to her whenever it comes up, just because she’s a magical item specifically designed for perception and I like to keep her humble.) I could also see something else down there, but could not make out what it was beyond a small dark lump.
After a few moments’ consideration, I went and retrieved a second torch and lit it as well, dropping it down the shaft. It landed on the stone floor below, revealing it to be slightly sandy stone, and the dark shape to be a pair of dark boots lying on their sides. The torch’s arrival did not spur them to movement; I watched for several more minutes to see if they stirred at all and saw no sign. Well and so; I doused my torch and went to untie the rope attached to the piton, only to have it crumble to dust as soon as my fingers brushed it. I replaced the vanished rope with my own more sturdy one, adjusted my pack one more time, and began the descent.
This was a calculated risk; my rope was not long enough to reach the floor, and I will have to use magic – my growth spell or some other – to reach the end when the time comes to climb back out. For now, though, I’ve set up a camp at the base of the shaft; I have food and water for five days, and I can use cantrips for light to explore (I must wait to prepare my spells tomorrow morning before I can do so, though, which is why I have set up camp here rather than press onward). My companion down here is a long-dead corpse, mostly desiccated; I judge him to have once been a human or half-elf explorer not unlike myself, but he died here when both his legs were broken from what looks to have been a rather bad fall. No doubt that was his rope above, cut by an unscrupulous “ally” as he tried to climb out.
You see, Pasha? That is why I work alone.
Let me be clear here. I dislike robbing the dead, whether properly entombed as Akhentepi is or accidentally fallen as the dead man in the lower chamber is. As I said before, I am a scholar, not a peddler in stolen grave goods. Nonetheless, in extremis, measures must be taken, and I confess that I did examine the body for valuables that might aid me in my explorations. Happily, I found some, and I trust their prior owner will bear me no ill-will from his place in or beyond the Boneyard for making use of that which he no longer can to do that which he was unable to finish. Still-usable belongings included two iron pitons like the one at the edge of the shaft above, a hammer, and what appear to be two intact flasks of alchemist’s fire. I suppose that means I’ve recouped the cost of the shovel and crowbar, at least. My plan is to build the poor soul a proper pyre and light it with the alchemist’s fire when I leave, assuming I have had no other need for it before then,
Once I was done examining the body I turned my attention to the rest of the room, and discovered much that was worthy of record. There are two doors leading east from this room, each marked with an ornate carving, stylized in the classic Osiriani fashion. The carvings depict a warrior – Akhentepi, I am given to believe – in a war chariot, wielding khopesh and shield in martial pose. The shield is an unusual design, shaped like a scarab beetle – indeed, at first I took the carving for an indication that Akhentepi had a giant beetle companion, but a closer inspection has dissuaded me from that impression. Nonetheless I look forward to seeing whether the scarab motif is repeated elsewhere in the depictions of Akhentepi further in.
For now, though, I am going to meditate, practice my sword forms and continue my notes for new spells. Pasha will watch over me while I sleep.
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7 Pharast 4714
Began this morning in the usual fashion: restoke the fire for light, then prepare my spells, reworking my cantrips to include an illusion of floating lights suitable for exploration. Pasha reported a quiet night, which I could only appreciate; sleeping in a tomb is not for the faint of heart, even in a necropolis as thoroughly cared for as this one. Breakfast was typically light, and then I readied my exploratory gear. The camp I left intact for the moment; I didn’t know how long I would be staying, but packing up the entire camp seemed pointless at that stage.
Thus prepared, Pasha and I approached the carved double doors. Wary of the fate of our fallen predecessor, we carefully examined the doors for surprises left behind by the wary architects so many centuries ago, but found none. The doors themselves were quite heavy, and I will confess that it took a few attempts before I could manage to make them shift position. Once I got them moving, though, it was easier, and very quickly I found myself staring down a hallway perhaps thirty-five feet in length. The doors at either end of the hall bore similar carvings to those in the antechamber I had already begun thinking of as “my camp,” but these seemed to depict an older Akhentepi; the khopesh was gone, the scarab shield still present, and the opposite hand was merely raised in a commanding gesture. The walls to the north and south showed battle scenes against a variety of foes, their armor and weapons suggesting most of the cultures of northern Garund active during the middle period of the Age of Enthronement. I spent a few minutes studying them intently, then turned my attention to the doors at the corridor’s far end.
Too quickly. I was wary of the doors, but should have watched the floor as well – there was a pressure plate just in front of it that I noticed only too late. A click was my only warning. It was followed immediately by a burst of air as a dart shot out from a small hole concealed in the carvings; it would have gone completely through my shoulder and into my chest, but I willed resistance into my flesh and the dart skidded sideways, leaving my arm bleeding and pained, but intact. “Van! Are you okay?” Pasha called out in shock, and I gritted my teeth before nodding a reassurance. I turned to look behind me and saw similar darts littering the rest of the hall; clearly the designer had a bent toward thoroughness that I would have appreciated under other circumstances.
“Clearly I need to consider my steps more carefully,” I replied, gripping my shoulder to stop the bleeding. My hand back away red, and I wiped it clean with a rag. Now that I knew where to look I could see it: a thin line around the flagstones just in front of the door. I crouched, then lay flat on my belly and drew out my tools. The trap, I soon discovered, relied on a bronze coil on the northern edge of the stone – as the stone sank on its spring supports, the coil was pushed back in on itself so that the tip knocked a gear and lever system forward; the rest of the mechanism was hidden behind the stone, but the eventual outcome was obvious. Using my crowbar, I levered the flagstone up enough to give me access to the coil and set about trying to bend it backward so it couldn’t reach the lever.
It slipped.
I caught it just before it hit the lever, and Pasha actually gave a little metallic squeak. “Bloody hells,” I swore, then wiped my hand off again, cursing the blood that made them slippery. After a calming breath, I leaned down and very slowly made another attempt. This time, I reached for the extra power Pasha granted me and channeled it into my concentration, into steadying my hands. It worked, and when I let go this time, the coil fell short of the lever by a solid half-inch. “Good enough,” I said to it, then rose and wiped my hands free of the dust. A careful testing of the pressure plate reassured me that the problem had been resolved; shaking my head at my own carelessness, I took another long look at the door for other, similar unexpected events, but found nothing. They were as heavy as the previous set, but were no more able to stop me than had the others.
The room beyond was clearly the entry to the tomb proper, and beautiful to the eyes of any antiquarian. I shifted my hovering lights to float in the room’s corners and began to examine its contents more carefully. The most obvious thing was the tapestry mounted against the western wall, actual preserved cotton from more than two millennia past: I measured it a full ten feet wide and six and a half feet tall, stretched on a wooden frame. It depicted a man – visibly similar to Akhentepi as depicted in the previous chambers, I felt comfortable labeling him as such – with a woman by his side, two children at hers, and a small estate behind them. The art style clearly showed the influence of the Qadiran sultanate, being far different than the traditional Osiriani art in the wall carvings. Likewise, the inscription was in a Kelesh dialect rather than Osiriani hieroglyphs; although I cannot speak the language, I read it well enough to understand that the images were of Akhentepi, his wife and two children; the sons and spouse were all lost to some tragedy or illness while Akhentepi himself still lived, suggesting a period as a widower. I was surprised to see an image of a dead wife in a tomb like this; if any real time would have passed between her death and his, I would have expected him to remarry and have iconography in recognition of the new spouse in place of the old. That he chose to honor her and their children in this way indicated that hadn’t happened. When I commented on it, Pasha speculated a love-match, but I very much doubt it – social prestige and resource accumulation would logically require a man with the status of Akhentepi to set aside his grief and move on.
She replied, “See? This is why you have no friends.” I have not yet determined what that had to do with our conversation at all.
In addition to the tapestry, the room also contained two pedestals, positioned to the north and south of the tapestry itself. These each held a mummified cat, no doubt associated with Akhentepi in life and sent with him as guardians to protect him on his way to the River of Souls. (“Sent with him” is of course a euphemism; no doubt the cats were poisoned or strangled in the wake of Akhentepi’s death so they could be placed here.) Beyond their presence, though, the cats had little to hold my interest, and I took no further notice of them. A cantrip and a quick sweep of the room revealed no magical auras, so I considered the doors in the north and south walls. “Which way?” I asked Pasha.
“Left,” she replied at once. “Always go left in a dungeon.”
“This is a tomb, Pasha,” I answered, shaking my head. “Why would left be the optimal choice? It would seem that any systematic approach would work.”
Pasha seemed to sparkle more brightly in the light of my glowing spheres. “Because bad things happen when you don’t go left.”
I adjusted my pack and headed toward the northern – the right-hand – door. Venaschiel Spellblade does not bow to the petty superstitions of so-called adventurers.
Still wary from before, I examined the door for traps but found none, and was pleased when it opened easily and smoothly. Beyond were a short downward flight of steps and another set of doors, these likewise untrapped. The lower doors opened as easily as the upper, and another wonder soon met my eyes.
This time it was a chariot, painted with bright colors in geometric designs across the body and even along the rims of the wheels. I could not readily imagine how the original builders had gotten it in here, as it wouldn’t have fit through the doors, let alone the vertical shaft back at my camp. After some thought I concluded it must have been assembled in place, a remarkable display of dedication to a simple mode of transport. It looked unsurprisingly like the chariots depicted on the walls in the trapped corridor and on the walls of my camp; no doubt it was a favorite piece, possibly even a memento of the great military victories depicted in the carvings. At some point it would be worth making arrangements to remove it and see it placed in a museum (or even put back into use – time had taken a considerable toll on it during its millennia in the dark, but I am fairly sure a common transmutation or two could be used to restore it to full functionality), but for now, such an undertaking is beyond my resources.
The room held more treasures, however, in less obvious guise. The far wall held a canvas to which many ancient and spoiled furs were attached, intended I am sure as citations of hunting prowess – they were crumbling and worthless now, though. I used my divination again – and this time, I found magical auras. One I could not place, but two others were minor healing draughts, exceedingly useful in my circumstances. All three were contained within a beautifully wrought chest placed in a corner. I spent a few long moments giving the chest a thorough examination, and was unsurprised to discover a trap – a concealed blade on a spring, designed to pierce the unwary hand that opened the chest against the tomb owner’s wishes. It was locked as well, but the lock was the lesser concern. First I needed to do something about that knife.
My first cautious attempt was unsuccessful; I was moving too slow to make a significant mistake, but I still nearly jammed my probe into the knife’s release mechanism and set it off. A bit shaken, I sat back and considered. I normally try a series of rote approaches to mechanisms such as these – uninspiring, perhaps, but also less likely to make things… exciting. Where spring-loaded blades are concerned, excitement is not a desirable quality. Nonetheless, it is sometimes required, as in this case: it seemed my usual methods would be inadequate. I made another go at it, less formulaic in my approach, and was shortly rewarded by the sound of the spring falling into the chest’s inner compartment. That resolved, I spent a few minutes dealing with the lock (an unusual hex key design, with seven pins extending outward into the shaft that needed to be compressed a specific amount each – tricky to do, but simple enough to picture, and simple repetition eventually managed it) and opened the chest.
Inside were the expected potions in carved-wood bottles, along with a third that I swiftly confirmed belonged to the aura I had not recognized. Each bottle’s wax stopper was bound with a tiny piece of braided string, dyed and tied into a complex pattern. As the two healing draughts were dyed and tied similarly while the third was different in both hue and knotwork, I theorize that the color and pattern acted as labels for the contents, but it did nothing to tell me about the third potion’s effects. I will examine it again tomorrow.
The potions were not the only things included, however. They rested atop two very heavy books (I estimate each to weigh roughly 25 pounds) with pages of pressed metal inlaid with gold. They are both beautiful and filled with fascinating information – one appears to be a brief biography of Akhentepi, likely intended to be presented to Pharasma at his arrival to justify his life to her, and the other is a record of Osiriani military actions between 2350 and 2450 AR. Astonishing! With no further ado, I closed the lid and lifted – carefully, with its great weight – the chest, swiftly returning it to my camp for later removal. It is the first of my legitimate scholastic discoveries, and I intend to treat it appropriately.
I did keep the healing draughts handy though. I’d like to think I won’t need them, but even by then the tomb had already tried to kill me twice, and the day was not yet over.
I made my way back to the chariot room and to the corridor that lead beyond it, back to the east. Guiding my floating lights toward the hallway, I saw the passage – roughly ten feet long – opened out into another room beyond, and when I sent my light ahead, it revealed no further openings visible from my location; a dead end. I turned my attention back to the short corridor, because it bore four objects on its walls of no small interest: funerary masks, each sized for a smallish human; these depicted Pharasma, Abadar, Osiris and the Osiriani goddess of battle and vengeance, Sekhmet. (I’ve long speculated over Sekhmet’s relationship to Calistria; while the Savored Sting prefers small, intimate vengeances, I find myself wondering if she doesn’t occasionally enjoy dispensing with subtlety and instead operates on a somewhat broader scale, taking a new name while she does it…) The masks were beautiful and heavy, plated with gold and inlaid with lapis. I was wary – these looked like perfect honey traps – but to my surprise, a careful examination of the floor and the masks both revealed no such mechanisms. I carefully collected the masks and returned to camp, placing them within the chest as well.
Finally I went back to the final right-hand chamber, which I judged to be some kind of war-trophy room. A large diorama depicting a battle around a city – I believe it to be Wati, based on the approximate geography – covered a table against the north wall, while a rack to the east held three shields and one to the south a series of weapons. And that was about all I was able to identify before three of the figurines in the diorama animated and began moving toward me.
The three figures were off the table and across the room before I could even respond to their movements. All three tried to punch me with their tiny wooden shields, but even in my startlement I was able to jump aside and dance free of their attacks. I responded by drawing my blade, channeling mana into it, and taking a heavy, two-handed swing at one. Even though I hit solidly, the wooden figure only cracked rather than the satisfying shattering I’d hoped for. They continued to swarm forward, and with a wall at my back I suddenly ran out of room to retreat – and suddenly I learned that their tiny frames held surprising power, enough to badly bruise my ankle clear to the bone. I jumped past them, into the center of the room, and kept swinging, this time channeling an evocation through my sword as well – but the little things were fast, and small, and my blade only drew sparks from the flagstone floor. They had no such troubles, and I felt one of my ankles fracture, sending me briefly to a knee before I struggled upright and backed away again. Realizing the precarious nature of the situation, I reached for my inner strength and focused – and a sheet of flame engulfed the three constructs.
There were only ashes left.
I paused, gasping. The fight had hurt, a lot, and taken a lot out of me as well. I only had two non-cantrip evocations still memorized, and had at best a use or two more of Pasha’s gifts before I would be too exhausted to try that again either. Carefully considering my options, I withdrew one of my scrolls and read it aloud, allowing the magic to wash over me and my wounds to begin closing. After a minute or so, the gash on my arm was gone, and my ankle was merely badly bruised. I could live with that. (Pasha hates that spell. She says it “sets a bad example” for me. I suppose I understand her point – the conjuration does make use of fiend’s blood, and it has a distinctive and somewhat unpleasant “psychic aftertaste,” I suppose you could call it – but it happens to be the only magical healing I can cast, so perhaps she needs to take the matter up with the entity or entities who originally established the laws of magic.) That done, and still debating with myself on my course for the rest of the day, I began to examine the rest of the room.
Fortunately, it held no more similar surprises. Instead I found a number of additional artifacts of interest and possible value. The shield rack, for example, held not only a classic soldier’s shield, indistinguishable but for size from the ones carried by the small Osiriani figures in the diorama (and attached to the limbs of my late would-be murderers), but also one likely from a Mwangi tribe, probably claimed in battle as a prize, and a scarab-shaped shield that was clearly connected to the images of Akhentepi in the previous chambers. This shield was magically enhanced, strongly suggesting it was the shield carried by Akhentepi himself in the battles depicted on those carvings. The shield’s dweomer was twofold, offering protections against vermin swarms like those of its scarab inspiration and also bolstering life energy to protection against supernatural fear or certain necromancies. It could even be used to heal oneself. I found myself disappointed that I have never trained with a shield, since it would keep me from using my spells in a melee; but then I forcibly reminded myself that I was exploring and recording, not shopping. The scarab shield will make some museum or collector a fine addition to their assemblage. The same will likely prove true for the weapons on the southern rack, a khopesh and a spear, both of exceptional craftsmanship even after the many years since their forging. I confess to have taken a few practice swings with the khopesh, but the truth is that it is a difficult weapon to master with its awkward balance and unusual shape; even were I so inclined, I do not see myself taking up Akhentepi’s blade as my own.
In addition to the martial implements, a series of five wooden chests circled the room near its edges, along with a single clay urn. None of the chests were trapped, nor did any possess magical auras. Nonetheless, their contents were perhaps as valuable as anything else I have found so far; one held a bag with several dozen gold and silver coins, but far more valuable than just the money were Akhentepi’s personal papers. Correspondence, memoranda, speeches, expense ledgers, and other records of his life and times as a military leader of the early caliphate. It is a trove that might well make a dedicated Osirianologist his or her career, and even for a less-focused scholar like me, the potential discoveries about life in that era are stupendous. I did not want to risk exposing the contents of the urn, so I pierced the cover and put Pasha up to the hole; she tells me it is perfume. I borrowed a brand from my campfire and re-melted the wax over the hole to close it up again.
I brought the coins, papers, shield and weapons back to the camp and then spent a few moments making a decision. It was still fairly early in the day, but I’d already come near death twice. I was not sure how much more I wanted to push things today, especially since I wanted to be certain I still had the reserves to assemble a spell to allow me to escape the tomb at need. I had two books and several chests’ worth of personal papers to read – surely enough to occupy me for the rest of the day.
And yet, the rest of the tomb remained tantalizingly unexplored; a door I had not even opened was a mere 45 feet from where I was planning to sleep. Curiosity warred with caution… and, as lord Nethys would no doubt have wished, curiosity won. Seeking knowledge may yet destroy me, and I can only put it down to the All-Seeing Eye’s will if and when it happens. So be it. All I can say is, although it came close, today was not that day.
So I readied myself once more, this time leaving my blade free of its scabbard, and returned to the tapestry room. The southern doors still beckoned, and I realized at that point Pasha had not said anything in some time. “What?” I poked her. “We’re finally going left now, the way you wanted.”
“Just be careful,” was all she said in return. She sounded worried.
“When am I not?” I responded.
A metallic snort. “Other than right now, you mean?”
Contrary to this depiction of my actions, I was both cautious and thorough in my examination of the doors and – once I opened them to find a short flight of stairs downward, the mirror of the set across the room – the ones beyond as well, but in neither case did I find any sign of a trap. As I was unharmed, I believe my assessments of safety to have been correct.
When I opened the doors at the bottom of the stairs I was not entirely surprised to see that the room was very similar in shape and size to the chariot room, its counterpart to the north. Unlike the chariot room, though, there were doors here, leading both east and west, both of which were ajar. This struck me as odd – I had so far seen no sign of activity any further into the tomb than the dead explorer had reached (which is to say, the first chamber), and all the doors had been very firmly closed. This suggested to me that something was moving through this part of the area, and indeed, on studying the floor I found no signs of a trap but did locate what was unmistakably a fairly recent mark in the dust, a blurred impression of a paw or claw, I think. It was large enough to suggest an owner of considerable size, perhaps even as large as myself; alas, I knew too little of tracking to hazard any guesses beyond that.
The room itself contained statues of Pharasma and Anubis in the southern corners, flanking an immense mirror that ran the length of the room; it was about three and a half feet high, and must have been incredibly expensive for its time. I cast my usual divination and determined that it had a faint magical aura of transmutation and illusion, but could not tell more, so instead I went over to examine it more closely myself. When I looked into the mirror directly, I was startled to see a second person staring back at me: an Osiriani human, dressed for battle, fit and well-muscled in what I estimate to be his early 40s. Both the illusory reflection and my own were frowning back at me in what I can only describe as disappointment and disapproval. It was, I admit, quite clever – another reminder of what I was doing, no doubt designed to prick my conscience. “My apologies,” I told the reflection before turning away. “I’m afraid I’ve no conscience to prick in this regard.”
Dismissing the mirror, I considered the east and west doors. Without knowing what lay beyond either, but having some suspicions that this part of the tomb was inhabited in some fashion, I had little to make a decision on, and “always left” did not qualify. Indeed, Pasha was still maintaining her silence, despite the opportunity to bring up the aforementioned directional principle. That left only my own reason to aid me. Given the typical humanoid predilection for symmetry, I reasoned that there was a strong possibility that the room to the east would be a dead-end, just as its counterpart to the north was; this was certainly not a guarantee, but it was as likely as anything else I could surmise, and it gave me something to go on. I carefully approached the eastern doors and pushed the ajar one open, moving my lights in to see what lay beyond.
This turned out to be two vermin the size of sheep.
As I sent my lights into the room, there was a flurry of motion behind a stone table or altar on the room’s far side, about thirty feet away. They looked like giant spiders, but had too many legs and not enough eyes; giant solifugids, which are sometimes called wind scorpions. They are aggressive and have nasty bites; I decided to respond likewise, empowering my longsword and casting an evocation through it as I leapt forward to meet their charge. As quick as that, one was down, sparking and smoking as it twitched on the floor, but then the other was on me. I brought my blade around to smack its mandibles aside with the flat of my blade, just barely avoiding their serrated bite, then tried to lever my blade up and into its thorax from beneath. The beast just rolled over instead, though, landing on its feet as neat as you please, before lunging in again, snapping its mandibles and slashing with its pedipalps. I grabbed one of the pedipalps and twisted, forcing it and the mandibles away, but the other had more reach than I expected, and a slash speared down my right hip, that leg still bruised from earlier. I stabbed at its eyes, hoping to drive it back a little, then evoked a force missile that caught it in the chest. It swarmed in again, and again I fell back, this time hardening my flesh against another pedipalp slash that got past my guard. I returned the cut with one of my own, and its literal carapace was not as effective as my supernatural one; it was bleeding ichor out of two wounds now, and the damage was beginning to take a toll – I evaded its next several attacks, if not easily, then at least without new wounds to show for it. As soon as I saw an opening, I lunged in again, but my wounds were likewise dragging at me, and the tip of my blade skipped off its chitin.
That mistake very nearly killed me. Hoping for a killing thrust, I had overextended; its mandibles cut deep into my sword arm, almost to the bone, and a pedipalp hit me in the chest hard enough to crack ribs. My grip on my blade slackened, I fell to a knee, and the wind scorpion rushed in, ready to finish me. Fortunately, though, my off-hand still functioned, and I caught the bug in an uppercut that stunned its advance and knocked it upward – which allowed me to grab hold of my blade in both hands and bury it to the hilt in the creature’s exposed belly.
We fell to the floor together, the bug and I, it twitching its death throes and I gasping for breath against the pain of my wounds. Realizing my arm and abdomen were both still bleeding badly, I fumbled out one of the healing draughts and downed it in a single gulp – the freely-bleeding wounds closed, leaving only the cut on my hip and the bone bruise on my ankle.
The shock of the healing revived me somewhat, and I sat up again, looked around, then slowly levered myself to my feet. I couldn’t help favoring my right leg a little, but otherwise I was moving well enough. I searched the rest of the room, but found no other threats, nor any artifacts worth collecting. The room was twenty feet north-south by thirty east-west, lined with pillars interspersed with carvings of Anubis’s head along the stone walls. The altar that had concealed the solifugids appeared to be dedicated to him as well, but also showed signed of being a worktable, with a roughly humanoid impression carved a few inches deep into the stone. I hypothesize that the room was used as a mummification chamber, likely the place where Akhentepi – and those cats, come to think of it – were prepared for their burials here.
And that, I decided, was my exploration for the day. I’d explored seven chambers and been attacked or threatened in four of them. That wasn’t good odds for my future endeavors. I pushed the doors closed leading to the southern passages and returned to my camp, where I am about to sit down to thoroughly read Akhentepi’s papers and books, work on my new spell theories (I feel close to a breakthrough on one or two new formulae) and get some rest.
8 Pharast 4717
First of all, I’d like to state for the record that Akhentepi did have a mistress that he planned to marry. I knew this “one true love” business was rubbish.
I learned that, and quite a bit more, about Akhentepi from his papers. He strikes me as a pragmatic, head-headed warrior, concerned about victory with the minimum expenditure of resources – be it in blood or treasure – for the maximum return. Although his tomb clearly focuses its attention on the gods of the dead (Pharasma and Anubis) for what must be obvious reasons, I’d be quite surprised if he were not primarily an Abadarite during his life; his ledgers certainly record several large donations to the church, although Abadar was certainly not alone in receiving the largesse of his piety. His pragmatism was mixed with less baldly rational passions, of course – in addition to hunting, apparently a favorite pastime, he does note with fondness the memories of his wife and children, all of which did in fact die of plague most of a decade before his own passing as I have previously surmised. Nonetheless, the end of the first marriage did not preclude a second – some of the final entries note a planned expansion of this tomb to house a second occupant, the mistress he intended to shortly wed. No doubt his death came as a blow to her, or at least to her political or financial aspirations.
I made two other discoveries last night and this morning. The first was that I could activate the dweomer on Akhentepi’s shield to provide a moderate amount of magical healing, at least enough to completely restore me to hale form from what wounds still troubled me last night. The use is unorthodox, as it is a side-effect of the shield’s protections against certain necromancies, but nonetheless useful for all that, especially as I will not carry the shield otherwise; the dweomer’s energies subscribe to a daily recharge protocol, allowing me to potentially make use of the effect repeatedly over time rather than depleting my more transient supplies of potions and scrolls to the same purpose. The second was that the potion I could not immediately recognize yesterday was one of darkvision; being able to match Pasha’s vision might be useful sometime.
Armed with this new information, I prepared myself to move into the tomb once again. First of course I swept north, verifying that I had missed neither valuable artifact nor lingering threat in that direction, but all was in fact as I had left it. I then turned my steps south, carefully opening the door I had so carefully closed last night. Still aware of the possible presence of inhabitants in this portion of the tomb, and unwilling to assume that the giant wind scorpions I had killed yesterday were the tomb’s only living occupants, I carefully checked both the mirror chamber and the mummification chamber for new residents, but found none. That only left the double doors to the west, which I very carefully pushed open.
A broad staircase lay beyond, descending toward another set of double doors about thirty feet on at the lower end. Akhentepi’s scarab emblem glittered from those doors, carved into the stone beneath a relief of the sun. The likely source of the tomb’s invaders was evident here as well: much of the staircase’s southern wall was collapsed, tunnels more than a foot across disappearing into the earth and stone beyond the tomb walls. The giant wind scorpions could have easily traversed such tunnels to reach this point, but it struck me as unlikely that they would have created them. To that point, I had not seen anything likely to have been responsible for the tunnels; their creators might still lurk in the tomb’s corners, or have long since departed via the same passages they had created.
The central portion of the stairs nearest the collapsed section of wall was covered in sand, dirt, bits of rock and so on, and my experience in the entrance hall nearest my camp had taught me to be wary of the floor. Consequently, I was able to note the first telltale ripples of movement in the debris before it was too late. As I approached that portion of the stairs, the entire area began to roil, like a pool of water into which a stone had been tossed. With an oath, I leapt back, readying my blade even as the stones and earth writhed and coalesced into a massive creature, like a legless giant crocodile made completely of earth.
What it might have been I haven’t an inkling. Given its composition, some variety of earth elemental seems likely, but beyond that, I can only speculate. My inability to identify the creature notwithstanding, I had no difficulty recognizing its hostility and did not hesitate to respond in kind. I infused an enchantment into my sword and evoked an electrical strike through it as I swung; although I didn’t hit a weak spot – if indeed it had such a thing – it was nonetheless a strong, solid contact and discharge. The elemental roared in something like pain and reconsidered challenging me. Rather than counterstrike, it dove into the south wall like an eel into the ocean, gone with barely a ripple. I was obscurely pleased to have driven it off without killing it; there was a majesty to it I respected. At the same time, however, I spent no little time waiting warily to see if it returned, and Pasha admitted she was likely to spend the next several hours watching my back – and my feet – in case it attempted a stealthy revenge through the walls or floor.
It did not happen, though.
After several long minutes, I decided that it would not be returning. With Pasha keeping an eye out, I turned my attention to the doors at the bottom of the stairs, carefully studying them for more traps, but they were neither locked nor trapped that I could find. Wary, I pushed them open as I had the others previous.
The chamber beyond looked to mark a transition from the icons of Akhentepi’s mortal life to a focus on his afterlife. It was larger than most of the other chambers I’d seen so far, about twenty feet across and thirty long, and oriented north-south as opposed to east-west. Three sets of doors, all marked with a tile pattern in the shape of Pharasma’s holy symbol, lead out; these included the ones on the east where I stood, as well as two others on the west and north walls. There was another tapestry, very similar in style to the one in the entry chamber above, on the south wall, but where the previous one had looked back on Akhentepi’s past, this one looked forward, depicting the River of Souls as it flows through the Boneyard, carrying souls to Pharasma’s judgment. It was also a fine piece, and I strongly suspected it to be the work of the same hand that created the tapestry above. On the floor was another Pharasmin spiral, and in the corners, columns carved like Osiriani soldiers stood guard. “Do you suppose this impressed Her?” Pasha asked. “Pharasma, I mean. Did all these grave goods actually mean anything when he finally got to Her? Or was he like every other soul She sees – naked, but for their acts and their faith?”
I shook my head, the theological implications heavier than I wished to consider while in the midst of what Akhentepi might well have considered grave robbing. “I am less interested in the balance of his soul’s affairs than I am about what we can learn about his culture,” I reminded Pasha, perhaps a bit harshly. “The intangibles are difficult to assess scientifically.”
After a long moment she replied, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you weren’t comfortable with the state of your soul, Ven.” I stared down at her, and she glittered on my finger innocently. Honestly, I simply cannot fathom where she gets these notions at times.
We moved on. Both of the other two doors were locked, typical bronze combination locks likely imported from Qadira, based on their design. Simple enough. Neither showed any signs of traps, and I cautiously undid each over the course of several minutes. I then warily opened first the west, then the northern doors, finding little of great interest in either, at least at first. To the west, what looked like an unfinished stairwell, ending abruptly in a stone wall, was all there was to see; I surmised it to be a tomb wing that was not completed before the primary occupant had need of the rest of the complex. To the north, yet more stairs continued their descent, toward what I could only assume was the actual resting place of Akhentepi, perhaps quite close at that point. I moved my lights a little down the unfinished stairs, but they only revealed more small tunnels in the stone. With a shrug, I carefully headed down the northern stairs, alert still for traps in as many directions as I could look.
What I found instead was what I first took for Akhentepi’s tomb. It was a large, octagonal room, forty feet across the longer dimensions. A central platform occupied most of the space, with stairs leading up to it just in front of the doors where I stood. There was a large sarcophagus in the middle of the platform, gilt-edged and flanked by large Anubis statues on either side; four stone pillars occupied the corners of the dais to complete the tableau.
I admit it: I was incautious. The possibility of seeing Akhentepi up close for the first time caught my imagination. I simply sprinted up the stairs.
…Straight into the trap I had not even bothered to look for.
Suddenly, bolts of lightning filled the air over the dais. Some sensation, whether physical or mystical, I don’t know, alerted me, and I was already reversing course toward the southern doors when they went off – I was singed, my muscles spasming with sudden pain, but it could have been much worse. The door behind me slammed shut, and a grinding noise behind the door suggested a bar or similar sliding into place behind it. (I heard something similar from an apparently empty part of the western wall, an oddity I hoped I would have a chance to investigate – if I survived whatever was about to happen.) I turned to look for another way to escape, and instead saw the sarcophagus lurch upright and begin rocking toward me with unsettling speed.
It was an animated object, and I knew its wooden construction would be difficult for my weapons to breach. The sight of a coffin leaping upright and moving to the attack caught me somewhat off-guard, I admit; it was on me before I could do much about blink in surprise. Pasha didn’t even have a chance to shout. The sarcophagus cover gaped wide, then slammed down on my left arm, all but dislocating it; I am fairly certain it would have broken the wrist, but I hardened my skin against the blow. What’s worse, the blasted thing did not then let go!
Desperate, I tried something I would not normally have risked: I reached for my prepared magics and added Pasha’s own gifts to the mix, hoping I could hold onto my concentration well enough to manage the combination. The gamble worked, and I felt electricity wrap around my trapped arm and immediately discharge into the sarcophagus. Wood cracked and smoked. A wild swing with my sword was less effective, though, and I was still trapped.
That was the moment when the river flooded the room.
The northern “doors” suddenly revealed themselves as part of the trap, bursting inward with a sudden roar of water. Of course, I imagine the original builders of the trap pictured something more impressive than a wash of water that just barely covered the top of the dais, but it didn’t work to make me feel better. It also didn’t matter much, as the hells-damned sarcophagus was doing a more than good enough job all on its own.
With a sudden jerk, the animated contraption yanked me toward it, pulling me inward (and, not incidentally, going ahead and breaking my wrist that time). The lid gaped wide for a moment, then slammed shut behind me. I was trapped inside, and the thing was airtight. I had a brief, wild thought that at least I wouldn’t drown in there.
Honestly, it could have been worse. Once I was inside, the sarcophagus had no way to crush me further, and I had a few moments’ worth of air. I wriggled around until I got my last healing draught free from my pouch and drank it, the potion restoring me most effectively, then pulled my hammer out of its hook on my belt, willed an enchantment onto it and began to break my way free. It took me longer than I would have liked – the wood was hard and my leverage badly restricted – so that I was holding my breath by the time I got the wooden lid cracked open and blessed, sweet air poured through the gap. Forcing my way back out, I readied my sword, channeling an enhancement into it and facing the sarcophagus. “Okay, grabby,” I snarled, “let’s try round two.”
Okay, I admit it. I don’t do bravado terribly well. The moment swept me away.
The water at my feet – now up to my knees, really – made movement difficult, but I had little hope of being able to outrun the object within the locked confines of the false tomb anyway. My hope was simply to be able to hurt it more than it hurt me over the next few seconds. Although the flopping lid caught me in the ribs, I was able to put together an abjuration with Pasha’s help to shield me from its attacks, and then delivered another swing that sent wood chips flying. The abjuration made the difference, really; although one more solid blow reached me (forcing me to harden my skin against it, and all but exhausting Pasha’s aid), I kept at it like a woodsman with his axe, and shortly there was nothing left but broken planks floating on the water.
Another minute and a half went by before the water began to drain away and the southern door unlocked. The northern “doors” wedged themselves back into place, blocking the water flow again, and soon, only the broken remnants of the sarcophagus and a few small puddles indicated anything had happened here. As soon as I was able, I returned to my camp and triggered the conjuration on Akhentepi’s scarab shield – to great effect, I might add, leaving me unharmed and without pain. Thus treated, I considered whether to press onward. The day was still early, of course; I’d barely been exploring for half an hour to that point. The sarcophagus fight, however, had taken quite a lot out of me, and – not to put too fine a point on it – could well have resulted in me having to deal with Pasha’s questions about my soul far sooner than I would prefer. I decided continuing was simply too dangerous. I’ve rations and water for two more days yet; pushing forward when I am not prepared simply risks death. It would be unreasonable to assume there is not at least one more waiting trap or threat to deter me from my final goal here.
Instead, I’ve returned to the false tomb and gone over ever inch as carefully and thoroughly as I know how. I’ve located the bypass switch for the trap – a lever disguised as a torch sconce on the room’s southwestern wall. At least I needn’t fear that again. I also located not just one, but two hidden doors in that room, on the eastern and western walls. (No doubt the latter was barred in the same fashion as the southern one while the trap was activated; I believe I heard the bar grinding into place earlier.) The western door is locked with another Qadiran dial lock, the dial itself well concealed within the carvings on that wall. I shall assay them tomorrow, once I complete my sword forms and spell notes tonight. I have already finished compiling formulae for two new spells (a movement transmutation and a necromancy I can apply through my blade); while working on the latter, though, I had an inspiration as to a means by which I could modify certain beam-like or ray-like spells to instead manifest at a touch or through my sword, a potentially potent benefit with essentially infinite cantrips. I will see to what use I might put these techniques in the morning.