Andrel
I’m usually fairly accustomed to sleeping in uncomfortable spots for the most part, a particular skill from my childhood, but this was absolutely awful. A crick was building in the base of my spine, and I made to stretch before my hands touched cold stone which, and I would hope to be corrected if I was wrong, but I’m certain I had gone to sleep in my tent and not purchased a room. Even worse was that I still couldn’t see very well even when I did open my eyes, my mother’s elven senses allowing me to only barely make out the stone confines of what I quickly realized was a sarcophagus. Not entirely the strangest place I’d ever awoken but it was still a bit confusing as to how someone managed to drag my unconscious body into what I assumed was a crypt outside the walls.
There was the loud sound of stone grating against stone, only slightly muffled by the stone along with a set of muffled voices. Hoping my associate Vyker was nearby, I rapped a signal on the lid above me and waited, slowing my breathing to preserve as much air as I could. After only a minute, I heard the other half of the signal and waited as the stone lid was pushed away, showing my associate and a woman I was sure I’d never seen before in my life.
“Laying down on the job, boss?” my associate asked, his smile obvious behind the gaiter that hid rows of needle-like teeth. “Isn’t that usually my thing?” I grabbed the hand he offered, avoiding the long claws that poked from his gloves as he pulled me upright and out onto the stone floor. I could see the outlines of three other people with us; one rather large and built like an orc, the other tall and slender while the third was most likely a gnome from their stature and wild look to their hair but I couldn’t see that well from this distance. Even my half-elven sight had its limits that Vyker could somewhat ignore.
I did a quick pat down of my coat, slightly surprised to find my knives still in their secret compartments on my upper sleeves, my dagger still affixed to my belt, but my cane was still in the sarcophagus.
“You seem awfully calm about this,” the lady who helped Vyker open my sarcophagus noted, a tone of suspicion in her voice. I could barely make out the sunburst of Iomadae on her chestplate which signified her as a paladin, but the dark hair framing her pale face which had somewhat haughty features signified her as being of Chelish origin. I’d known many Chelish paladins in my time, many of them a part of the Children of Westcrown seeking to overthrow her Infernal Majestrix Abrogail II, with the rest fleeing to either Lastwall to join the vigil against the Whispering Tyrant and the orc hordes or to Mendev to join the crusade against the Worldwound. Though it was more the way she carried herself that made me wonder if she was of noble birth and was either being rebellious or fulfilling some secret desire of her parents.
“To tell the truth, this isn’t the first time I’ve been buried alive,” I admitted. The tall, slender figure I’d been able to make out intoned a few quick words to a spell and created a light at the end of a dagger she raised. While the light was appreciated in the pitch black of the room we were in, it did momentarily blind both Vyker and I as our eyes had adjusted to the dark. “Though I do suppose this is the nicest place I’ve been buried….”
“I thought that old tomb in Taldor was kinda nice,” Vyker offered. I made a non-committal noise as I continued looking the room once over. In one corner sat a wooden box that was most likely full of tools the masons had used to carve out the chamber and left for future use. Six large stone sarcophagi dominated most of the room which was mostly bare for a tomb this grandiose. There wasn’t a single spec of dust anywhere on the floor or even on the lone crate which was a good sign that this tomb was well kept and tended regularly, but it was the giant mural on the wall that truly drew my attention.
If we were presumably still in Lastwall, having only been dragged a short way away from the small town of Roslar’s Coffer, then the mural depicting valiant soldiers of the Shining Crusade fighting against hordes of orcs and undead was nothing truly out of the ordinary. The mural depicted six crusaders locked in vicious combat against a tide of the undead, their chests emblazoned with the sunburst of Iomadae but only three of them wore armor. The other three were obviously meant to be battle mages or priests, but one of them drew my eye. A half-elf with slightly swarthy features in a long leather coat, potion vials strapped to his chest as he tossed vials of alchemist’s fire into the oncoming monsters. The issue I had with the carving was how I knew I recognized the young man’s face….
It looked very similar to the one I saw in the mirror most morning while I shaved…. “Boss? What’re you…?” Vyker stopped talking when I gestured my cane not only to my own doppelganger but to another crusader. A shackle-born, given the strange chain-like markings around its wrists and neck, and whose long fingers ended in claws while brandishing needle-like teeth that I had only naturally found on species of fish that live in the darkest depths of the ocean. Out of habit, I drew the wings of Desna over my heart and noticed him do the same, hoping for something that I’m not sure either of us could explain what. “That’s…kinda disturbing….”
“Quite,” I agreed, turning away before my thoughts unfolded and dissolved into madness and to see our compatriots. My assumption that one of the three others was a gnome was correct but it was interesting to note her fly-away grey hair along with the green, leaf-like material that made her clothes. The long staff she leaned on looked slightly more like a club, but I had no doubt she knew how to use it. The man next to them was clearly an Ulfen given the decorative braids that he’d woven in his hair and beard along with the clothes he wore seeming more practical for colder climates. A flute carved into a dragon dangled from his waist alongside a pair of painfully sharp handaxes that almost seemed stereotypical for his viking heritage.
The slender woman who had created the light on her dagger wore simple robes that appeared to made of linens to help her with the warmer climates as did the bronze of her skin. A symbol on the grimoire that hung from her belt bore a symbol I recognized from one of many arcane colleges of Nex, only confirming my suspicions even further. What was most intriguing were the light blue waves and spirals that wound their way around her arms as well as how the hem of her robes drifted lazily despite the still air. I allowed my eyes to flick back to the mural carved into the stone to notice that the other three warriors bore certain resemblances to them.
“I say we move,” the Ulfen grumbled. His accent was incredibly thick, and it sounded like he wasn’t very confident in his Taldane despite his pronunciation being quite good.
“The sooner we get out, the sooner we can find out who stashed us all in here,” the paladin agreed, hefting her shield and longsword. I noticed a slight tick in her left wrist, almost like she had experienced an injury that hadn’t quite healed properly. Another brief associate of mine had once mentioned a paladin’s ability to sense the presence of evil was different depending on who you asked. He mentioned an elven captain of the Mendevian Crusade who experienced it in a similar way one might experience butterflies in their stomach when they become smitten.
She didn’t wait before holding her shield in a more protective stance and heading towards the only opening to the room, the Ulfen behind her followed quickly by the gnome and other woman. Vyker removed his blunderbuss from his back, looking at me as if waiting for ordered before I gave a quick nod and allowed him to bring up the rear. We had barely made to move after them before we heard the sound of steel scraping against what I assumed with bone and chitin before hearing the odd squeak of something dying followed by a clatter.
The paladin didn’t say anything but we managed to squeeze out of the little adjoining room into an even smaller corridor. A pile of bones sat in a heap on the floor with a bug much larger than what most might be accustomed to. It was not too dissimilar to a pill bug save for the dark black of its chitin and the slight orange glow emanating still from its soft underbelly. Vyker and I had come across creatures like this is a more…controlled environment, but I’d done a little further research of my own on them which was not much of note.
They were small vermin of the Abyss, insects that weren’t picky about what they ate but chose a peculiar form of protection despite their outer shells. While their name continued to escape me, I did recall them being able to somewhat reconstruct human skeletons, animating them and riding around in the pelvic bone which often gave the illusion of a skeleton rising to life. The main difference between a skeleton raised through necromancy and puppetted by these insects was that the “bone chariots” as I think they were called, often have bones in incorrect places. It seemed it was a bit much to expect demonic insects to understand anatomy. Any other circumstance, I would love to cart off the corpse for further examination, but escaping the still air of the tomb was a bit more prudent.
I could spy the handle of a mace on one of the low shelves among the loose bones and the dull glint of a few pearls but couldn’t shake my Ustalavic upbringing that it’s best not to roust the dead any more than necessary. We shuffled along the narrow hallway towards what looked like a faint glimmer of light, the others ignoring the next small alcove as they passed. Rather than another repository for bones, it was more of a storage alcove that didn’t have much; a silver pendant bearing a winged eye, a long flexible piece of wood that even the untrained would recognize as a wand even if they couldn’t read the divine runes carved into it along with several, pinkish-red liquids in vials.
“Here, take these.” Vyker and I followed the others into the dim light after I handed him one of the vials before divvying up the rest. It being a similar color and viscosity to some of the vials on my bandolier answered any unspoken questions as to why I didn’t claim one for myself as well as whether or not they were safe to drink or not. There was no reason to believe that age had soured the potions but it was hard to tell how old they could be given the lack of dust and smoothness of the stonework of the tomb itself. For all we knew, it could’ve been decades since the potions were touched. I expected a little bit of admonishment but then I noticed the gnome had what looked like a medical kit.
The marble walls of the large hall were covered with several images of battle, each featuring a knight astride a lean horse. The knight wore no helmet and had long hair and wide moustache. In each of the images, the knight was charging at undead horrors with a rapier in hand.
Two halls led out of the western portion of this room, one to the north and one to the south. Three archways led out of the room to the east. Each of the archways had words carved over the top of them that I was too far away to read, but I imagined them to be resting places for whomever this tomb was truly for.
Sprawled in the center of this room was a human-sized metal figure that resembles a skeleton wrapped in robes. The limbs of the figure were askew and melted as though with acid.
“What do you think, boss?” I didn’t offer Vyker an answer but rather gave him a sign to keep his eyes out. It was mildly surprising to see the gnome return the sign as Vyker did which brought a question that I would have to ask later. The paladin moved towards the large relief carved into the wall, a thoughtful look on her face as she examined the stone. Given the way she carried herself, I recognized the stance of nobility and presumed she was attempting to recollect the knight’s history. Despite my own love and hunger for knowledge, I couldn’t put a name to the mustachioed knight nor the angel in front of whom he kneeled so reverently.
I also had to remind myself that my ability to indulge my curiosities were a recent boon in becoming a low baron of Ustalav…or rather the equivalent of one, I suppose. Wealth is not the only thing that defines an aristocracy, after all. I might be welcome at some of the more fancy events in Caliphas but I hold no such duty towards the county I reside in…only to my country and my people. I subconsciously sketched Pharasma’s spiral over my heart, feeling the dark shield on the necklace I kept stashed beneath my shirt to betray my true allegiance.
“This is Ervin Roslar,” the paladin murmured, sort of to herself than the rest of us.
“The legendary hero of the Shining Crusade?” the gnome inquired. The paladin merely nodded, again not seeming like she was paying too much attention outside of her ponderings of the mural. Hearing the name jogged some memory to the forefront of my mind regarding a scandal surrounding the history of Ervin Roslar. While the exact details of the scandal escaped me, I did remember it pertained slightly to the herald of Aroden, Arazni, and her death at the hands of the Whispering Tyrant. Rumor was that he was enamored with the angelic herald to the point of believing she would take him as a consort, or perhaps a lover before her death and subsequent forced resurrection as the Harlot Queen of Geb.
An irony that a warrior who fought against legions of the dead would serve as the queen of a dead kingdom.
“What more do you know…?” My question was cut off, rather rudely, by a thundering bang from what I could only imagine was Vyker’s blunderbuss. While I was more than happy to have found him with a weapon of such firepower when things got messy, it would be a lie to say that I enjoyed the feeling of my teeth rattle when he used the firearm in underground spaces. I turned to admonish him for pointless discharge of his firearm, before I noticed the grease spot where another one of those strange insects had been. Poor creature didn’t even have time to let out a noise before being obliterated.
“Sorry, boss,” Vyker offered, already reloading his blunderbuss before putting it on his back. “Little shit came out and startled me….”
“I have always applauded your quick reactions, Vyker,” I sighed, unable to chide him for defending himself against a hostile target. “Perhaps, when we get out of here, we can invest in a quieter firearm? I doubt it would be much of an issue for the weapon masters of Lastwall.” He tipped his hat to me, a sign he understood the implication as I turned back to examine the wall. The depictions moved from Roslar leading charges of knights against the undead and orcs of the Whispering Tyrant’s army to him kneeling before what I presumed to be Arazni with an almost longing look in his eyes.
Vyker had been known to, on occasion, attempt to court ladies of a station higher than his own, as have I with both of us experiencing varying degrees of success, though I don’t believe either of us have attempted to court a god’s angelic herald. At least, not that I’m aware of but very few of my flirtations have been genuine and a true attempt at romance so the point is moot. Regardless, it seems a touch presumptuous for even a paladin to hope to court Arazni and, perhaps to some, nearing blasphemy that he should have her depicted as approving of his advances.
I was drawn back to reality by the sounds of something moving in another room, something large which made the sound of clattering bones against stone. Even their haphazard nature suggested that it was most likely another bone chariot of a much larger creature that was meant to be interred here, and I felt it more prudent that we make an effort to escape and let whatever guardians this tomb has to deal with it when they are able to if they are. “Perhaps we should get going…the exit seems to be just opposite of where we came into this room.”
The Ulfen took the lead, much to the slight annoyance of the paladin who shouldered her shield. He moved with a grace surprising for his size and stature, being not much taller than me while we towered half a head over even the tallest of the others but stopped to draw the axes from his belt. I heard the chittering and saw the faintest hint of a red glow before the axes found their mark, earning a squeak as the glow faded.
“Another bug,” he grumbled.
“Impressive,” I nodded, given it was still quite dark, and his accuracy was impeccable. “Quite the display of technique and prowess there…uh….” It had only then occurred to me that we had not properly introduced ourselves save for my use of Vyker’s name and his referral to me as ‘boss.’ I do wish I could break him of that habit but it’s just a general part of his personality and not unique to me…it just happens that I also am his employer. “Dear fellow, I extend my sincerest apologies for not asking your name nor offering my own in return….”
“Ragnar,” he grumbled, grabbing his axes from the corpse of the insect. “Skald of Clan Torrvalde….” I had heard about his clan in passing, hearing tales of their skalds who not only sung of great heroes and great feats of the Ulfen of days long gone, but also about how their songs could enflame the passions of battle in their warriors in the way some bards have been said. How much of it was true or simply legend was unsure, but it made for good reading in the wee hours of the morning.
“I am Andreldi,” I offered, knocking my free fist against my chest as a sign of respect to him. The Ulfen clans were varied in philosophy and talent, but their cultural pleasantries were universal. “I must admit that I do prefer that you call me Andrel if you would….” He grunted but did not return my gesture of respect which I would have chalked up to him not being able to see very well had I not watched his precision with throwing axes. Perhaps there was something particular to his clan regarding signs of respect like the one I had given to those outside the clan who were an unknown entity.
Light dangled tantalizing at the end of the dark hall which, to tell one the truth, made more suspicious than relieved. Light didn’t always mean safety in my line of work and it certainly didn’t after being buried alive. As it turned out, the flickering light was emanating from three fire beetles hanging on the wall which leaped at us without a second thought.
Ragnar’s boot came crashing down on one of their heads as I drew the sword hidden in my cane in more than enough time to catch and impale one. The final one was stopped by the gnome who, confirming my suspicions that she was a druid, spoke in that ancient and bizarre language and seemed to encourage the beast to scuttle away through a large crack in the wall.
“What did you tell it?” the paladin asked.
“I suggested it think about what just happened to its friends,” she offered, casually. “Fire beetles might be rash sometimes, but they’re cowards and not stupid….” She looked up at me as I cleaned the slightly smoldering innards with a handkerchief before returning it to its hiding place in my cane. “And that’s a pretty neat trick, Andrel….”
“Not as impressive as commanding nature, miss…?” I offered with a slight bow. I hadn’t thought about how to address her given my lack of not knowing how to guess the age of gnomes very well. Despite her looking so young, there was little doubt in my mind that she was quite a bit older than I was. On the bright side, I found that it tended to do me more good by addressing them like they’re younger than me.
“Fijit,” she offered, hefting her staff over her shoulder. It was odd confirming that she was a druid with what seemed to be an almost flippant attitude. Most druids I knew were either almost savage through their devotion to nature, infuriatingly vague advisors or simply wise people who have become more enlightened from their connection to the Green. Fijit was a very welcome change to my previous interactions.
Vyker took the lead here as we heard the sounds of movement and excited, gleeful chittering from behind the door at the top of the stairs. While I was certain either Ragnar or the paladin could do more than enough with whatever was there, Vyker’s blunderbuss was very potent against a few enemies at once. He pushed the door open before letting loose with his firearm, the sound tearing through the air and bouncing off the walls almost silencing whatever it was that he’d hit. The paladin let out a battle cry before moving in as Vyker slid sideways to reload and Fijit stepped up as well.
I could see the creatures we’d heard, small blue gremlin-like creatures who stood just a hair shorter than Fijit. Two of them lay by a plinth on which rested a handsome bust of Ervin Roslar, their faces shredded from Vyker’s shot while the other soon found itself on the sharp end of the paladin’s longsword. The lone survivor croaked out something before raising its knife and charging at Fijit. Normally, I would’ve moved to intercept and punt the little bugger into the wall, but Fijit moved gracefully to smash both ends of her staff into each side of the creature’s face, flattening its skull to an almost comical shape.
I would have to remind myself to not make her angry enough to try to hurt me.
“Hey, boss,” Vyker said, kicking one of the gremlin’s bodies. “I think I’ve heard about these little….” Whatever he was about to say was abruptly cut off as the wig on the furthest bust leaped into the air, wrapping around Vyker’s face and causing him to drop his blunderbuss as he struggled to tear the hair from his face. It would’ve been comical, with his muffled screaming of what I could only assume was some of the more violent profanity he knew, and his staggering as he tried to remove what I now recognized as an ooze from his face.
After a few moments, the ooze tossed his hat aside and attached itself firmly to Vyker’s head, falling over his shoulders in thick, wavy locks. Vyker often poked fun at the amount of care I gave my own hair to make sure it was sleek and shiny as I let it fall past my own shoulders, so it was a bit of a challenge to fight back laughter. Fijit and Ragnar had no such inhibitions and even the others barely stifled giggles. His face contorted into a snarl beneath his gaitor as he tried to tear the ooze from his head with the same success I’ve seen with myself attempting to cast even the most rudimentary of spells.
“Stop moving,” the robed woman chuckled. “It’s attached itself to your scalp and is slowly working its way deeper into your head….” She began to move her hands and quote arcane words as she approached Vyker who stood as still as I’d ever seen him. There was a small spark before a cone of fire erupted from her hands as she put them together to make a triangle. I could see how close she was to make sure she got the animate hair, I believe it is called, and to avoid burning Vyker. The creature fell to the ground in a crisp pile of ashes that honestly smelled like burned hair which was as intriguing as it was odd.
“Much obliged, ma’am,” Vyker offered, grabbing his hat and firearm from the ground.
“Please, call me Lissi,” she offered, brushing some cinders from his duster which made me curiously jealous. I would really have to do some introspection for the next time I chastised Vyker about getting distracted by an attractive woman.
The cavernous chamber beyond had two doors to the north and we could spy another to the south. A great altar dominated the west wall beneath an image of a winged rapier radiating beams of radiant light. Curiously, there was a crack in the opposite wall which defaced a mural of armored knights with beams of light radiating behind them. Given even my more unusual Ustalavic upbringing, I knew that some tombs to heroes and other important figures often had places where one could pay respects, not only to the dead, but to whom the dead worshipped in life. Given the symbol of the winged rapier, I assumed that Roslar’s fascination with Arazni had stemmed from devotion as one of her paladins.
We could hear chittering coming from the leftmost door which was cracked just a small amount. My assumption was the room had been overtaken by rats or that more of the blue gremlin-like creatures were looting whatever was in there. I was broken out of my musings as the sound of crackling electricity rent the air as Vyker was launched back through the air as he had tried to approach the altar. None of us had noticed the raised tiles in front of the altar nor the symbols that adorned them; a mailed fist, tree, tower, heart, rapier, skull, a horse’s head, a round helm, and a pair of feathery wings. Fijit tended to Vyker as I stopped short of the tiles, kneeling down and noticing they were not only raised and arranged in a three by three grid but also acted as pressure plates to activate whatever created the electrical charge.
The sound of clanking armor beside me alerted me to the paladin’s approach as I had an idea I would like to bounce off of her.
“You seem to be familiar with Roslar, paladin,” I offered, standing back up.
“Lieutenant Noravia Voralius.” I offered an approximation of a Chelish salute for her name before continuing. It was not uncommon for Chelish people to flee to Lastwall in order to join their crusades, but I was always intrigued to hear the name of a wealthy family belonging to a knight of Lastwall.
“These symbols convey something about him,” I postulated, thinking out loud a little. “I recognize some as important pieces of history…but what of these would you say is the most connected to the man himself?” Her expression didn’t change at my gesture, but I could see the hint of irritation behind her eyes at my recognition of her family name. She ignored that and looked down at the carvings on the tiles, her lips moving silently as if she was praying rather than reciting histories.
“The heart, the rapier and the wings,” she told me. “If there’s anything to gain, it’ll be those….”
“Roslar’s infatuation with Arazni,” I answered, realizing how much that made sense. I slid my armored coat off of my shoulders before stepping onto each of the tiles in turn. My nerves got the better of me on the first tile as it sank down, causing me to stop and brace myself for the shock that never came.
As the final tile pressed into place, the sound of a mechanism and stone grating against stone interrupted the silence as we all released a breath none of us had realized we’d been holding. The altar slowly opened to reveal an indention behind the altar where a breastplate sat gleaming in the light from Lissi’s magic. The silvery glow it was giving off was more ethereal than if it was simply steel or even adamantine leaving the only possibility of mithril. I had only been in the presence of the material one time in my life, and it was enough to be able to recognize it.
I suppose that grumpy old dwarf from the Five Kings Mountains had been right about one thing.
None of us said anything but instead slowly looked at Noravia who seemed conflicted when presented with the armor. Roslar had gone down in history in scandal and infamy but it would still be foolish to leave something like mithril to collect dust in a tomb for the rest of time. My mind raced for the words to convince her as I recollected my coat after avoiding the wrong tiles. “You should take it….”
“It’s buried here for a reason.” Noravia’s eyes were still fixed on the armor as she spoke.
“Paladin’s take relics from the fallen,” I mused, adjusting my coat. “Why should this be any different?” Her jaw clenched as she mulled over my words, not entirely the same situation but I wasn’t entirely lying either. Even if it might’ve been to see if I could technically convince a paladin to rob a grave. “I understand Roslar’s history is not good, and the armor carries part of his legacy…but it’s here…and it’s story is still being written. Leave it here…and its final place in history is with Roslar….” To say that I had a way with words would be an understatement and, while there was a slight ulterior motive underneath the honeyed words, it was still a waste to just leave it here.
Though I would have to wonder what people would think of a paladin bearing the symbol of the now Harlot Queen of Geb…. It would be interesting to see what people thought when we finally got out of here. We waited for her to remove her own breastplate, carefully removing each segment with practiced efficiency…and then the door was thrown open.
One of the gremlins was interrupted as Ragnar threw an axe into its skull out of what I assumed was a reflex but not before the other drove its knife into Vyker’s thigh. His howl of pain quickly turned to a snarl as he glared down at the little critter whose triumphant smile quickly turned to fear as Vyker drove his own dagger between its eyes. Fijit hurried over to him as he fell into a sitting position, keeping pressure on his leg after taking the knife out. She sang to the Green, words that none of us could understand in that curious secret language of the druids as blades of grass rustled over his leg, clearing to reveal the wound healed and only the barest hint of a scar.
The door was still open as I approached it, my right hand on the top of my cane as I gripped the rest before walking into the room. My sensitive hearing picked up a noise from on top of one of the shelves, prompting me to draw the blade in my cane and slash upwards towards the trophies as a small rock cracked the side of my head. The shock of the hit sent me staggering into one of the shelves but I could hear the sounds of pain from whatever was on top of the shelf and, based on the fact that it fell to the floor, I assumed I hit a leg to knock it off balance. I could just barely make out its flailing limbs as I waited for the stars to leave my eyes as it squeaked and chittered.
Vyker burst through the door and drove his sword into the small body before helping me back up and handing me back my hat. “Appreciated….” My vision slowly returned to focus on the pile of treasure the gremlins had accumulated in this room, mostly shiny effects but also four bottles of a deep red liquid that my formula book had taught me to recognize as healing. I grabbed the bottles before returning to the others who were waiting at another door.
“This is probably the way out,” Noravia stated, pointing towards the door.
“How can you tell?” Ragnar growled. Noravia answered by pointing towards another door just opposite.
“Something’s being kept in there and I doubt it’s used as a guard dog.” None of us should’ve had any doubt about her assumption as, whatever it was that was behind that door, paladins had a sixth sense for evil in the world. Whether or not they were always accurate and completely independent of the paladin’s own feelings were another matter. Regardless, it was better to trust her instinct on this rather than to argue.
I had barely taken a step towards the door to push it open before my ears pricked up, my mother’s elven senses allowing me to draw my sword just in time to push the weapon out of the way and dodge backward. The creature the short sword had belonged to was a metal skeleton wearing robes and was yelling curses at me. My fencer’s stance wasn’t the best option for facing the golem but I had not had time to change my tactics, but it was enough to scratch and scrape over the metal skin while guiding its blows out of the way…save for the few that managed to hit their mark and leave cuts.
Ragnar charged in out of nowhere, shoulder slamming the golem with enough force to launch it off of its feet and slammed it against the wall. I could already see deformities on its body, it’s arm slightly dislodged from its socket and other limbs unable to move from behind horrifically bent. I looked at the big man who gave a nod and grunt in what I assumed was supposed to be a way of saying I was welcome for the help. I returned the nod before walking back to the construct, sheathing my sword.
“No, please!” it cried, raising its one good arm to shield itself. “Please, I was only following my orders…!” There had been little doubt in my mind that it was only following orders as constructs were usually mindless servitors of whoever created them. Though this one did show more intelligence for just a simple tomb guardian.
“Who gave you the orders?” I asked, putting both of my hands on the top of my cane as I set it on the ground.
“The psychopomps,” it answered, less like an automaton and more like an intelligent creature. “They stationed us here as there is a great hero buried here….” I looked over at the others who offered little more than a shrug.
“You’re a celedon,” I noted, more than ready to leave the thing to its job. “And while you are bound to protect and care for this tomb, we came from deep inside…and we are much bigger than the other creatures that have snuck in. And we are trying to get out…something that we should be able to do, right?” The celadon raised a finger as if it was trying to make a counter point before tapping a finger to its face. I would have to remember to ask for some of these to guard my tomb as they were some of the most interesting golems I’d ever encountered. “If you can communicate with any others, allowing us to be on our way, it would be appreciated….”
I didn’t wait for an answer before leaving, hoping that the tomb guardians had some psychic link as we headed upstairs. There was a long bench along one wall of the next room while hanging panes of glass tinkled gently in a nonexistent wind that I assume was from Lissi. From a second look, I realized it was somehow in the shape of a bull with a hide strung over it. A sword was lodged in it, but something made me a little less like convincing someone to take that relic.
A bowl of offerings to the dead sat opposite a fountain providing water for what I presumed was anointing oneself before walking to honor the dead. Holy water was plentiful in Ustalavic tombs, so this wasn’t too much of a stretch…even if it was just regular water. There were two more celadons guarding the entrance, who jerked in what I supposed was surprise since they couldn’t show emotion before gesturing towards the doors. “It’s been fun, but we really must be off…places to be, things to see….” I threw open the doors to the tomb, expecting either blinding sunlight or soft moonlight to greet us.
There was moonlight but…I didn’t like the skull on that moon….
ns216.73.217.39da2
and then Add to home screen.