The Eye of Anubis: Cutscenes

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Isabella
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Post by Isabella »

*KNOCK KNOCK*

Carter’s eyes snapped open. For a second he closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, before the loud knock repeated itself and jolted him awake. Carter groaned and sat up in his bed, feeling absolutely terrible. A shiver ran down his spine, and he realized he was freezing. The professor foggily groped around for his coat.

“Professor Marchand-Renier!” a loud voice called out in the hallway. Carter didn’t recognize it. “Your presence has been requested by Commander Vederrak.”

“Grand,” Sebastian’s voice carried dryly through the hall. “I’ll put on my best shirt.”

There was a slight thumping noise that came from a door being shoved open. Carter quickly threw on his coat and stumbled to the door. He carefully placed his eye up to the keyhole and peered out, softly cursing himself. How could he have overslept at a time like this?

“Commander Vederrak requests your presence immediately,” the Falkovnian said forcefully. “Either you will come with us now, or you will be dragged.”

Sebastian frowned deeply as he stood in the doorway, pressing his mouth into a thin line. Part of Carter’s sleep-drugged brain managed to register that the linguist was missing his jacket and cravat. A growing sense of unease began to gnaw at the back of the archeologist’s mind. Something was wrong.

Sebastian knew it as well, judging from the tense expression on his face. He ran his fingers over his throat before softly replying. “Very well.”

Carter pressed himself against the door to watch the procession leave, his instincts screaming at him and his mind unable to grasp why. Vedarrak’s demands were nothing unusual - Vederrak had been dragging Marchand-Renier off constantly for questioning, more to annoy the linguist than anything else. The old Marchand-Renier had returned in force around the Falkovnian, and the pair got along like cats and dogs, throwing underhanded insults at each other ever since the Professors had been placed in their “guest quarters.” Vedarrak had usually responded to Sebastian’s sniping with the kind of amused tolerance that came from having all the power in the situation. This felt different.

The second the Falkovnians left the hall, three doors opened. Carter completely ignored the guards left behind, who did the same to him, and looked at the other two captives, desperately seeking some sign of understanding. Remy adjusted his glasses on his face, his hair and clothes in total disarray, his eyes questioning and deathly concerned. Seeing there were no answers to be found there, Carter turned to look at Professor Devereux.

The violet-eyed professor was barely recognizable, stripped of his colorful frock coats and clashing vests; he was wearing only his white ruffled shirt and breeches, his unbound hair cascading around his shoulders. Devereux said nothing, silently holding his pocketwatch out for Carter to see. Even from where he stood, the time on the watch was clearly visible.
      • 3:15
Realization hit Carter like a rock. Vedarrak wouldn’t be calling them out at this time of night unless something had gone wrong. Remy had come to the same conclusion, slightly faster than Carter from the sound of it, and was nervously twisting his notebook in his hands. “Professor?” the student asked, his face ashen.

“Stay here,” Carter commanded, snatching the bag from the floor of his room and racing down the hallway after the grim procession. With a few sharp words and the gestures that Remy had taught him, the professor vanished from sight.

This was suicide. But as he’d often told Marchand-Renier, the plan had always been suicide, prepared or not. And if his suspicions were proven correct, this could be Andre’s last chance.

The archeologist followed after Marchand-Renier and the two guards, carefully setting his stride to match that of the Falkovnians. The clanking armor and heavy marching of the soldiers was likely loud enough to cover Carter’s own footsteps, but Carter was not going to take any unnecessary risks. The guards stopped in front of Vedarrak’s office; Carter slowed his pace to a mere crawl, stepping carefully so as not to make any noise. He allowed himself a brief burst of speed as the guard knocked on the door, letting the sharp raps cover the sound of his movements.

“Enter,” Marcos Vedarrak’s voice carried into the hall, every veneer of pleasantness stripped away.

The guards opened the door, pausing to grab Marchand-Renier and shove him inside, none too gently. Carter quickly darted in after them, moving swiftly and silently into the back corner of Vedarrak’s office. The guards dragged Marchand-Renier over to a chair and sat him down in it, before saluting smartly to the Kommandant and being dismissed with a gesture. The two soldiers closed the door behind them, shutting Carter in the room. There was no turning back.

Carter paused for a moment to catch his breath, fighting the urge to hold his head in his hands and scream very loudly. This was crazy. This had to be the stupidest thing he’d ever done in his life, and he had quite a variety to choose from. The professor roughly grabbed his hands to steel his nerves, watching and waiting. Vedarrak was drumming his fingers on his desk, unpleasantly grim.

“Where are they?” Vedarrak demanded, his face and voice both tightly controlled.

For a moment, both professors stared openly at the question. Marchand-Renier began to laugh quietly, a horrible, bitter sound that reminded Carter too much of Kamarn-Quse.

“They’ve flown the coop, have they?” Marchand-Renier managed, his laughter interrupted by a few ragged coughs. Carter could barely stop himself from gaping.

Vedarrak did not seem amused. “Where are they?” he repeated. Marchand-Renier just kept laughing.

“They’ve left, Marcos,” Marchand-Renier chuckled. “You’ve lost. Oh, I take back everything I’ve ever said about them. How absolutely marvelous!” The professor’s laughter turned slightly hysterical.

Vedarrak abruptly stood up, walking around his desk to where Marchand-Renier sat. Carter seized his chance, quietly sliding into the spot Vedarrak had vacated and picking out the desk drawer Remy had described to him. The archeologist pulled Sebastian’s lockpick from his coat pocket - Carter’s lockpick, technically, but he still had no idea how the linguist had gotten hold of the thing - and unlocked the drawer with a few swift turns of the handle.

“I think you are lying to me, Sebastian,” the Kommandant said, his voice dangerously quiet. “They would not have left you behind. What are they planning?”

There was a sharp snapping noise, the faint smell of ozone, and a muffled gasp of pain. Carter winced as he quickly hooked his fingers into the drawer, pulling it open as quickly as he could without making any sound. He carefully took the box and stowed it under his coat, trying to block Sebastian’s agonized struggling from his mind. It took some effort not to try to brain the Falkovnian, but Carter had a feeling that would not end well.

“If you hadn’t locked us up... I might know!” Marchand-Renier snarled through gritted teeth. “And if you’re so convinced... they haven’t left us... they’ll... come... back! Take it up with them... not me!”

The crackling stopped. Sebastian slumped in his chair, glaring up at Vedarrak with narrowed eyes. Carter tried his best to ignore the grisly proceedings, silently sliding the desk drawer shut and moving away to a safe corner of the room. He pulled a small crystal bead out of his pocket, feeling a pang of regret that he hadn’t asked Kuzan to help him hone his meditation skills - what he was about to try was beyond even Lia and Kuzan’s abilities, and his own magic skills were dodgy at best. He concentrated on the bead, letting it roll around in the palm of his hand as he watched Sebastian try to compose himself.

“I feel there would be very little for me to discuss,” Vedarrak said, folding his arms behind his back and beginning to pace around the linguist. “ I offered them my trust, and they rewarded it by destroying the Temple of Osiris and turning the people of Muhar further against us.”

“You’ll find that to be a common theme whenever Theroux and his advanced class in archeological vandalism deals with anything,” Marchand-Renier said, almost managing a smile at that. The linguist’s gaunt form was still wracked with uncontrollable spasms. “Perhaps you should have kept him on a shorter leash.”

Carter frowned even as he concentrated, annoyed that Sebastian had even brought that up. If Vedarrak decided to do anything with Andre’s heart right now, he’d notice it was missing, and if that occurred, the attempted heist would soon be discovered. Carter took a slow, deep breath, visualizing the bead in his mind’s eye, letting it expand to fill the entire horizon, allowing himself be drawn inside of it. The air around him began to shimmer like light dancing on water - he would just have to hope that Vedarrak wouldn’t look back and notice it.

“It might have been less unpleasant for everyone if I had,” Vedarrak sighed, and Carter was struck with the sudden fear that they were already too late. “I had thought the precautions I had in place would prove to be enough. And yet now I find my trust rewarded once again by them vanishing in the middle of the night, plotting some unknown scheme.”

“Perhaps they went somewhere where they could get a decent night’s sleep, if you insisted on checking on them at these hours,” Marchand-Renier retorted, his eyes searching Vedarrak’s face for something intangible. Despite his caustic demeanor, the linguist was gripping his chair so tightly that his knuckles were white, and there was a glimmer of uncertainty in his voice. “Why don’t you make some use of your ‘precautions’ instead of bothering us?” he suddenly asked.

Carter nearly dropped the box. Vedarrak placed his fingers on Sebastian’s shoulder threateningly. “I am making use of my precautions,” he said, darkly.

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, then widened. Carter quickly held the locked box up to his ear. The unsettling sound of a heartbeat echoed in the wooden container, leaving the Mordentishman vaguely puzzled.

“I hardly think it’s fair,” Sebastian said, hoarsely, “that only we should suffer for Theroux’s actions.” Carter felt his skin start to prickle as his hair stood on end, his instincts screaming at him again. Something was very, very wrong.

Vedarrak leaned down, digging his fingers into Marchand-Renier’s shoulder, and gave a black smile. “Don’t worry,” he said. “When he comes back to rescue you... and he will come back... I’ll see to it that he joins you.”

What little color had been left in Sebastian’s face completely drained away. “It’s rather a pity I’ll be beyond caring at that point,” he said, quietly. “Cavendish.”

Vedarrak grinned. A thousand cruel, serrated shark teeth glittered in the magical light of the office.

The bead fell soundlessly from Carter’s hand. He began to run.

He was slow at first, keeping himself low to the floor and favoring stealth over speed. If Cavendish noticed him, there would be nowhere to hide. Carter swiftly pulled himself out of the window with no concern for the silent alarm - the person it would inform was no longer of any concern to them. He landed heavily on the sand below, barely pausing to regain his balance before sprinting across the courtyard and back towards his quarters.

The sand behind him shifted.

Turning to look at the sudden movement, Carter saw the sand rise up in a writhing cloud before suddenly coalescing into a solid form. The undead Smiledon growled at him, the horrible grinding sound of stone scraping against stone, and began to stalk towards him with deadly accuracy. Carter shoved the box into his shirt as he ran, trying to form half-remembered gestures with his fingers and half-forgotten prayers with his lips. The skeletal cat gave chase, swiftly gaining on the archeologist. Flesh and blood was simply no match for the endless endurance of the dead.

Carter stumbled in the sand, finishing his frantic spell as the Smiler pounced. With a word and a gesture, he shot into the sky. A claw raked through his jacket as he soared upward, and he felt a bitter stinging in his ribs, but the Smiledon could not follow. With an angry screech of stone, the cat turned and stalked back towards Vedarrak’s office, doubtless to inform its master. At the moment, Carter didn’t care. He doubted whatever fate Cavendish had in store for them was going to get any worse.

Carter flew through the courtyard, down the hallways, and back to their rooms, landing with a terrible crash. He gripped the wounds in his side in agony, mentally begging succor from Ezra against the pain. To his vague surprise, it seemed to help a little. He managed to stand up even as the other two prisoners opened their doors and looked out into the hall.

“Did you find out what’s going on?” Remy asked, looking around the hall fearfully, and then spotted the blood seeping down onto the floor. “Professor Carter, what happened?”

“Remy! Did you prepare your spells?” Carter interrupted, forcing the wooden box into the student’s hands.

“Last night, before I went to sleep, just like you suggested,” Remy answered, scrabbling to keep ahold of the unexpected offering. Something bad was happening.

“Take Devereux and get out of here, now,” Carter commanded, yanking open the door to his room and rifling around for anything that might be of some use. Remy stared at him for a moment, stunned, before replying.

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” the student asked, aghast. “I know that’s what Professor M wanted us to do, but we can’t just leave him! Even if he is the only hostage left, Vedarrak will-“

“Not Vedarrak,” Carter said. “Cavendish.”

Remy’s eyes turned as wide as saucers. He leaned heavily on the side of the door frame, shaking his head in desperate denial. “No...” he moaned. “No... Professor...”

“Listen!” Carter commanded, resisting the urge to grab the student and shake him. “I’m going to go back for him. I’ll get him out! But I can’t be worrying about you or Professor Devereux!” The Mordentishman swore furiously as his attempt to cast another fly spell fizzled. Why did these things always fail him when he needed them the most?

Remy looked up as he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. Professor Devereux smiled reassuringly, although his eyes were not on Remy, but where Carter’s voice had been. “Let’s get this back to Andre,” he said to the student. “He can give us a hand.”

Remy paused, then grimly nodded. Carter felt a faint wave of relief, followed by another surge of frustration as the spell once again failed to go off. “I can’t get this miserable incantation to work, the worthless piece of mumbo-jumbo...”

Devereux shook his head and gestured for Carter to stop, pointing to the Falkovnian guards that stood in the hallway. “They’ll get us out,” he said, walking over to one of them even as he spoke. He waved to the guard, who waved back at him.

“We can’t let you out without written orders from Vedarrak,” the guard said, sounding crestfallen. “Precautions to prevent any false orders.”

“Could you... just leave?” Devereux asked, licking his lips slightly. “Go out to the barracks in the main courtyard?”

The guard nodded. “We can do that.”

Devereux nodded back. “Do that. We’ll follow.” He looked at Remy, who hurried over with his notebook. With a few disciplined words and gestures, he made Devereux vanish from sight.

The student turned back to look towards the blood on the floor. “Professor Carter...” he said, his expression troubled, “I don’t want you to die, either.”

Carter gave a confident smile, not that Remy could see it. “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

Remy wasn’t quite mollified, but cast his spell once more. With a few soft footsteps, the group left the hallway, leaving Carter alone. The professor gripped his jacket tightly. It had hurt, lying to Remy like that. For a moment, Carter wondered if he should have taken the weapons from the guards before they left, but there was really no point to it. There was nothing plain steel could do against magic and stone.

He could have run. He should have run, really, it was likely already too late, and he had no idea what he possibly thought he could do even if it wasn’t. He had nothing left, no plans, no weapons, no more tricks up his sleeve - just his rapidly fading invisibility and some spells that didn’t work. But he would never be able to look himself in the eye again if he left Sebastian to die alone. He winced slightly, recalling the conversation about Remy they’d had before. He only hoped that one day, the boy would be able to forgive himself.

“May we all forgive ourselves,” he murmured to himself. He thought of his missing friends, realizing he probably would see them again - as Cavendish’s undying slave.

Suddenly furious, Carter grabbed the water pitcher from his room, hurling it against the floor with a deafening crash. With bleak purpose, he picked up the sharp shards of clay, wincing as a sharp edge sliced into his fingers. He paused for a moment, steeling himself, then ran the sharpened edge across his flesh. He had to grit his teeth to stop from dropping the makeshift knife, tearing at his hand again and again until his macabre message was complete.
      • Don’t trust me.
Carter swore softly at himself, pushing his hand against the sheets of his bed until the pain subsided to manageable levels. Then he lifted the pottery shard up to his face, slashing downward to form three parallel, diagonal scars across his cheek - the Vistani sign for danger, and something Lia might be able to recognize. Chances were Cavendish wouldn’t even bother using him to deceive the expedition, and if he really wanted to use Carter to trick them, this likely wouldn’t slow him down for long. But Carter had no intention of making it easy on the bastard.

“Thirty-seven years,” he said aloud, feeling the blood dribble down his cheek. Come to think of it, his birthday was coming up soon. He’d dodged death more times than he could remember, but he couldn’t keep running forever. “All and all, it wasn’t a bad run.”

He placed his hat on his head, gripped the clay shard in his hand, and walked resolutely down the hall. He only had a few minutes of his spell left. Time to make them count.
"No, but evil is still being — Is having reason — Being reasonable! Mousie understands? Is always being reason. Is punishing world for not being... Like in head. Is always reason. World should be different, is reason."
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Post by Isabella »

Lily put her fan to her face, trying her best to hide the slight shaking of her shoulders. From the outside, it might have looked like squeamishness, or even exasperation. In truth, she was biting her lip to keep from bursting out laughing. It wasn't funny, she supposed. Intellectually, she knew that Micheal was in danger, and might even lose his life here. She had never terribly cared for him, but it wasn't like she had any reason to want him to die, even if he had rather stupidly caused the entire situation in the first place. But this...

She just couldn't take this seriously.

"I'm going to be siiiiiiiiiiick-" Micheal gurgled, his teeth chattering together as he went by. The expedition cook was strapped to a giant, spinning roulette wheel, flinging him around and around at exciting speeds. Surrounding it was a gambler's heaven, or hell, depending on how you thought of it. Lush couches and patterned tables covered the floor, with dice jumping around upon them, eager to be grasped and thrown. Playing cards marked with Akiri glyphs fluttered about the room in a cheerful shower of confetti. Chutes in the ceiling poured forth thousands of shiny bright coins, which fell to the ground below with a musical jingling sound - Khalil had already bitten one and spat it out as Fool's Gold. The murals on the wall room didn't quite look right either. The hieroglyphics seemed sound, not that anyone would be able to tell one way or the other, but she was pretty sure that the Akiri gods held ankhs and not dart boards.

"Micheal, listen to me," Sam was saying, trying to calm the other man down as he spun by. "I just need to figure out the angle here, and I'll have you down in no time at all. Just stay calm. Trust me. Have I ever led you wrong before?"

"You led me heeeeeeeeeeeere!" Micheal wailed, his eyes crossing dizzily. "I'm just going to pick something!"

"Micheal! You do not play roulette against the house!" Sam commanded. "I know cons, and this is a con if I ever saw it. I know what I'm doing, alright? None of the pictures are right! There's some other option here that they don't expect you to pick, and that's the one we're-"

Jervis strode past him before he could finish the sentence, grabbing the roulette wheel in his hands. There was a deafening screech as the spinning metal grinded against his gauntlet, but Jervis caught hold of it, ripping it from the floor with a stone shattering jerk. Micheal shrieked as the wheel clattered to the ground, bouncing a few times from the remaining momentum. Jervis then stalked up to the stone door blocking their progress, smashing his fist against the seam in the wall. The stone at the edge of the doorway yielded to his onslaught, letting Jervis jam his fingers around the door. With a vicious snarl, the mercenary flung the stone block behind him into the coins, watching it crack in half with some satisfaction.

"You were saying, effendi?" Khalil asked. Shrugging, the two Akiri men followed Jervis into the open corridor. Guy looked back at the others with some bemusement. Loup, unsupervised for the moment, tried to eat one of the dice.

Lily couldn't stop herself. She doubled over laughing. Sam looked like he was about to pout. Micheal threw up.
"No, but evil is still being — Is having reason — Being reasonable! Mousie understands? Is always being reason. Is punishing world for not being... Like in head. Is always reason. World should be different, is reason."
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Post by NeoTiamat »

"Andre? Andre?!?" This was roughly the eleventh time that Samael had seen fit to repeat those words, his tone wandering from aggrieved to bewildered to jealous, with occasional forays into bloodthirsty. It was really the only element of the last room which concerned the Borcan. Well, that and the poisoned webs. "Just... I could understand Carter. Or Kuzan. Or even Martel. But Andre?!"

"So... you're not upset that I planned to blackmail you?" Lily D'Envers said, watching Samael's face very carefully. He seemed to be reacting strangely.

"I was kind of expecting it, actually." The Borcan said absently, then returned to his refrain. "Just... just... Andre..."

This last fact seemed to be causing Samael something akin to physical pain.

"He's sweet." Lily defended the professor, despite considerable evidence to the contrary. "He's a little slow sometimes, but he means well."

"He's an ex-necromancer and a worshipper of a faerie." Samael pulled out his trump card. "And he's all wet."

"He's still sweet." Lily said, adding tartly. "Besides, I'm sure that if I was menaced by a ghoul, Andre would try to help me."

"We had to sift through the ghoul's ashes to find the key!" Samael protested. "You were fine."

Lily sniffed, not finding that an entirely satisfactory answer, but one that would have to do in the meantime. Then the Souragnien reporter gave a knowing smile and leaned in to pat Samael on the cheek. "It's alright. I think you're sweet too. Now come on, we've a Pharaoh's ransom to plunder."

And with those words, she entered the dark passageway to the next room. Samael watched her go, feeling a little helpless. A moment passed, and the Borcan felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, as Jervis tried to look sympathetic to his half-brother's plight. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the barely-suppressed snickering.

"What are you smiling about?" Samael said sharply, then shook off Jervis's arm and headed into the dark passageway. The mercenary snickered again, then followed.
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Post by NeoTiamat »

Samael felt his dagger slip free from his numb fingers, clattering onto the stone floor before he followed it down. He tried his best to tumble, instead jamming his wrist hard enough to twist it and landing heavily on his side. His mouth tasted coppery, and it felt like he’d chipped one of his back teeth. Samael lay there, dully staring in front of him. The floor turned out to be unsurprisingly uncomfortable, but the way the last few minutes had been going, he didn't exactly have much choice. He couldn’t even lift his head to see where Lily was, which the Borcan felt was just unfair.

Samael shuddered as one of the transparent, half-rotted specters trailed over him, sending a chill through his arm and sapping what little strength he had left in him. The ghosts were paying him little attention for the moment. They slowly clustered around Jervis, their pale translucent hands reaching for him in a silent throng. Samael wondered vaguely if his half-brother recognized any of them, though if he did, he didn't seem to care. The ghosts certainly recognized Jervis though, attacking him with an unholy fury. The mercenary swung his sword about in a dizzying set of maneuvers, doing less damage than he would have to air - half the time his sword went through the ghosts with no resistance whatsoever. Even as they managed to strike down a few of the specters, it would only re-materialize a moment later. Jervis snarled and kept up the attack, but even his inhuman strength and will were beginning to falter.

“Hotep Anupu... henu Anupu...” Fassahd was praying. This struck Samael as an eminently reasonable thing to do, given their present situation. He could hear a sharp cry and a clatter as one of Khalil’s scimitars flew from his hands, unable to keep his grip on it as the momentum of his strikes tore it from his grasp. Loup was whining in the far corner of the room, backed up against the wall. Guy was around somewhere, though Samael couldn't make him out. As Jervis’ strikes became slower and slower, Samael shut his eyes and focused his strength on at least breathing, listening to Fassahd’s quiet chanting as he did so. He thought back once more to that day he had almost died, wondering if he should have given faith another chance, before he had come here... admittedly, nearly dying again hadn't fallen into his plans, but still.

A moment later, he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him, and the air began to regain some warmth. Samael pushed himself upward, groping for his dagger. The ghostly apparitions had vanished, gliding back through the tomb walls. The Borcan slowly pulled himself to his feet, accepting a rough hand up from Jervis; his half-brother looked a little sicklier than usual, though still strong enough to lift Samael’s entire body, if he had so chosen.

“They will be back,” Fassahd whispered quietly. Jervis seemed pleased at that, examining his sword, looking for all the world as if he was going to wait there until he could have his rematch. Samael quickly stepped in, trying his best to unlock the door.

“Forget about them, Volodya,” he said, reasonably, as his trembling hands did their work. “Let’s keep going. We have a tomb to rob, right?”

Jervis grunted irritably, but put his sword away. Samael sighed slightly. Sometimes he wondered how Jervis had ever survived to maturity. Or how much long he would survive...
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
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Post by NeoTiamat »

“Get me up from here!” Samael shouted up his half-brother, his feet dangling out over the yawning chasm.

It had all started so well, the door had opened onto a room that literally shone. Gold was everywhere, a flood of gleaming coins covered floors, with more piled high against the walls, where gilded statues poked out from the golden waves. Here and there lustrous gems sparkled, catching the light from the blazing torches that ringed the room, and towering above it all at the far end of the room, a mammoth statue of Anubis stood, clad in gold, with a set of scales in its enormous hands, one end of which was home to an elaborate golden feather.

“Now this is more like what I had in mind for an Akiri tomb!” Samael had proclaimed, rubbing his hands together.

The enthusiasm hadn’t lasted long.

”Umm, Khalil, why would your face be on an ancient coin?” Michel asked the desert guide with a rather perplexed look.

The coin in question definitely depicted a bearded Akiri man, with shoulder length hair and a scarf wound around his throat, his mouth open in a silent scream. Khalil scrutinized the coin for a moment, there was a ring of familiarity about the face, but through age, wear and neglect the features were blurred.

“I think it unlikely that it is me, Affendi,” Khalil replied, biting down on it, a look of satisfaction crossing his face as he felt the unmistakable feel of real gold. Shoveling the coin and large handful of its fellows into a pouch, he added, “Besides, if I was able to mint my own coins I don’t think I would be scrambling around tombs looking for treasure.”

The statue presented a greater consternation.

Loup in a rather enthusiastic attempt to discover if any food was lurking under this boring shiny stuff triggered a small landslide of coins, which had uncovered it. Truly a work of art, the piece was breathtakingly realistic; a woman in rags, her body scourged by whips, knelt shielding two young boys from some unnamed horror. Her face twisted in suffering as she desperately clutched them to her breast, where a sparkling jeweled amulet lay. Khalil stared at the statue from a foot away - it was beautiful, yet gave off an eerie, unpleasant feeling much like the coins had, only this time there was no doubt in Khalil’s mind why.

“Surely it is not possible…” he whispered, moving slowly for the statue, but that face, he knew that face better than almost any other. With a tentative hand he reached out to touch it, the age lines, the bone structure, the scar on her forehead, it couldn’t be any other. Scrabbling frantically in a pouch Khalil withdraws a coin, looking hard at the face depicted there, then again at the statue, it couldn’t be.... who could reach into his mind and play games like this?

“Khalil, what in the name of the Mists is going on?” Samael asked watching the desert guide with some concern.

Slowly Khalil stretched out his hand to the others, holding up the coin and whispering in a soft voice. “This...... is my father, and that,” he gestured at the statue, “is my mother.”

Fassahd crouched next to Khalil. “I believe you told me you were orphaned, Effendi?” he asked in a gentle voice.

The desert guide merely nodded, not taking his eyes from the statue. “Yes. They were both taken from me, murdered at the hands of vicious men. I, I never had the chance to conduct the proper rituals, fate and circumstance took me away.”

“It is out greatest duty to send our loved ones souls to Duat in the proper ways. Perhaps when this is over you should make endeavors to set things right?” Fassahd said soberly, his eyes full of meaning. Khalil nodded slowly, his hand tracing the line of his mother’s shoulder, before falling to the amulet hanging around her neck.

“I don’t think I want any part of this,” Guy said, emptying his pouches. “Doesn't feel right.”

“I think I’m beginning to agree with you,” Sam muttered, staring at the screaming face on one of the coins, before dropping it regretfully. “Leave it, everyone. Cursed treasure isn’t exactly the smartest thing to carry around, and this is starting to smell like a trap to me. We can always come back for it later. Come on Khalil, we best be out of here before something bad happens.”

The Borcan reflected on their presence within a dark, decrepit tomb in the middle of the desert. "Before something worse happens."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Leaving, however, wasn’t quite as simple as it appeared. There was indeed a door, a giant obsidian affair, intricately and disturbingly carved with slaughtered jackals and dying plants, and with no handle or lock to speak of.

“Pleasant,” Guy observed, eying the door ominously. “There’s an inscription here.”

“Strange... that’s modern Akiri.” Michel confirmed looking over the militiaman’s shoulder, before reading aloud the translation into Mordentish.

“The way shall open to those light of heart, those heavy with burden shall find only the silence of their tomb.”

“Pleasant,” Guy repeated as he checked the door for any hidden catches. He didn't find anything. It was discovered, however, that the lock was built around the set of scales.

“So we all need to be on there or the weight won’t be enough for the counter-balance,” Samael repeated back, looking over the side into the pool of molten gold that yawned below the scales, “Well. Let’s hope none of us are heavy with burden, then.”

That didn’t make Khalil feel any better - the desert guide had been morose and withdrawn since the revelation at the statue - but head down, he followed the others up onto the scales.

The weight of the party pushed the scales down with a creak and grinding of stone, tripping the counter balance, and with a shudder the massive door raised itself up, revealing a dark passageway beyond. It took a moment to register that the scales were still dropping, falling lower and lower towards the boiling pit below. “Get off, now!” Guy shouted, pushing Lily and Michel off the side of platform just before it passed the level of the ground. Fassahd, in an uncharacteristic surge of exertion, followed on their heels.

The descent slowed, but still the scales tipped, the angle of the platform becoming steeper and steeper. With a grunt, Jervis leapt back up, grasping the edge of the pit and pulling himself quickly to his feet, the exertion barley seeming to faze the man. Still the scales tipped.

“Seems one of us is in Anubis’ bad books,” Samael quipped, throwing Khalil a glance as he fought to keep his balance, “but I don’t intend to wait around for divine judgment."

“You’d better catch me,” Samael hissed at his half-brother. He took a run and jumped for the mercenary’s outstretched arms. He barely made the jump, clinging to the edge as the others grabbed him and helped him up.

With Samael gone, the scales suddenly, improbably lurched and dropped further, knocking Khalil from his feet and sending him sliding off the edge. Scrabbling, he tried in vain to find purchase, but gravity got the better of the desert guide. A myriad of thoughts flashed through Khalil’s mind as he flailed wildly; the uppermost ones cursed himself for a total fool, when suddenly his descent was stopped sharply by a strong grip on his wrist. It took a second for the reality to hit, but once it did Khalil looked up wildly into a face that could be a ghostly mirror image of his own.

“How harsh does this lesson need to be… brother?” the figure whispered.

“Rizak? How, why?” Khali gasped, staring into the face of his dead twin.

“Don’t waste your breath Khalil; you have but seconds to make a choice, one final chance to turn back from this path you have chosen. It is not your heart that weighs you down here, simply your greed and selfishness. Gold is not the answer, let it go.”

Khalil stared for second more, almost looking as if he would argue, then deciding anything was better than the molten death below. He pulled the pouch away from his belt, letting the coins cascade free, the screaming faces of his father glinting in the light as they spiraled downward.The movement of the scales slowed, but didn’t stop.

“You took more? You think you can conceal your greed from the lord of the sacred land?” The Ghost's face was incredulous as he berated his brother.

“No, I….” Khalil faltered, feeling the guilt rise up as the lie died on his tongue.

“What will it take for you to see what you have lost to this obsession? Do the faces of those you have lost and turned your back on not move you? Does your unfulfilled vow for justice on their behalf not cause you to turn back? Is giving up everything you held sacred and swore to protect, worth a petty bauble?”

"Let it go brother. This is your last chance, all that waits for you below is your golden tomb.”


The grip on his wrist slackened suddenly. “Damn it all!” Khalil sighed, jerking the amulet from another pouch, giving the jeweled piece a slight look of longing as he released it and watched it plummet faster than it should have into the darkness. As it fell, the balance tipped, sending the scales swinging back upwards.

“A wise choice indeed,” Rizak’s voice resonated in Khalil’s mind, as the desert guide was hauled up onto the platform. “Ensure the lesson is well learned..... my brother.”

“Damn it all,” Khalil repeated softly as he unsteadily got to his feet, gazing up at the snarling face of Anubis above him. Then, with one last look back at the room, he followed the others into the darkened passage beyond.
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
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Post by NeoTiamat »

"Explain to me again, Volodya, why is it that ancient peoples seemed to enjoy putting so many horrible, horrible things into their tombs?" Samael was talking, which was something of a base state of being for the man. "I mean, the dead don't usually move around... much... outside of Darkon, so what possesses ancient Akiri or ancient Hazlani or ancient Lamordians to put copious methods of inflicting grievous bodily injury into their tombs?"

"Money?" Jervis offered.

"A very good point. The practice of putting grave goods is, of course, an excellent reason to invest in security for your dearly departed. Otherwise you would have enthusiastic entrepeneurs such as ourselves constantly treating the sacred remains of the dead as though they were nothing more than a bank with less irritating tellers." The Borcan stabbed a finger into the air. "But, what is the point of the practice of grave goods, do explain to me? How can any society continue such practices for any length of time?"

"If you assume that every person who dies takes along even a small percentage of their networth to the grave, then what you're left with is an economic structure where wealth is put permanently out of circulation. Normally, you pay a man, and after holding onto the money for a while, he uses it to pay someone else, and the world continues to turn. But, in a society that utilizes copious grave goods, the wealth is put out of circulation, and so over time the society's supply of gold and precious metals will dwindle. What is the point of it, can you explain?"

Jervis ruminated on this for a few moments. Then, with the wisdom of ages, he ventured, "So we can take it?"

"A perfectly cogent and rational argument, yes." Samael said, talking mostly to keep his mind off of the oh so many lovely ways he could be burned, eviscerated, sliced, diced, dashed upon the rocks, or as experience has shown, have his vitality sapped by hideous spectres. "But that would imply that the entire economy is predicated upon the idea that thieves would loot the tombs and thus put the burial goods back into circulation, a legitimizing of thef--- and why does this place look like a bank vault?"

This was a question to which Jervis did not feel perfectly qualified to answer, though Samael had a point. To begin with, the room wasn't very large, and it was covered entirely in brass. And secondly, every inch of wall, with the exception of the door, was covered in pull-out drawers of differing sizes, each labeled with a discreet brass plaque.

"Hmm... I think this one is yours, Samael." Lily said, pursing her lips slightly as she examined the room. "We've been through my own, Michel's, Khalil's, and Jervis's, and it doesn't look like Fassahd's or Guy's."

"Wonderful." The Borcan sighed, glancing at one of the brass plaques on the drawers. Philip Montagne, 6 days. Maleagant frowned at the name, but the flutter of memory sparked no recollections. "Any luck with the door?"

Jervis, taking this appropriately as his cue, walked up to the brass door and drew his sword. With a grunt, he tried to wedge it into the door-crack... and was rewarded with an electrical shock for his troubles. The mercenary swore and pulled the blade out, ignoring the slight smoking of his palms where they had gripped the sword. He looked at Samael and shook his head.

"Alright, so much for the easy way." Samael said sourly. He examined the lock on the door. It was... large, heavy, and was not about to be moved without a rubber-insulated crowbar, which Samael had neglected to pack. He glared at the lock then brought out an old bit of Draconic from yesteryear. "Araneum arcanorum rescindo!"

The spell fizzled completely. So much for that bright idea.

"Michel, Khalil, start checking boxes near the door we came through. Lily, you start over there, and I'll start here. One of them must have a key. Rest of you stay on guard."

Samael decided to start with Philip Montagne, whoever that was. He reached out to the little brass plaque, looking for some way to get it open. As soon as he touched it, however, it sprung open, and inside... was a memory.

"Last I checked, full house beats two-pair nice and solid, so pass the pot here. My cash was starting to get a little lonely." The winner grinned an utterly untrustworthy and yet utterly charming smile, and the other players, with some grumbling, passed over the cash.

"Mists take me, Marcus, but I am going to get that money back." One of the other merchants, Philip Montagne, grumbled. Still, he wasn't quite so mad as he sounded like. It was a wet, cold night in the Lamordian inn, and at least Marcus Greyvault from Karg had a pack of cards. Besides, the man had the worst poker-face Philip had ever seen, so he was pretty confident that he'd get the money back.

"Promises, promises." Marcus grinned as he dealt out the cards. "Just make sure you've got the crowns to cover it."


Samael smiled a little to himself. Card tricks weren't really his preferred modus operandi, but once you learned how to deal from both sides of the deck and keep a quick patter going, it wasn't very hard to earn enough money to sleep at night on. Then the image shifted rapidly, and as though some invisible narrator provided commentary, Samael knew how the story ended.

Philip Montagne, egged on by the deceptively poor play of Marcus Greyvault, lost more, and more, and more. By morning, he was out of money to travel onwards, and so was forced to spend several days in the rain and cold of Lamordia. For the southern-born Montagne, pneumonia was nearly inescapable.

Idiot shouldn't have bet more than he could have afforded. Samael thought sourly, the satisfaction of a job well done now slightly tainted. Still, it wasn't his fault that Montagne turned out to be a fool in addition to everything else. Not like he was encouraged to spend every last copper by some smooth-voiced stranger, hmm? The little voice in the back of Samael's mind said. No, no, no, nothing like that happened at all...

It was in a slightly disgruntled state of mind that the Borcan withdrew from the open drawer... a long sliver of metal. Well, this was something. Samael turned it over in his hands a few times, but whatever the thing was, and he had his suspicions, it was only a piece of the final object. With a sigh, the Borcan turned to another of the drawers, a larger one marked Scott "Terrier" Albert, 4 months, 19 days, and Michael Fields, 3 year, 9 months, 7 days,, and pulled it open.

"Look, Mr. Fields, I'm freezing and it feels like someone turned over Ezra's bath tub out here..." The coach-driver pulled his cap down over his lanky black hair, and gave the warehouse manager a decidedly sniveling look. "Are the documents in order or aren't they?"

"Everything seems to be in order..." Fields said after a moment, speaking to the new man through the window of his office. "But you can't be too careful with the payroll. Where's Terrier anyway?"

"Mists take me if I know." The coach-driver shrugged, almost as though he had not slipped chloral hydrate into the man's drink at the bar an hour ago. "The boss just said to me, 'boy, get the payroll, Scott's sick', and me, I didn't ask questions. You want, I can go get the boss."

Fields looked at the documents and wage-chits and all the rest of the paperwork, then back at the coach-driver. They looked to be in order, and the man's face reflected nothing besides a certain amount of waterlogged misery. He knew perfectly well what the boss's reaction would be to being dragged out in the early, and above-all,
wet Mordentshire morning. He tapped his fingers against the windowsill.

"Alright, let me get the strongbox out."


The second vision came fast on the heels of the first, this time.

Both men, Scott Albert who allowed himself to be drugged and locked in a store closet for several hours, and Michael Fields, who allowed himself to be taken in by the forged documents and the con man, were fired from their positions with the Boritsi Trading Company, without references. Albert recovered more easily, eventually joining the CTC, but Fields had been a company man for years. He never achieved a rank higher than office clerk.

I didn't know. Samael thought hurriedly, Ezra save me, I didn't know! I never even learned their names, I was working on Vielo Boritsi at the time! It was his money I stole, from his office I took the samples for the forgeries...

No... you knew, you just didn't think. What did you expect, that someone like Vielo would just swallow the loss? When the banker is robbed, it isn't the banker who feels the pinch. Heads had to roll, and guess which poor, unfortunate fools got to be the lucky scapegoats?

I DIDN'T KNOW Samael screamed at the horrid, hideous voice in his mind. He saw Lily was looking at him, and he responded with his most charming smile. The Souragnien reporter gave him a long look, then returned back to her own checking. I'm sorry, I'm really sorry for them, but it wasn't my fault, it was Vielo's.

There was no response.

Samael looked down into the open brass drawer and withdrew another little piece of metal, and he was right. The two fitted together. The Borcan, still the charming, pleasant smile on his lips, looked around, then decided to grab the bull by the horns. He turned to the largest of the drawers he could see, several feet across and with half a hundred names on it. Most had dates for a few months, or a few years, though in one case the number beside the little name plate was 52 years, 3 months, 2 days.

This isn't going to be fun, Samael thought as he wrenched open the giant drawer.

"Count LaCroix, a pleasure to see you again." The old Lord of Blysse-on-Mar said as the butler let the raven-haired young count inside. The man was well-bred, the old Lord could tell, but he hadn't reached his years without becoming a good judge of character, and the Lord could tell the young man was worried sick. "Please, Lucien, sit down. Something is weighing on you. Hartford, a brandy for the count."

"Thank you, your Lordship." The count fidgeted in his seat, more ill at-ease than the Lord had ever seen him. "You see... it's about my sister..."

"Lady Beatrice? Did her ship come in early? Not that we aren't all eager to see her after your delightful stories, but I thought she wasn't due to come home for another two weeks." The Lord said kindly. "I trust everything is alright?"

"Well.. sir.." The wretched count passed the Lord of Blysse-on-Mar a somewhat crumpled letter. "Everything is
wrong, horribly wrong, sir. Oh please just read this, it will explain everything."

And so the old lord did. He took out his reading glasses, and for a few minutes read the account. The Lady Beatrice's ship had been captured by Blausteiners, and now they were demanding from the Count an absolutely outrageous sum. The letter was signed by the ship's master and the captain, and also contained a lock of dark red hair.

"This is dreadful." The Lord of Blysse-on-Mar said with feeling. "I knew Marcel Guignol was not the man for the Governor-ship... piracy! In this day and age, we still need to fear being robbed and ransomed every time we set foot on board a ship."

"It gets worse, your lordship." The count said, having what to the Lord's eye were fairly well-concealed hysterics. "
I don't have the money. Most of my money's bound up in M. Garvien's new project. I'll need to sell the house, I'll need to sell the lands..."

"Let's not be so hasty." The Lord of Blysse-on-Mar said, raising a hand to forestall the young count. "Get a hold of yourself, man, you'll ruin yourself."

"But Beatrice..." Count LaCroix said miserably. "You saw what they wrote. I have a month to come up with the money... I mean, it would be all well and good if I kept the funds you did, but Garvien was so damnably persuasive."

"Perhaps there's another way." The old Lord proposed. "What do you say I loan you the money you need. Then when Beatrice is safe and sound, you can get the funds you need out of Garvien on an installment. No need to become a pauper."

"You would do that, sir?" The count could barely believe his ears. "But... but..."

"Nonsense, what's the point of having wealth if you can't help your friends?" The Lord of Blysse-on-Mar said, taking another sip of the brandy. "Now take a drink, Lucian, and calm your nerves, and then I'll call my man of business and we'll discuss."


The Blaustein Prisoner. Samael thought, about as miserably as he had pretended to be when he was Count Lucian LaCroix. Beatrice never existed, Garvien never actually saw any of the money, none of them ever actually saw the house and servants except for that one night I rented... then there were other problems. The pirates were cruel and demanded more, the Lady Beatrice needed to rent a carriage, get a wardrobe before she was presentable because the pirates had taken everything. And the old Lord paid every penny, till one day... *poof*... no Count LaCroix, and I was on a fast horse out of Dementlieu.

Ultimately, the good Lord of Blysse-on-Mar was forced to sell some of his own land once the money he had half-loaned, half-given, had simply disappeared. The Lord never forgave himself, and was never quite so gentle and kind a man as before. Which boded ill for the other philanthropic ventures of the Lord of Blysse-on-Mar.

The Rue de Barthelemy Orphanage was forced to cut corners when the heart of its favored benefactor grew harsher. Winters were colder with less coal, the food became less nourishing, the same mouths now fed with a smaller budget. The staff tried, went for short pay, some of them but ultimately the orphanage was closed by the authorities as a safety violation. Too late for one child, though, who'd died of pneumonia during the long winter.


I... didn't know. I didn't mean it. Samael's mind shrunk back. I'd never even heard of that place. I... I didn't know...

I'm sure that made them feel a lot better when they starved and froze to death. Their murderer had never heard of them. The horrible little voice said with deceptive mildness. Samael tore the drawer open so violently the edge ripped a long gash in his arm. The Borcan didn't notice. I DIDN'T KILL ANYONE!.

Liar. And not even a very good lie. You didn't hold a knife to their throats, but there's one kid who's life is about 53 years shorter because you thought the old Lord had too much money and not enough sense, and you wanted to turn that around. The little voice wormed its way through Samael's defenses. You killed that boy, Iosef Darov.

I'll... I'll go back. I'll make it all right. I'll find them. Samael promised himself. I'll make up for it. I'll go back right now. I'll never steal anything again. I'll make it stop!

Turn back now? You're in too deep. What do you think the others will say when it turns out everything they've done, everything they've sacrificed, has been for nothing. Michel sold his soul because you bought his debts. Guy's given up his honor for you. And Pelletier gave up his life because you're a treacherous little sneak.

I DIDN'T KILL PELLETIER. That was Volodya. His hand, on his knife. I didn't even find out till later!. Samael protested. The voice was not impressed. And why was Vladimir here in the first place? Because of you. The only reason he's not back in Forlorn scaring the goblyns is because you 'had a little idea'.

I'll bring back the money. Samael thought, no longer certain which of the voices in his head was now speaking. I mean... Menetnashte was a demon-summoner, wasn't Andre babbling about that? Stealing from a demon-king... that's practically a good deed, right? Then I'll take the money... I'll make it all right. I'll make everything right. It'll all be worth it. Take the money from Menetnashte and spend it on the poor. I can make it all right. I can make it up. It will all be worth it.

Samael took the third piece of metal and stuck it onto the rapidly growing assemblage of metal bits in his hand. It was now recognizeably taking on the form of a key. The Borcan looked around the room. There were still a lot of drawers to go...

Hundreds...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Here, try this.” Samael passed Jervis the fully-assembled key, two feet long if it was an inch. It looked like a jigsaw puzzle, truthfully, but somehow it held together. It was also slick with blood.

“Are you alright?” Lily said, brows knitting together in concern even as Jervis took the key and began to turn the thing. “...Samael, you're bleeding!”

“Oh.” The Borcan looked at the wound in his arm. He didn't look too concerned about it. “I must've cut myself on one of the drawers. It's just a scratch. I'll bandage it up and we'll get moving soon as Jervis opens the door. Soon it will all be worth it.”

Lily looked at the man's bleeding arm, which was anything but a scratch, and at the glassy smile on his face. Then Jervis levered open the door, and the moment to say something passed.
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
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Post by NeoTiamat »

fire heat smoke burning PAIN

Guy wiped the smoke from his eyes as he gagged on the blistering air. The heat around him roiled mercilessly against his skin. The flames roared as they reduced everything he owned to embers. He could hear the crying above him, anguished sobs of pure terror. Guy pushed his cracked hands against the floor, shoving his head up enough for him to see. It wasn’t right... he knew this house! This was his house! The stairs should have been here!

“A-Aloise?” he tried to call out. His voice was cracked and weak, and the very effort sent him into a fit of coughs that didn’t seem like they would end.

“Guy?” a frightened, trembling voice asked. Guy’s eyes opened wide, and he was scrambling across the floor now, not even bothering to stand. The jagged embers of half-burned floorboards ripped his hands apart, but they couldn’t stop him. Guy frantically looked for the staircase, clawing his way bit by bit deeper into the inferno - his own personal hell for almost two years, that he had never seen until this day...

“Aloise?” he called out again. He could hear laughing now, a deep voice that would have been pleasant if not for its naked maliciousness. The woman above gave a panicked cry, a flurry of footsteps sounding her desperate and futile search for sanctuary.

“D’Honaire?” Guy snarled. “No! LEAVE HER ALONE! D’HONAIRE!” He was running, now; he didn’t recall when he had gotten to his feet. He flew through the rooms of his house, one by one, watching them all collapse into nothing more than ash, but it didn’t matter. The heat burned his fragile skin, and the cough grew and grew as he plowed through the thick smoke. “Aloise! I’m coming!”

-can’t breathe-

The ex-militiaman careened into the floor, clutching his throat. He was suffocating, his own body rebelling against him, his mind foggy and hysterical, like a frightened animal. He scrabbled at the floor, trying do something more than lie down here and die-

“Help me...” the woman sobbed up above. “Please... Guy...”

“Help me!” another voice called out just beside him, and Guy felt himself being lifted from the floor. “I found him!”

Micheal was pulling him, his face red and his moustache singed from the fire. The cook struggled to lift Guy’s dead weight, throwing Guy’s arm over his shoulder and trying to stand. “Sam! Lily! Khalil! We need to get him out of here!”

“No...” Guy moaned, trying to tear himself free. He only managed a few more steps before he fell, coughing as if to turn his lungs inside out. The laughter, the sobbing, was ringing in his ears.

“Guy, we have to go!” Micheal cried out anxiously. “You’re going to die in here!”

“Aloise...” Guy whispered. He lifted his hand toward the sound of her voice, the smoke forming tears in his eyes.

“She’s dead, Guy,” Micheal said softly. “She died two years ago.”

Then let me die with her!” Guy yelled, shoving Micheal back with a sudden surge of fury. Khalil’s hands reached out and caught him. He struggled against them, doing his best to tear himself away as Samael and Micheal dragged him back, lashing out at the musician, clawing apart his scorched red vest in his pain and anger. Lily’s hands were on his chest, trying to push some life back into it. Jervis muttered a hoarse prayer to Ezra under his breath, and Guy gasped as his lungs cleared enough for him to breathe. Behind him, the house cracked and buckled, collapsing into a pile of burning timber - a thousand memories, an entire lifetime, gone in an instant. The sobbing raised pitch into a sharp shriek, cut horribly and suddenly short.

Guy threw back his head and screamed, an anguished, unending howl of suffering and loss.

”ALOISE!”
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

21 August 761

Charles sighs, crouches in the lee of the little cabin Lia created last night, and shrugs his jacket into a more comfortable position, and reviews his plan of action one more time. Flowers? Check. Well, one flower, anyway. It is a broad white blossom, something like a lily, which he found earlier this morning (it is still very early, but he has never slept much when he can avoid it and Sarari doesn’t either) and plucked from the midst of the parent plant’s sword-shaped leaves. Book? Check. The Thousand Roses are at his disposal, making one thousand and one flowers, actually, which should be enough. Resolve?

Well now. That one deserves a little consideration.

Exhaling, Charles attempts to think it through one last time. It’s not as if he’s never had a mistress; having a mistress is easy. Unless she’s married, that’s problematic. But otherwise, it’s just a matter of keeping her in clothes and fripperies and what-not… more elaborate presents as appropriate…take care of the children if you are so careless as to produce any…and give a decent amount of notice before moving on. There are elaborations, of course, but the actresses and laundresses and…what was the other one, Jolene? Oh, innkeeper’s daughter, that’s right. Well, at any rate, everyone understands what is happening.

Sarari…does not. Or would not. Past experience is no guide here. And, frankly, it would be…disappointing? More than that. Soul-destroying, if she were another Dementlieuse woman who knew all the right lies for all the appropriate occasions. Does anyone in Dementlieu tell the truth routinely? As a matter of course?

No, whatever happens here, it will not be like anything that has happened before.

Steeling himself, Charles stands and walks out into the chill early morning. He catches sight of Harris, seated near the crest of a dune, and waves; Harris waves back and points to the north. Slightly chagrined (but, of course, it’s common knowledge that something has happened) Charles turns his steps in that direction and walks for a minute or so to a jumbled outcropping of rock, where he finds Sarari examining the wasteland with restless eyes. She raises a hand in greeting and leaps down, with the staccato grace of a cat descending a tree. It’s obvious she wants to smile and greet him but she’s not quite sure what response she’ll get; in a welter of emotions he doesn’t bother to disentangle again, having experienced it in some degree and slightly varying composition and intensity for the last two days, Charles smiles, offers her the flower, and raises the book slightly.

Vetherrya unsalde ultha,” she says, smiling briefly (nervously, Charles thinks, although she hides it well) and stepping to within arm’s reach to take the flower. After staring at it for a moment, she separates the bloom from the stem and tucks it behind her ear, looking up at Charles intently. “It would be…’Rejoice with me in a new day’, I think? It is…a traditional greeting. In Sithicus.” Just the faintest hint of a blush as she says this, and Charles ventures to suppose he knows the context in which it is traditional. After all, it’s a very early-morning sort of greeting, isn’t it?

Vetherrya unsalde ultha,” he repeats, and Sarari laughs out loud and touches his arm. “No, no,” she says, “You say, Vethiro umas unsalde. ‘I rejoice with you in this new day.’ That is the answer.” She gestures for Charles to speak his line, and he repeats, “Vethiro umas unsalde.”

“Good!” she says, smiling again. “Already you are saying it almost well. It is very hard for the humans to speak as we do. This is the book that you told me of? The poems? That you wanted to read to me?” She gives the book a critical glance, as if skeptical of the endeavor but willing to give it a try.

“Exactly so,” Charles replies, smiling himself and displaying it briefly for her examination, and then finding a convenient place where he can rest his back against a stone and opening it. “Here, sit by me.”

Sarari does so, in such a way that they are almost but not quite touching, and looks at the book with rapt attention as Charles opens it—so rapt that Charles more than half-suspects that she is teasing him. Chuckling to himself, he finds the beginning and begins to read the high Pharazian, doing his best to translate as he goes.

Awake! For Morning in the bowl of Night
Has flung the stone that puts the stars to flight,
And lo! The hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan’s turret in a noose of light.
*

Just as Charles finishes the verse, the sun’s first rays strike them. Sarari, startled, turns her face from the book to the sun, then back to the book in confusion, and then turns her gaze on Charles. “You are an enchanter,” she says quietly but fiercely. “You with your clever words and your book that binds the sun. What have you done to me?”

She stares at him with those yellow eyes…the eyes of a predator…and Charles understands, in that moment, that he is sitting next to something inhuman…not animal, not fey, but participating somewhat of both, perhaps—a weird fierce predator in the semblance of a human form, crouched next to him, ready to pounce.

“Words are not the only enchantment,” Charles replies. He could not say why this comes to his mind (perhaps that is the point, the real truth to what he is saying), but he knows, somehow, that this is the right answer to her question…the one that really explains to her what she needs to know.

For a moment, she continues to fix him with her gaze, and then she looks down and snugs herself against him, fitting the curve of her body to his, so that her shoulder fits under his arm and his hand falls naturally across her back and to her hip. It is so human a gesture that the insight of the previous moment is dashed. Human and inhuman at once. He will never understand this woman. She, it must be supposed, will never understand him. And yet…all marriages are like that, aren’t they? The difference between man and woman is greater, from Charles’ admittedly limited experience, than the difference between elf and human. Not in everything, of course, but…wait…

Marriage? Oh dear.

That line of thought is, perhaps thankfully, ended by Sarari riffling through the pages until she finds an illumination of a couple seated across from each other in a garden, the young man reading from a book in his lap, the woman looking upward toward a pair of lovebirds overhead in what is either an orange or a lemon tree. “Read this one,” she says peremptorily.

“All right,” Charles replies, smiling. “Um. Let’s see.”

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
**

A longer pause, this time; and then Sarari quietly repeats the last two lines, and looks up at Charles, reaching first to close the book gently on his hand, then lifting her hand to his face and drawing him close . “This is a very wise book,” Sarari says. “I like it already.”

Quotations from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, as rendered by Edward Fitzgerald, quatrains I* and XI**
[b]FEAR JUSTICE.[/b] :elena:
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Post by NeoTiamat »

August 31st, 761

Fassahd dragged his bare feet slightly as he padded through the desert, letting the cold grains of sand sweep over his toes. A few angry scorpions and other creatures scuttled from the disturbance; Fassahd paid them no mind. They were no danger to him. The desert was frigid at night, but the slender man wore nothing more than a simple linen wrap around his waist, and an anhk around his neck. It would have been a strange sight if anyone had been there to see, but where he was going no others dared. Even the desert lizards and rodents, who came out once the blazing sun had set, gave this place a wide berth.

The trembling, nervous tomb robber was no act now. Indeed, all it had taken was the memories of this place to play that role indefinitely. He had learned far too late why grandfather had sworn never to return, why he had said he would rather die than answer this forsaken call.

Grandfather had said very little as they had walked home, only cooking them both some stew in silence. He asked no questions. He likely had guessed the answers, in any case. It would have to be spoken aloud at some point, though, and the thought of that was likely the only thing that kept Fassahd moving onward. Grandfather was an honest man, firmer in his beliefs than Fassahd had truly realized, and explaining what had happened was not something Fassahd looked forward to. If he died here, at least he wouldn’t have to face the shame.

He wondered how many times Grandfather had come here, if any. Grandfather had always taken long walks along the rocky cliffs, perhaps to some end that Fassahd had no true inkling of. Fassahd had sometimes “borrowed” things from the temple while Grandfather was gone - small things, certainly - things he had always meant to return, but just needed for his new plan. And that was why he had been in the temple when the herald had arrived, and Grandfather had not.

Fassahd trotted up the steep path to the cliffs, feeling a creeping sense of dread coming over him. The monstrous black jackals that lay sleeping about the canyon flicked their ears at him; he barked a command at them, and they lay their heads back down. Fassahd quickly ran up the stone steps, not entirely trusting the dogs not to turn on him if they felt like it. He sighed deeply, running his hands down one of the carved columns before turning and padding into the tomb.

He had told the herald that Grandfather was terribly ill. That Grandfather had certainly meant no disrespect by refusing to answer, as he had been unable to get out of bed for quite some time. It was age, no doubt, and he could only hope Grandfather recovered. He had told the herald that he, Fassahd, was the new Exarch of Anubis. He had asked the herald how he could serve.

Perhaps it had even saved Grandfather’s life. If he was truly honest with himself, he had mostly agreed for the gold. For the promise of importance, for the excitement of another grand plan and adventure. But mostly for the gold. He thought he was being clever, to trick the herald with his lies. He had been a fool.

Fassahd knelt before a pillar, skillfully carved into the shape of a man, and began to speak the secret prayers under his breath. His eyes fell on the hieroglyphics carved upon the column, scanning them once more as he chanted. Had he but remembered these before he had come here...! But by then he had agreed, and it had been far too late.

The hollow alcove at the end of the chamber faded away, leaving an entrance behind. Fassahd padded into the darkness. It made little difference to his eyes - certainly, it was nothing compared to the inky, unnatural evil that had poured forth from the demon Eye. But Fassahd found it uncomfortable in different ways. He continued through the halls, past the rows of sarcophagi that lined the walls. Some of the officials were out and about tonight, it seemed; they turned their heads to watch him as he walked past. Fassahd ignored them. There was only one in this place that Fassahd feared, and he would not harm him... not yet.

Fassahd walked past the many guards, who let him by - they were expecting him, it seemed. He silently presented himself to the priest at the stone doorway, bowing deeply. The priest nodded back to him.

“Announce yourself, and stand in the presence of the greatest of gods,” the priest whispered, gesturing to the large metal gong. His voice was cold, and dry, and dead.

Fassahd took a deep breath, took the ankh from his neck, and struck the gong.

The noise was beyond his deepest nightmares; though he had heard it once before, he very nearly turned and fled. Even then, he could not quite stop himself from doubling over, holding his hands to ears, begging silently for the sound to stop. It did eventually. Fassahd took another deep breath, stepping into the grand atrium beyond. He was careful to keep his head down, and before he was too far in, he knelt down, lifting his arm up in the gesture of praise.

“Highest honor to Ankhtepot, Greater than Ra, Foremost of all Pharaohs, Powerful of Strength, Great of Appearance, He to Whom All Har-Akir Bows, the God Among Men. Your servant kneels before you,” Fassahd said, wondering that the gods did not strike him down for uttering such blasphemy.

The dry, back tongue of the undead pharaoh forced words through blacked lips. “It is gone,” the pharaoh said. It was not a question.

“Yes, O greatest of kings,” Fassahd said, still bowing his head. He did not dare to look up.

“It will not return to plague me again,” Ankhtepot continued.

“It will not, o greatest of kings,” Fassahd said, trembling slightly at the pharaoh’s mere presence.

“Then you have pleased me greatly, this day,” Ankhtepot said. “Return to your temple, o servant of the false gods.”

Fassahd bowed again, backing slowly and respectfully out of the great room. It was only when he was far away that he began to run. He wasn’t dead, the pharaoh was pleased, and Fassahd had no intention of being within easy reach if his majesty changed his mind. Of course, he hadn’t quite told the entire truth about it never returning - there was still Menetnashte and Cavendish to worry about, but the Eye was beyond his reach, now. He would never make it to Dementlieu in time to make a difference. He could only hope Balfour could hang onto it, and if Beherith was released, it would find him before his majesty did...
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Post by Rock of the Fraternity »

"A moment." The raunie raised a hand. "I cannot give you much of what you ask for. But perhaps there is aid that I can give you. Do you remember what the cards told you, when they spoke to you so many months ago?"

"But dimly, to my shame," Lia admits. "I believe I now know who the prisoner is, with whom the cards suggested we ally ourselves: Menetnashte, bereft of her heart but not dead, all these centuries."

"Then let us see if the Tarokka have any new guidance." Madame Florica place the stick of incense into a burner, and a sour-sweet smell wafted through the cramped little vardo. "Are you willing?"

"Reluctant," Lia admits, "but willing. I do not think I will ever be truly comfortable with this Art, I admit to you freely."

"Few giorgio ever are." Madame Florica smiled, and took from the hook the velvet pouch with the cards. With practiced, easy hands she shuffled out the old cards with their bright paintings and elaborate designs. "But it is magic no weaker than that which crafts fire and ice from nothingness."

"I fear it especially because I know it to be powerful," Lia says, a smile evident in her tone of voice. "It is a power I can not grasp, nor understand. Fire and ice, I can do. I bow to your mastery in this matter."

"Then rest your hands upon the cards, and think." Madame Florica said with a gentle smile. She held out the old cards for Lia's hand. "In this, at least, I have power to aid you."

Lia quickly strips off her gloves and, despite her misgivings, places them on the cards. She closes her eyes and focuses her willpower as wizards are taught to do at an early stage -- lest they kill themselves with their own power ...

"Look upon these cards, and remember. They are wiser than people, for they look upon things clearly." Madame Florica spoke, shuffling the deck once more and then laying out the first card upon the table.

http://i186.photobucket.com/albums/x27/ ... idon-2.jpg "For yourselves, you are the Myrmidons, the Five of Swords. The card of the heroes and madmen, fools and martyrs. The card of chaos. The wild card. Chaos is your ally in this affair, and law your foe. The Darkest One was a creature of Law, once."

"That is the same as before, then," Lia murmurs. "And yes, chaos has been our ally: the bringing of change to bad situations and stasis ... Please, say on."

http://i186.photobucket.com/albums/x27/ ... ison-2.jpg - "The Donjon, the card of the past. Trapped, lost, imprisoned, exiled, and slowly growing mad. The Prison is what you fight, but there is more than one Prisoner in here, is there not? Perhaps the Prisoner deserves their fate, perhaps not. But the Prisoner's fate is a hideous one."

"The fiend," Lia says. "And Menetnashte. Two prisoners, one punishment: they are both confined and unable to go where they wish and do as they wish."

"Their fate is a hard one... and for their freedom, they will do anything." Madame Florica said quietly. "Their crimes have earned it, perhaps, but it is a harsh punishment nevertheless."

"How far would they go," Lia starts to say, slowly, "to be released? What binding oaths would they swear?"

"That, I do not know. I do not think they themselves know." Madame Florica shrugged her shoulders, and drew the next card. http://i186.photobucket.com/albums/x27/ ... shop-2.jpg - "This is the Present, and the card is the Eight of Glyphs. The Bishop. The order within chaos, the weaver of webs, the speaker of lies. He is your opposite, your enemy, the Myrmidon's implacable foe. His inscrutable Order and your free Chaos cannot coexist."

"He is the controlling hand behind seeming chaos, and he shall be your greatest foe."

"And now I know who he is," Lia says, her voice seething with acid. "It must be Cavendish. I would dearly love to see him dead."

http://i186.photobucket.com/albums/x27/ ... atan-2.jpg - "In the Future, you shall find the Charlatan. Or perhaps you have already found him. The trickster, the spy, the unbeliever, the card of the cabal and the treacher. He is the deadly asp within the garden, and he strikes like a serpent. The Charlatan is the card warning against trust. And yet... the Charlatan is chaos incarnate, and no friend of the Bishop's cold Order. Nor does his freedom fit well with the dangers of the Prison. The card of betrayal and deceit, he may be ally or enemy. Or both. He may be the Myrmidon's comrade-in-arms, can you but find the Charlatan's heart's cause."

"Before, it was money, wealth," Lia muses. "I may have to ask him whether that has changed ... or not. Arangements can surely be made."

http://i186.photobucket.com/albums/x27/ ... eman-2.jpg - "Your final card, this journey's end. The Horseman rides, and he will not return alone."

"Death and destruction," Lia notes grimly. "There has been plenty, but more is coming. The only question is: for whom?"

Madame Florica looked out at the cards, and in her eyes Lia noticed something else. Lia noticed fear. The Vistana feared the portent of these cards, though she knew that they would come again, and that they were necessary cards. "For whom the Horseman rides... is a question not even the Vistani can answer. Go. You have your answers, and may they grant you aid." Madame Florica said quietly, collecting the cards. "Good luck, and the good wishes of the Camolomescro go with you."
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Post by Rock of the Fraternity »

"You've been busy." The amiable, familiar voice of Thorianefall spoke from behind Lia. The elf-lord's scent, a cool, damp smell that reminded Lia of autumn leaves and rain, filled the room.
He walked out of the shadows, dressed much as Lia had first seen him. A woodsman in green and brown, a sword at his hip and a bow on his back, his long russet hair bound up with a leather strap. He sat on the chair and smiled pleasantly. "Very busy."

"'Idle hands are the devil's workshop', my grandmother once told me," Lia replies with a shrug. "That, and as usual, events have overtaken us like unto a flood. You have been well, I hope?"

“Fairly well. You lot are cutting a pretty wide swath through the spirit courts, you know that?" Thorn raised a single brow. "They say you upset a Dreamlord something dreadful over in Sebua."

"Yes, we'd noticed," Lia sighs. "I suppose we'll have to clear a page in our calendar for the time when he comes to air his grievances."

"Oh, I think he's been settled up, mostly." Thorn grinned ear to ear.

"My, how ... gratifying," Lia says, one eyebrow raised. "Whet your whistle, my good sir? Professor Marchand-Renier did not take to this vintage, but I have found it to be quite, quite excellent." The mage proceeds to pour a goblet.

The elf-lord sipped at the wine, his eyes crinkling in amusement at Lia's comments.

"Well," Lia says after she has also sampled the wine. "I am certain that a mighty lord of the fey knows why a poor, novice mage has called for him this night, apart from the self-evident pleasure of his company."

"Surprise me." Thorn suggested.

"We now have a moderately easier access to the Eye of Anubis than we did before," Lia says, counting off points on her fingers. "We know what is at stake if its occupant is ever released. We have been given a ritual by Menetnashte to end the threat. I have just heard confirmation that this ritual will work. And yet I find this rite ... unsatisfactory. And I have been told there is a different way to achieve the result we desire, which does not have the element I dislike."

"You have?" The Elf-Lord said noncommitally, sipping the wine.

"Indeed," Lia replies. "And if such a method does exist, I should like to know whether you could actually get your hands on it. And if you can, what you would like as compensation."

"You flatter me." Lord Thorn said after a moment. He lifted the wine bottle up to the light to watch the colours shift. "Aside from your ritual, I know of two methods that are proof to evey enchantment ever devised."

"Amazing as always," Lia says respectfully. "Two methods, even. Might I ask for their general description?"

"You may." Thorn said. He sipped the wine again.

"Very well, then," Lia says, topping up her own glass. "I hereby ask for their general description, in the hopes that you will tell me. If only to whet my appetite for the knowledge, perhaps?" she finishes, her tone of voice almost ... coy.

"The first is a method of reversing the enchantments on the Eye, turning them back upon themselves. The second is more of a brute force approach, but likewise quite reliable should you accomplish it."

"Intriguing," Lia muses, contemplating her wine. "Refill?" she offers the bottle.

"Certainly." The Elf-Lord said.

Lia tops up the fey's glass and leans back, appearing thoughtful. "Now we come to the most unpleasant part of any negotiation," she sighs, "when the interested party has to ask: 'How much would this cost me'?"

"You seem to be lacking in things to offer, my dear." The Elf-Lord said mildly. "I think that, for these rituals... I would ask for your Name."

"By which you mean my True Name, by which I can be bound and commanded, I take it?" Lia asks, sounding equally mild.

"You are asking for the means to destroy a shadow demigod." Thorn pointed out.

"True enough," Lia agrees with a small, dismissive hand gesture. "And if I ask for only one ritual?"

"Five year's service." Lord Thorn said. "Or one great task."

"And if the price is shared among several people?" Lia asks, as she contemplates her wine.

"Two year's worth of memory each, I think." The Elf-Lord considered. "Or perhaps the same task, spread about."

"And what kind of task would you have in mind?" Lia asks. "You are a cunning man, I am sure you have something in mind."

"Nothing beyond your means or skill." Lord Thorn said simply.

"Very good," Lia says. "I shall, of course, have to confer with my associates before making any final decisions. I do hope you will understand?"

"Of course." Lord Thorn said. He smiled. "To do otherwise would be unfair."

"In the meantime, we have yet to drain our glasses," Lia says, gesturing mildly to the aforementioned receptacles. "And there is still some left in the bottle. So. How fare the lands of Fey?"

"Quite a-flutter." The Elf-Lord said. "Some of your companions are causing a bit of a stir."

"Yes," Lia says, a smile implicit in her tone of voice. "They tend to do that."
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Post by Rock of the Fraternity »

The Chez Leon was the restaurant in Dementlieu. This was known to everyone who visited. It was named after the founder of the country, and was without a doubt the most prestigious and finest restaurant in the city. It was also the most expensive; something that even your new-found wealth did not prevent you from knowing.

As it was, you arrived one by one to the little restaurant on a hill, overlooking Parnault Bay. The maitre d', clad in clothing that was on the whole probably more expensive than yours, took you in with a disbelieving look. "Do you have a reservation?"

Charles gives the maitre d' a quelling look--he, at least, manages to look the part of a diner here, because he has been in the past--says "Under Ramsey, I believe."

Lia stands close to Tomas and refrains from replying. Seeing as this is a dinner occasion, she has slightly modified her usual outfit; instead of a mask, she is wearing several veils, wrapped tight around her forehead, but falling loosely down unto her chest. Apart from the curve of her forehead, her face appears indistinct, as if seen through cobwebs, and her colouring is impossible to determine.

"Ah yes." The maitre d' looked marginally comforted at Charles's presence. "Let us see... ah yes, M'sieur Martel, you and your friends are here. I'll take you to his Lordship's usual table."

Tomas's response to this snobbery from the help cultivates all he's learned in his years in the cultural capital of the world. That is to say, Tomas pulls a monocle out of his vest pocket, and puts it over his eye, adjusting it haughtily. He then looks towards Charles, boyishly hungry for approval. The questioning double thumbs up sort of ruins the previous dignified effect.

Otto *still* looks markedly out of place in a tuxedo

"Thank you," Charles says, feinting at a bow. "Lead on." Charles doesn't look at Tomas again for fear of losing his straight face. A monocle, yet.

The maitre d' led you through the restaurant to a pleasant table by the window. Though the atmosphere was anything but crowded, it should be noted that every one of the tables was occupied. "Lord Ramsey will be arriving shortly, M'sieur." The maitre d' said, and swiftly placed the wine list onto the table for your perusal before retreating.

Tomas's face is a little disappointed as he is left hanging. Some bromance! Still, he's a writer; he's allowed to be eccentric. Squeezing Lia's hand a little, Tomas takes his hat off while being led inside the building, and promptly puts it back on once inside. "Golly." Tomas asides to Otto, who'll understand.

Otto does, in fact, understand, though he has neglected to bring a hat.

"Should I be casting spells of detection?" Lia mutters, leaning over to Charles as if to share some sweet-nothing. "Just in case ...?"

Charles looks through the wine list with a practiced eye and picks out the Chateau d'Is red and Ile de Vert white--why not, Ramsey's buying?--before replying. "Not a bad idea, especially before he gets here...though I would wager he's observed our arrival..."

"Ooh, they make yellow wine!" Tomas says, possibly trying to give Charles a heart attack before D'Honnaire can have him killed.

“Oh, I quite like your monocle, M'sieur Eisenwald."

"Let him see what he expects to see, then," Lia mutters back. "I will cast as soon as he is announced. Spells to detect spells and poison."

Otto, being a beer-drinker, is happy to be guided in this situation.

"Er, yes, yellow wine...I've heard they have it in Lamordia," Charles says, straight-faced. "I'm afraid we have only red and white here in Dementlieu."

"Good evening, everyone." The cold, cutting voice sounded from the distance as Ramsey appeared in the doorway of the Chez Leon and made his way to the table, giving the maitre d' a brief nod. He paused before taking his seat. "I see you've made yourself at home. Charming."

Does one stand at attention or remain seated when a person who may be trying to kill you arrives at dinner? Otto is torn for a few moments.

Lia politely rises from her seat next to Tomas and nods at the philosophy professor. "Good evening," she says, her voice cool music.

"Very kind of you to invite us," Charles says. "I was thinking the Chateau d'Is and the Ile de Vert?"

"A pleasure," Otto says, politely.

"Oh, that's a sauce..." Tomas manages - is he kidding or not? - and then Ramsey is here to make even Tomas feel like a rube. "Oh, ah, Guten Abend! I am being sorry, my Mordentish, she is still imperfect, ja?"

"I prefer the Chateau Marmency, personally." Ramsey said, sitting down. "Chateau d'Is is a bit strong for my palate this early in the day. Good evening everyone, Miss Mournswaithe, M'sieur Martel, Herr Schutlheiss, Herr Eisenwald." [Lamordian] "Quite alright. You're young, you'll learn." [/Lamordian]

"It's quite subtle, the Marmency, I'm not surprised you favour it," Charles says judiciously. "I prefer something rather on the bold side myself; besides, it makes a better companion to red meat, don't you think?"

"For red wine, I personally recommend the Barovian vintages," Lia notes.

"To each his own. I've taken the liberty of ordering from the kitchens so we needn't wait. I hope you'll forgive me." Lord Ramsey said mildly. "The Chez Leon's kitchens are renowned, but I fear the chefs periodically take their time. And I imagine we're all busy with writing our speeches and what not."

"Oh, Barovia," Charles says dismissively. "Too much iron in the soil. How very solicitous," he replies to Ramsey’s words about the pre-ordered meal.

Tomas looks terrified. "Speeches?"

"Indeed," Lia says. "Barovian wine has the virtue of strength. It is not subtle like Dementlieuse wines, but you will not fall drunk by surprise. You will know what you are drinking, and how it is affecting you.

"Should be busy, yes..." Otto smiles rather apologetically. "Despite my profession, I am rather unfortunate at pre-*determined* orations..."

"I doubt we humble students will be asked to say that much," Lia says with an offhanded gesture.

"On the contrary." Ramsey smiled. "Lord de Casteele is quite enthusiastic about the possibility of student speakers. Credit to the University and such."

"Don't suppose I could take on another one of those verdamnit cat fossils instead, anyway?" Tomas chuckles, winking at Lia. "Oh, um, I'm sure your, ah, selections will be being better than what a first time visitor could choose."

"And I may appreciate his concern in the abstract. The practical...it shall take some doing, yes?" Otto says, smiling nervously.

"I'm rather looking forward to it," Charles confesses. "Centre of all eyes and what not...performing on the grand stage..."

"He does have a flair for the dramatic," Lia sighs to Ramsey's comment.

"Cat fossils, Herr Eisenwald?" Ramsey raised a brow. "I'm afraid I hadn't heard that story, but I don't imagine that speeches will be quite so bad as that."

"Oh, I don't know, one becomes accustomed to the oddest things...public speaking is said to be among the most widely feared activities...all the same, after so many perils one does become accustomed..." Charles trails off, then says, "Well, I do know this dinner is to talk about us, Lord Ramsey, but perhaps you might regale us with a story or two of your doings in the last year? After all, they aren't likely to be recounted in public in a few days' time!"

"This, ah, this prop that fellow in the top hat uses. I think he pasted them together in a museum and is trying to pass them off as real fossils, to be honest. Tiger skeletons with fangs." Tomas explains, as though this were an everyday concern.

"No, no, I am fairly certain the skeletons were the real thing," Lia says. "Bones petrified with age and whatnot."

"Worse than public speaking, at any rate," Otto states.

"I hadn't heard." Ramsey murmured. "Well, I'm sure you're quite capable of handling yourselves. You've shown yourself capable of frightening enthusiasm. Myself, I've been keeping busy. Researching things abroad, mostly." Ramsey said.

"Oh? Whereabouts?" Otto asks.

"Oh, a sabbatical?” Charles chimes in. “That's pleasant. Where did you visit?"

Tomas rolls his eyes at Lia, because he's almost a dwarf and he knows better about rocks than any /girl/. Lia may be able to tell that Eisenwald is enjoying this.

"All over, actually. Sebua, Har'Akir, Pharazia. Barovia." Ramsey said. "Ah, here's the food."
Well. That is somehow unlikely to be coincidental. That said, the fact is not something Otto feels he needs to bring *up*, publically.

Charles blinks. He hadn't expected Ramsey to effectively make an admission of guilt.

It looked delicious, roast ducks, beef steaks, vegetables cooked to perfection. The Chez Leon got its reputation honestly, though for some reason Otto and Tomas were given Barovian sausages.

"I'd wondered how you managed to have your friend deliver this gift to me," Lia murmurs, briefly flashing the silver ring on her left hand. "Thank you for that once again."

"Oh, very nice," Charles says, glancing at Lia as he picks up his knife and fork.

Otto frowns slightly. Lambs meat...typical. Wish they'd do their research...tasty, though.

Lia softly claps her gloved hands together. "Well, everything looks more than edible," she says.

Oh great, MORE Barovian cooking. "Subtle, aren't they." Tomas asides Ottowards, and then he blinks at Ramsey-suddenly stating, "I see-I realize what's going on here!"

"Certainly, it looks a treat," Charles says, setting to.

PLEASE do not let the next words out of your mouth be "So You're Cavendish, then?” Otto attempts to telepathically communicate to Tomas

"Do you?" Lia asks noncommittally of Tomas as she unfolds her napkin.

Charles is actually half-hoping Tomas does out with his sword (did he bring his sword?). Chez Leon would never be the same.

"Please, go on Herr Eisenwald. I'm curious." Ramsey said with a brilliant gleam in his eye.

Tomas takes his monocle off. "You're doing a piece on mystery cults! Der Morninglord, the Akiri worship that Diamabel hasn't managed to stamp out yet, Rashemani folk faith..." Tomas grins, honestly seeming to enjoy the subject. "I've always felt like they've deserved some of the attention the academic word gives the Lawgiver and Ezra."

Otto breathes out.

Charles shrugs and swallows.

"Ah, but lord Ramsey is a professor of philosophy, the last I checked," Lia notes.

"Hrm. I was expecting that you'd figured out that I'm actually Cavendish and I'd gathered you all to gloat before stealing the Eye and killing you all tomorrow? I fear I overestimated you." Ramsey said. He took a sip of a duck soup. "Try this, it really is delicious."

"We didn't like to say so,” Charles replies. “You are buying dinner, after all."

"I'll have to pass, John," Lia says as she puts slices of beef on her plate. "I'm allergic to poultry."

“Shall I order beef?" Ramsey asked mildly.

"There is already steak here," Lia reminds the professor, indicating the platter. "Help yourself."

Otto pauses. "With respect...you are certainly adept at killing *appetites.*"

"Don't be daft, Otto," Lia says as she pours herself some wine. "Knowing about Cavendish hasn't stopped me eating so far, it won't do so now just because he's picking up the bill afterwards."

"Religion's just philosophy with better hats." Tomas's left hand squeezes into a fist beneath the table-next to him, Lia can feel the Lamordian's loss of temper as the whole arm starts to shake with repressed fury. "So is this a Mordentish thing? Am I too much of a rube to appreciate this?"

"Not at all," Lia says, putting one cautioning hand on Tomas's flailing arm under the table. "Not at all. Different people simply respond to different situations in different ways."

"He'll kill a lot of somewhat innocent people," Charles says to Tomas. "Better leave it 'til later."

"I am just picky, I suppose," Otto replies. "Not that I do not appreciate the expense"

"I'm Zherisian." Ramsey said with a touch of reproof in his voice. "Still, I thought that a celebratory dinner would be appropriate. After all, you gentlemen." Cavendish paused. "And lady, have managed to survive for an un-told time. I'm impressed. I really am."

"Like the common cockroach,” Otto cheerfully replies. “Except: better armed; more honorable."

"You are too kind," Lia says as she lifts her veils an inch to sip the brutish Barovian vintage. "Hm. Very nice."

Cavendish snorted a laugh.

"Still: charitable of you," Otto allows.

"Of course Adrian doesn't care whether we are honourable," Lia continues.

"On the contrary, I care very much." Ramsey said. "It makes for a more interesting game."

"It's all dirt in the end." Tomas enthuses, his eyes shuddering with electric hate. "So that's why you 'lost' your bet-so Casteele doesn't see your coup coming."

Charles looks at Lia with an expression that says Are you really addressing a lord and professor by his first name? Manners are important!

"De Casteele would have to be a great deal duller than he is not to expect it anyway." Ramsey said mildly. "Of course, I think I'm smarter than him, and will win anyway. But it'll make for an interesting contest either way."

"Yes, but there are so many of them," Charles says, examining his beef and then popping it in his mouth.

"Don't be an old frick, Charles," Lia says when she catches Charles' look. Under the table, her hand tightens on Tomas's arm, her nails dimpling the skin. "We've known each other for a while now, and there's nothing like trying to kill each other to wear away at all the little formalities. Besides, he's been addressing me by first name for a while now."

"And you are so jaded and ancient and powerful that the only thing that makes life worth living is a proper challenge." Tomas concludes, finding himself squeezing Lia's hand like a lifeline. It may be what's keeping him from going for his throat. Lia swearing makes Tomas pause, mid-blood rage, to choke back a laugh. "You have no idea how attractive that is."

"The elderly must be allowed their little foibles," Charles replies, then looks at Tomas with real concern. Perhaps Chez Leon will be the scene of a battle royale after all...

"Why, thank you," Lia says, a brief flash of teeth behind her veils indicating the smile she shoots at Tomas.

"More or less, Herr Eisenwald." Cavendish said, sipping at the soup. "Of course, the prospect for near unlimited power at the end is also attractive. God-Emperor sounds interesting."

"Does fiend-slave sound particularly enticing?" Lia enquires conversationally.

"To whom?" Charles asks.

"Divinity's overrated." Tomas mutters, being a filthy atheist and all. "Have-have you thought of a hobby? Tennis, maybe?"

"I've tried sadistic torture, but I'm afraid it's growing weary with the years." Ramsey said. "Although sometimes doing it particularly well is still pleasant, as in Muhar. And Lia, is there any doubt in your mind that I haven't thought out every aspect of it?" Ramsey continued. "I mean, give me some credit here."

Lia's hand clenches on Tomas's like a vice. 'Don't!' that grip seems to be saying.

"Can't blame a girl for trying," Lia says, shrugging.

"I rather doubt it, myself," Charles says. "The best laid plans of mice and men, and so forth. And what would be the point of acquiring divinity if you were already omniscient?"

"Well, there's a potential for soul-rending destruction, yes." Ramsey admitted. "But really, what thing worth doing doesn't contain that?"

"I've got to say, there're enemies, and there's a guy who'll dress up like a little girl for you." Tomas adds, conversationally, having gone to the place past rage and hate into somewhere rather like the New Jersey of the soul.

"Mind you, it occurs to me that the list of things worth doing may be small by those criteria," Ramsey adds.

"That depends entirely on one's tastes, Adrian," Lia replies.

"A revealing question," Charles says. "Beef's quite good, isn't it?"

"I like to go the extra mile." Ramsey said. "It's not worth doing if it's not worth doing well. And yes, it is. Imported from Valachan, I believe."

"Excuse me" Sascha says, sliding into a seat at the end of the table.

"You misunderstand me, I'm afraid," Lia sighs. "But nothing new there. Good evening, sir Dzi ... Dz ... My apologies, I still have to get full faculty with your last name."

"Oh, hello Sir Knight. You missed a rather interesting conversation." Ramsey said, waving Sascha to a seat.

"Dzemianovitch, I believe?" Ramsey said. "A Vos name."

"Thank you for your hospitality" he says giving the professor a curt nod. “Indeed" he adds to the last.

"Perhaps someone might take a hold of our noble friend before we recap the discussion for him?" Lia suggests.

"I agree." Tomas admits, softly, the same tone of voice he took when the nightmare demons of the Sebulan desert drove him to the edge. "I hope I get to know your real name, some day. I feel like a man should be able to deliver-hi, Sascha, the Professor's secretly Cavendish but we can't kill him until tomorrow-news of his enemy's death to any surviving relatives."

"Possibly wise. We wouldn't want our friend to trade the accommodations of the Governor's Hotel for Montmort Prison." Ramsey said dryly.

"Nor to see you murder half the clientele in the battle?" Lia suggests.

"Lia, really now." Cavendish frowned. "I eat here. I owe them some courtesy. I'd take it outside if I needed to murder you."

"Ah, but you are planning an ascension, are you not?" Lia says. "If you do manage to become the divine emperor of the Core, I am sure they'd 'forgive' you."

Sascha eyes open wide, ok they had suspicions, but the man brazenly admitted it! "What the hell else did I miss?" he mutters to Tomas

"They gave us Barovian sausage as some kind of passive aggressive insult." Tomas asides to Sascha, his voice hollow in the way of a man barely keeping himself from setting his immediate surroundings on fire. "It's okay, though, I filled up on bread."

"Quite beside the point, Miss Mournswaithe, as I'm sure M'sieur Martel could explain." Ramsey said dryly.

"Well, I have never claimed to be an expert on diplomacy. Quite the contrary, to be honest," Lia allows.

"We've noticed." Ramsey said.

Charles is, suddenly, bored. So. Cavendish is Ramsey. Fine. They can't kill him here, amusing as it might be, because it's the Chez Leon full of uninvolved persons and they need the Eye anyway.

Sascha looks around the table wondering if the world has gone made or just him. Deciding it isn’t an answer he wants either way he tries to focus on the conversation

"And hasn’t it been fun?" Lia asks. "You do like your fun, don't you?"

"It's a by-product, but it's important not to lose track of the essential courtesies of life." Ramsey finished his soup. "Anyone interested in desert? I understand the Chez Leon has some rather impressive confections of truffles."

Tomas gives Lia his own warning squeeze, since she seems to be taking the crazy cup from him. Sooo..., "Oh, ah." Tomas gropes for conversation, "Did you hear that hack St. Roquefort's published /another/ copper dreadful under that pseudonym of his?"

"Not for me, I'm afraid," Lia says, regretfully. "My fangs ache from too many sweets."

"Oh, M'sieur Dzemianovitch. May I present John Lancaster Cavendish," Charles says, gesturing toward Ramsey. "Thanks, but sweets make me tired."

"Charmed," Sascha says in a very cold voice.

"Otherwise known as lord Adrian Ramsey," Lia says as she steeples her fingers in front of her veiled face. "Professor of philosophy and betting chum of lord Balfour de Casteele, master of the university of Dementlieu."

"My pleasure." Cavendish said, voice amused. "Well, since we appear to be health-conscious, shall we have a toast, and then be on our way? I've preparations to make for the morrow, and I'm sure so do you."

"Before we do, I have one question, just to be sure," Lia says. "Is there anything we can do, say or even offer you that will make you abandon this insanity? I am not really expecting a positive reply, but I thought I should ask."

There's the little matter of Mandisa...and the Barovians...and the Pharazians...and Andre's family to consider, but Ramsey should at least be allowed to make a reply here. One never knows.

"Well, I care that another damn 'love story' about some bloody mummy who finds redemption through sensual massage is being sold to the masses." Tomas the literary critic mutters, giving Charles a 'Goddamn Show-off' look as he gets Sascha's name right easily.

Ramsey genuinely considered it. He paused, looking at the wine for a moment, swirling it absently in his glass. "I couldn't. To back out now? I'd never cease to wonder if I could do it. I do believe I'd go to hell itself for the sake of curiosity now."

"You know yourself best!" Charles says brightly.

"Really?" Lia says, cocking her head to the side. "You can't think of anything you want more than to risk going to hell as Beherith's eternal meal?"

"Besides, Tomas would be so disappointed if he didn't get any more chances to hit me with that pig sticker of his." Ramsey smiled. "And yes Lia. The game, as they say, is worth the candle."

"That saying is a new one by me," Lia says, shrugging.

"He's not the only one" Sascha replies evenly to Cavendish

"He knows," Lia states. "He knows we would all like to see him dead. It's part of his fun, isn't it just, Adrian?"

"You know what my favourite part was?" Tomas adds, suddenly. "When I punted you ten feet in the air with a shield drop kick. I really wish we had gotten a picture of that, I'd hang it on my wall and show my friends' grandkids."

"I'm a popular man, what can I say?" Ramsey said. "Tomas, care to know what my favourite part was?"

"That was good, wasn't it?" Lia titters, one hand covering her mouth.

"Muhar. It's the little things that matter, I think. Not the summoning of demons, not the armies of undead. But if you're willing to be a craftsman of one girl's pain. Well then." Ramsey said softly.

"On that note," Charles says, and raises his wine glass. "A toast! In honour of our host. To justice long deferred; may it come speedily."

Ramsey smiled an ironic smile, and took a drink.

"You recall you once told me I had the potential to terrorize a small village, at least?" Lia asks Ramsey. "You are not quite the size of a village, Adrian. But it has occurred to me I need a hobby, anyway. I'm going to have to think of ways to terrorize you, if only a little. To victory." She sips the thick, dark red wine of Barovia. "Ours."

Charles drinks deeply himself. It really is quite good wine; and the toast (if he does say so himself) a worthy one.

"...I saved her." Tomas says, suddenly, intensely, both hands on the table. "It may not have felt like it but she's still alive and as long as there's life, there's some hope of happiness-she's going to be okay and /that/ is my victory. All you were was a bad day, necromancer. Something to build character with."

"Lia, let it never be said that I stopped a single of your delusions." Ramsey raised a glass again. "Well, Tomas, consider this then."

Sascha grasps Tomas arm, putting enough pressure on to make sure he stays in his seat.

"When you die tomorrow." Ramsey said, raising his own glass. "When you die. I'll go back to Muhar. And so my own proposed toast. To Mandisa!"

Tomas strains...crack-THOOOM. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter-it's started to rain.

"Long and well may she live!" Charles says, sipping from his own glass again.

Cavendish drained the glass, and stood. "It's been a pleasure. Good night everyone. I'll miss you when you're gone." And with a final, short, bow, he turned and left the Chez Leon.

"Thank you for dinner, Professor,” Charles says. “We won't."

"The reverse may be true, someday," Lia mutters, "when we face more formidable foes."

"A pity I cannot say the same," Sascha says, sipping from his own.

Tomas cannot bring himself to speak-the overwhelming pain of his failure to protect one innocent victim having taken his defiance from him, for the moment.

"What was the point in this little soiree? Just to give him chance to gloat?" Sascha asks looking at the others.

"To put us off our game...pick our minds..." Charles says. "And gloat, of course."

"We did not yet know conclusively," Lia sighs, finally releasing Tomas and leaning back. "Or at least I did not. I only suspected strongly. Now, I know. And now, the gloves come off in full."

"Well if he wanted to increase my willingness to destroy his black soul.... he's done rather well," Sascha says.

"...to end things on his own terms." Tomas adds, softly. "He wants us to know that he is in control, and that he is going to decide when things go down. ...if I had only been..."

"Such a twisted creature," the mage sighs, contemplating the ring of mystic fire on her hand. "Do you know he actually gave me this thing in Phiraz? It's been quite useful, too. As has the amulet he gave me before we even left Dementlieu."

"He thinks he's in control. So does de Casteele. Menetnashte might, for all we know. Not to mention...others. Let's not make their error."

"Control, yes," Lia muses. "I told you all of Madame Florica's reading, did I not? It is time for control to end. I propose another toast." She raises her glass. "To chaos, gentlemen."

"Exactly so," Charles says, raising his glass and touching it to Lia's. "To the unexpected."

"That is something I can manage" Sascha says raising his own glass to join the others.

"Tomas?" Lia urges. "Join us. We are shaken, but not broken."

"I'm not thirsty." This is probably as close to raw, real Tomas as any of you have seen. The confrontation with his nemesis has left the would-be-knight worn, ripped away his emotional defences, leaving only a young man who only wanted to make his parents happy. Tomas stands up, slamming the chair against the table, and turns towards the door.
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The Whistler
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Post by The Whistler »

The thing about Port-a-Lucine--and about cities in general, Otto supposed--was that it was cussedly difficult to find a place to change. Public privies were right out, for obvious reasons, and thanks to an overly solicitous groundskeeping staff, so was most of his old stamping grounds at the University. As it was, the gunsmith had the somewhat awkward task of looking for an appropriate vacant lot. After forty-five minutes of hunting about the fringes of the Quartier Ouvrier, he'd pinpointed a good enough area, and proceeded to activate his signature Strictly Arcane Spell-Like Ability.

There had to be another dog somewhere around here...

Thankfully, when it came to canines, a wolf's nose was very good. So it was that it took only a quarter hour of roaming around the Quartier Ouvrier before Otto came upon a somewhat ragged-looking wire-haired terrier, proudly clutching a dead rat in his teeth. He looked at Otto's impressive wolf form (which even considering that it had Otto's general physique, was still considerably larger than the terrier) and growled, though it came out a bit muffled due to the dead rat. My rat! The growl said, basically.

"Your rat!" Otto conceded, with a somewhat self-satisfied air. Two seconds later, he realized that dead rats now constituted *bargaining chips*.

This called for a strategic realignment. Drawing himself up to his full height--and trying to keep his dialect as simple as possible--the gunsmith followed up. "Your rat--for now. I will not challenge you for this prize, if you Inform me as to a certain Topic of Importance."

The terrier growled, though his tail was between his legs. Still, he turned his head this way and that. "What do you want?" The body language said.

"I must be made aware of one who is neither human nor dog--who changes between both. As a human he is tall of build and lank of stature, dressing as the ones who smell of the sea; as a dog, he would be of unfamiliar breed, likely long-snouted and sandy of hair. Do you know of such a one?"

"Him! Nice Man! I know him!" The terrier yapped excitedly enough to drop the rat. He wagged his tail cheerfully. "Him nice man."

"Nice man?" Otto frowned, mentally, though he didn't let it show through. "Can you take me to this nice man? I have not met him."

"Sure." The terrier wagged his tail and picked up the dead rat again, though he did give Otto a quick growl. "My rat!"

"Your rat!" Otto said. It seemed pertinent to restate this.

The terrier bounded along, making surprisingly good time despite Otto's significantly longer legs. Then again, the little critter had enough energy for six, albeit he took the most peculiar and round-about paths to get where he wanted, sticking to back alleys and side-streets. "Nice man this way. In BIG house. He feeds us every day."

This was curious. "There are many of you that he takes care of, then? Does he ask anything in return?"

"Nope! He feeds as many as come by, and we can sleep there too." The terrier was a simple soul. "Doesn't ask me a thing. Big dogs, they guard, but they do it cuz they like Nice Man."

"Splendid! I am new in the city, and should like to see where he lives." That in itself was an issue--Otto rarely ventured too deeply into this quarter, but he peered around for street names landmarks all the same. Best to keep oneself oriented. …It soon became apparent, however, that the gunsmith should have stocked up on maps several days ago. Not much but to follow his erstwhile guide to the place itself, then.

By the time the terrier had finally come to a destination, the moon had risen over the Port-a-Lucine night sky. Tomorrow would be the day of judgement, when the Eye of Anubis would be unveiled, with all the possibilities for disaster that brought.

The actual destination turned out to be an old warehouse, with stout walls and a short, stout fence around it. Even now, Otto could smell that the place was a veritable kennel. Big dogs, little dogs, terriers, collies, shepherds, setters, and more variety of mutt than you could care to shake a stick at. There must have been twenty animals at least.

The gunsmith had rather uncomfortable flashbacks of the send-off party six months ago...out of place then, out of place now. Still, there was nothing for it but to be more confident than he felt--and at least he currently had the size and stage presence to back it up.

Just to be sure, Otto sniffed the air for anything foreign-seeming--not being apprised as to how were-jackals smell. "Does the Nice Man leave the door open? How are we to enter?"

"This way, this way! Food this way." The fact that the dead rat in his jaws must've massed about a third of the terrier's weight did nothing to dissuade the little dog from pressing onward. The main gate of the warehouse was firmly locked, but the little dog trotted around to the back and entered by means of a hole in the fence. A pretty big hole, actually. Trusting that the entrance had accommodated a mastiff or two in its time, Otto followed, squeezing himself through as necessary.

The back yard of the warehouse was fairly large, and Otto noticed immediately that it was downright overpopulated with dogs. A pair of Alsatians like Loup tousled over a soup bone, while an absolutely huge mongrel that looked like he had mammoth blood in him snoozed quietly, a small terrier curled between his paws and looking almost like a quick snack. None of the dogs fought seriously, all acknowledging someone decidedly more powerful as the master of their pack. The terrier yipped a little. "Food this way!" and trotted towards another hole in the warehouse wall.

This was a bit of a tighter squeeze for Otto, but thankfully, he could manage with effort. Inside... at one time, the warehouse had held fish, quite a lot of it. Now Otto smelled paint, and chemicals, and a good bit more. More to the point, he saw his quarry.

The man was just as Vedarrak's files described. A lean, rough-looking man dressed as a day laborer or dock worker, with a cap on his head even inside. He was sitting in a chair, feet kicked up on a table and looked to be asleep.

Until, that is, he opened his eyes at the terrier's relatively quiet entry. They were yellow, not unlike Otto's, but what made them different was the edge of sheer predatory danger about the man. Otto, still, had the soul of a man. This man had the soul of a hunter.

Though he didn't look too intimidating as he grinned broadly. "Squeaks, heya. And you brought a friend."

Well, this was going to be interesting. Best to draw this out for as long as possible, under the circumstances. Doing his best to measure his speech, the gunsmith perked his nose up at the killer in front of him. "I am Snowfoot! Are you the Nice Man with Food?"

"Right-o, Guv. Come on, I'll fix you up with a soup bone." The yellow-eyed man, whoever he was, understood canine, or at least canine body-language. His words though, had an odd accent in High Mordentish. "O'er here."

The thing was, Otto *knew* he was a bad liar. His merchandise *was* good enough to stand on its own merits--with a little persuasion of course. Still, if you commit to a bit... Silently on edge, the gunsmith padded over to where the man indicated.

"Here you go. Not the best, but the butcher's closed this time of night." The yellow-eyed man threw a soup bone at Otto and the terrier, Squeaks. He leaned back against the wall to watch the two eat, a small, contented smile on his face.

Well, if Squeaks was eating it, there was a good chance it wasn't poisoned--the man couldn't have gained *that* great a reputation if he offed his own adopted kind as *collateral damage*. Otto signed "thank you!" ate, and watched.

The room was actually the interior of the warehouse, and receded far into the darkness, though Otto's canine eyes could make it out easily enough. There was plenty of paint cans and other chemicals lying around, and also signs that the place had been lived in extensively. Strictly speaking, it still was, by the yellow-eyed man and his pack of dogs.

One rather unfortunate thing did suggest itself to Otto, however. There was some sand piled on the ground in the far corner.

Otto bristled inwardly. Indoor privies--*so* tacky. Presuming that the soup bone didn't kill him outright, Otto stopped gnawing at the thing once all the good bits were gone, and proceeded to snuffle around the room in the manner of most dogs exploring a new place for the first time. If a generalized sense of "Where am I? What is this" could be communicated through dog body language, then he tried to get that across.

"This", however, in the case of the sand pit, was *not* an indoor privy. By the scent of it (blood, ichor, powdered fossilized cat), it was a good deal worse.

It was at this moment that Otto heard a gentle click behind him.

Well. This was unfortunate.

The yellow-eyed man now held, rather casually and in one hand, a mid-sized, black, Lamordian crossbow. Otto was familiar with the model, in the same way he was familiar with race horses. Extremely expensive, excellent range, pinpoint accuracy, dead silent, and could put a steel quarrel through a steel plate with ease. Or through a wolf's rib cage. The yellow-eyed man had lit a cigarette at some point, which now dangled from his lips, a thin stream of smoke rising up.

"So, Guv, care to talk?"

Otto's ears drooped. "Eh--it was worth a shot. Mind if I change, first?"

"Go ahead, but to human. Anything else and I put out an eye." The lean looking fellow shrugged, which made the crossbow move not a hair's breadth.

"Fair's fair." Otto...did his business, in as dignified a manner as possible. "Forgive me: I am...ah...rather *new,* to this condition. I am not sure of the ettiquete, but I was thinking it wise to approach similar others of whom I had heard in as discreet a manner as was possible, first. The which did not precisely work as I was planning, of course..."

"Mmm-hmm. I know who you are, snow-boy." The werejackal said mildly. "Boss has been keeping me digging up background info on you guys for months."

"Did he tell you about my recent--ah--*condition*?” Otto ventured. “That, itself, is quite legitimate, I assure you."

"Its been mentioned." He seemed blissfully unconcerned about anything that Otto could do to him. Seeing as there was still a pack of loyal guard dogs outside, anything was possible. "Calm down. I'm off the clock right now."

"Splendid." Otto looked spectacularly unconvinced. "Is there...ah...always quite this much...immediate firepower, among--ehem--whatever we are? Forgive me--my manners on this subject are rusty. I admit I would understand if it were merely circumstantial, however..."

"We're a cagey bunch." The werejackal said without rancor. "How'd you find me?"

"I was asking of Squeaks when I returned to town...after the events of the sending-off party, there was some suggestion of a being with...'the condition' being involved. I knew of no-one else in the city."

"And so you came here looking for me to help you with your 'condition'?" The yellow-eyed man said simply.

"I understand rather little of it, I am afraid, and I know of fewer who share it." It was not particularly difficult for Otto to appear painfully awkward. “Rather a solitary sort of thing, I should expect?"

"Nah, we like to hang out together. First rule. The new guy is everybody's bitch." The crossbow dipped a moment, and the yellow-eyed man pulled the trigger. Otto barely had time to blink as the quarrel entered and then passed through his calf, shredding the muscle as it did so.

Immediately, the weapon cycled through to the next quarrel. "Rule two: Might makes right. You're the new guy, so I didn't hit any joints. Try again. Why did you come here?"

Otto took a much-deserved ten-second pause in order to not keel over.

"...Difficult...rule..." The gunsmith breathed in, regaining as much composure as he could muster. "...Secondary reason...Would you not be at least *mildly* curious to know about a being who...(ach)...was tangentially being involved in a killing you were aware of?"

"Keep talking." The man with the repeating horror of a crossbow spat out his cigarette and crushed it underneath the heel of his shoe.

"Well...you are here! You are associated with some mishap at the sending-off, mishap is following us wherever we are seeming to go upon our journey--who is logical being to come and see once I return? ...No professional--ach--disrespect intended, but...you *understand* such curiosity, yes? You are not *with us* on trip, I cannot and do not *blame* you...but are you seeing why you are logical person to come and see?"

"To translate from snow-boy speak, you were spying on me, right Guv?" The yellow-eyed man said with a bit of a smile. "Even bleeding out, I need a grammar book to figure you out. Lamordians."

Otto stood as straight as he possibly could. One does not insult a man's country and expect him to bleed out in an undignified manner. "I am sure that you would do the same, being given the circumstances. My interest is understandable."

"Well, fair's fair. I've been spying on you since a dog's age ago." The yellow-eyed man smiled. "Name's James. And you're Otto the Snow-Boy. Though," The werejackal said. "You are a really bleeding sorry excuse for a spy.'

Otto actually managed something close to a smile. "I am being guilty as...(ach)...charged. Rather better at sales, if you are asking... I suppose it may or may not be still be appropriate, for me ask of your involvement? As I have...(ach)...said...good reason to be curious."

"Go ahead, Guv." James grinned openly. Otto amused him. He still had that loaded crossbow in his hands, though.

"Aheh. Gracious of you.” The possibly fatal absurdity of the situation was not lost on the gunsmith, but he would be damned if he wouldn’t interrogate *somebody* for his trouble. “Then: the scene of the...happenings, at the party. As I have said, the...ah...first of many 'happenings' which I should be encountering in further months. You are there, then--what was your association?"

"I get paid. The boss tells me what to do, and I do it. Then he gives me money." James quirked a smile. "Simple, eh Guv'ner?"

"Very. And the "boss", if you do not mind my asking?"

"Right now? He's probably calling himself Cavendish or something. You've figured that out though, I'm guessing." James said with a shrug. The crossbow didn't twitch.

"Well, that *is* rather good to know, yes?" The gunsmith didn't blink. "Unfortunately, that is rather the extent of what may be gained from a personal interview... You understand, no disrespect intended, that I would prefer Cavendish to not create *further* mishap...but, as you say, his motives are his, and yours are yours, and my feelings towards him and towards you are not identical. Although, it is striking me...forgive me if I presume wrong, but it is worth to ask at least. If your *only* interest is money....?"

"Well, I can be a posh chappy if I need to be." James said with a grin. "Drink and women are nice too. But money about sums it up, right nicely."

How fortunate. This was, in fact, Otto's territory; the guy's eyes actually lit up. "Aha. Well, James, I drink only in moderation, and I am a married man...but, if you will recall, I have recently been back from the tomb of an ancient king. Something...may be arranged."

"Keep talking, Mr. Schutlheiss." James said, continuing to grin.

“Now...for your silence on this *particular* matter, namely my presence, I imagine there would be a certain figure. For a larger breadth of information on your part, I imagine there would be another. For a...more active participation, also on your part, I imagine there would be a third. If you would care to define any of the three...?" Otto didn't seem to be paying too much attention to the leg wound, anymore.

"Five hundred Coronas for the first." James said. "You guys are rich, after all. Twenty hundred Coronas for the second. You guys don't have the money to get me to turn on the boss for real. I've got my continued health to keep thinking off, you know?"

Interesting." For the love of Reason, Otto actually *steepled his fingers.* "Do you accept property or precious materials of equivalent value?"

"For a mark up, sure." James said. The werejackal seemed to enjoy where this was going. "I'd have to fence it, after all."

"Splendid! This would, of course, be contingent upon you *possessing* actionable details...and perhaps a before/after splitting of the proceeds, in order to ensure that everyone is responsible...but the second option begins to look attractive. I assume, of course, that the second option is inclusive of the first,” Otto said. Always best to clarify.

"I wouldn't, if I were you." James drawled. Somewhere distantly, a church bell rang out, signalling the midnight hour. "And looks like I'm back on the clock. But I figure I'll give you a 24 hour deferment to gather the goods." James said. "So let's keep it simple.”

"Ah. Let us presume that both options are being compensated for in tandem then, yes? I would shake your hand, ordinarily, but considering circumstances..."

"I know where your family lives, so I figure you're good for it." James said. He thought for a few moments, lighting another cigarette with one hand. "Ceremony starts tomorrow at 2 in the afternoon."

"I want you, carrying the goods, under the south wall of the Church of Ezra near the auditorium." James continued. "Alone. I see anyone else, I do a runner, and some fine day you wind up with six inches of steel up your nose. You'll have fifteen minutes to ask any questions you like. Then I'm gone, and next time we meet, you're on your own. Got it, Guv?"

"Clear as crystal, good sir. And may I say, it has been a *pleasure* doing business with you. My other suppliers...so much with the pretense, yes?" The gunsmith was around five minutes from actually *realizing* that he had been in mortal danger for all this time, but for the time being... "It appears we are concluded. Shall I show myself out...?"

“And tell your pals with the long knives where I am?" James said with a raised brow. There was another quick dip of the crossbow, and Otto's other leg began to burn as though dipped in molten lead.

"Ought to keep you down till I pack up and head out." James whistled, and the dogs came running. "Pleasure doing business with you. I'll send a gendarme your way when I see one."

There were another ten rather painful seconds on Otto’s part. "....Pleasant of you."
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NeoTiamat
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Post by NeoTiamat »

September 18th, 761

“Guy?” Micheal called out, retracing his steps around the courtyard for the third time. He’d shuffled across half the University, searching every nook and cranny he could find. He’d found no trace of the ex-militiaman, unsurprisingly. Guy could be difficult to find when he wanted to be, even for an experienced tracker... which Micheal was not. The expedition cook had, more than once, spent hours searching for something he’d put in his own pocket. Now he was reduced to the rather embarrassing approach of walking around, calling out Guy’s name like that of a lost puppy, hoping his friend would hear and come out.

“Guy! Can you hear me?” Micheal called again, cupping his hands around his mouth. He realized after the fact that he might be heard in the auditorium, and winced in chagrin. Lowing his voice by several notches, Micheal tried again, sounding slightly strangled with the embarrassment. “Guy? I- Aaah!”

Micheal cried out as he backed into someone, whirling around as he jumped away. A well-dressed man was standing there, looking much more collected than Micheal was, but something about the way his hand lingered by his pistol spoke of a hidden wariness. “A bit late to be outside now, M. de Angelis,” the stranger said. “The ceremony has already started.”

Micheal could hear the clear suspicion in the man’s words, as well as the realization this man knew exactly who he was. Of course, he wasn’t doing anything illegal, but it seemed best to send the stranger on his way as quickly and smoothly as possible. He gave his most apologetic smile, flawlessly exuding an air of sheepishness. “I just stepped out for a breath of fresh air,” he lied, smoothly. Lighting crackled across the sky, causing him to jump again. “I’ve always been bad with crowds, didn’t want to raise a fuss during the ceremony, what with the Council there.”

“And M. Benoit as well, it seems,” the stranger replied. Micheal felt his smile twitch a little in annoyance. It seemed someone had heard all the yelling he’d been doing, if not the intended audience. Micheal cleared his throat slightly, deciding to go with the mostly truthful answer.

“He, ah... stormed out,” Micheal admitted. There was no point in hiding that. He’d done it in front of over a hundred people. “I thought I’d go look for him while I was out, but I can’t find him. He must have left for the city.”

“And none of the other guards saw him leave?” the stranger pressed, sounding unconvinced. Micheal blinked in genuine surprise.

“Guards?” Micheal asked, feeling stupid. It hadn’t even occurred to him there would be guards. Of course there would be guards. It was the biggest event of the year for the University, complete with the entire Council of Brilliance, the head of every University Department, and a pile of artifacts worth more than half the county. The place should have had guards stapled to the walls.

And yet... the stranger was the first man he’d seen close to the auditorium. The stranger seemed to be realizing this as well. “What the...?” he said, looking all around him. Lightning crackled on the horizon, bathing the entire area in eerie blue-black light and casting their shadows across the ground. Only the two of them stood in the courtyard.

“Something is very wrong here, M. De Angelis,” the stranger said quietly, twisting the ring on his left hand. Micheal hadn’t noticed it before. “I would suggest you get back inside. I need to-“

The man froze mid-sentence as lightning flashed through the air once more. There was a moment of shock, and then he pitched forward, gushing blood. Micheal stared as he realized the stranger had suddenly sprouted a deep hole straight through his chest. On instinct, Micheal rushed forward, letting mystic energy stabilize the guard before his life fled completely. It only later occurred to him that someone must have fired a bullet, for there to be a bullet wound. He hadn’t even heard the shot.

Guy was standing not twenty feet away, his rifle still smoking. With a soundless snarl, the ex-militiaman stalked over to the fallen guard. He yanked the ring off the man’s finger, examining it with a baleful eye. “Probably already got the alarm off,” Guy growled. “Waste of a shot.”

“Guy!” Micheal exclaimed, momentarily too overcome with surprise to think of anything else. “There you are! I-“
  • -found him!” Micheal was pulling him through the flames, his own face red and burned. He was practically dragging the other man, barely able to lift Guy’s dead weight from the burning floor-
“-anywhere!” Micheal finished, pausing as Guy shook his head furiously, as if trying to dislodge some unpleasant memory. “Are you alright?” De Angelis asked. “Mists, Guy, you almost killed that man! When we wakes up-“

“By then it won’t matter,” Guy said, eyes smoldering. He snarled again as he heard the sounds of other people beginning to approach the courtyard. “Don’t have much time, now. Get out of here, Micheal,” he said, turning swiftly back toward the chapel and stalking toward the door.

“Guy, what are you doing?” Micheal asked desperately, his tone betraying that he had already guessed the answer. “Look, if that ring was an alarm, this place will be covered with guards. You can’t let them find you out here with that rifle. We-“
  • “-need to get him out of here!” Micheal cried out. Guy could just barely hear the others running toward him, over the roar of the flames, the pitiful sobbing, the sadistic laughter-
“-hurry!” Micheal protested, a bit too loudly.

Guy growled as he heard the voices growing closer. At the rate they were moving, they would be here very shortly. He roughly shoved Micheal away, stalking over to the chapel door and pulling them back open. “I said get out of here,” he said harshly. De Angelis quailed slightly at his words, but stalwartly stood his ground.

“Guy, no!” Micheal begged, grabbing hold of Guy’s shoulder. The ex-militiaman roughly yanked away, trying to break free of his grip. “Even if you do kill him, the guards are already on their way. You’ll never be able to escape in time! He's not worth your life!”

Shut up!” Guy snapped.

Guy half-pulled, half-dragged Micheal into the church, trying his best to shut the door behind him. De Angelis struggled with him, Micheal’s determination making up for his lack of strength, but Guy ripped him loose and flung him to the floor. Micheal was back on his feet in an instant, running back towards Guy, nearly shouting in his desperation. “Don’t do this! Don't throw your life away like this! You’re-“
  • “-going to die in here!” Guy lifted his hand, weakly, reaching out in front of him as Micheal dragged him away-
Lightning exploded outside, shaking the church windows. Guy turned.

“Then you should have let me die.”

Micheal stared soundlessly as Guy’s piercing gaze shot him through, freezing him in his tracks. He had not noticed the axe in Guy’s hands, or the danger in his expression, until it was far, far too late.
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
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Isabella
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Post by Isabella »

“Get up here!” The whisper carried down the cliff-face, the owner of the voice clambering onto the narrow ledge. The wiry, sharp-nosed man offered his hand down to help his companion up, gesturing with the other hand to hurry.

“I am still not sure how you talked me into this,” the other man said, picking his way up through the crumbling rock and jagged cliffs. Green eyes flashed from under a blue scarf, wrapped around his face to protect from the sand and winds. “Is Anubis not the guardian of the dead? Is not tomb robbing apostasy to his name? Should his priest not be setting a slightly better example?”

“The tombs of our ancestors must be treated with reverence and respect,” Fassahd agreed, bowing his head in pious devotion. “But this, effendi, this is not a tomb, as no one lies buried in it, and so taking what we wish shall not weigh down our hearts in the eyes of Anubis.”

Khalil frowned. “That seems very convenient-“

“Who is the voice of Anubis among men? Is it you or is it I? Now come on!”

Fassahd grasped the desert guide by the hand and pulled him upward, before scrambling further up the cliffs. Khalil grumbled and followed, trying to match the wiry man’s speed. The dragoman was quick and agile, hopping from rock to rock with relative ease, but he didn’t have to enjoy it. The two slipped into one of the many fissures lining the rock, traversing through the stone arches and passageways that riddled the cliff-face. Had Khalil not come this way once already, he would have sworn Fassahd was leading him around in circles. Even now, none of the thousands of unremarkable rocks they passed looked familiar at all.

“Hurry up!” Fassahd called back to him, ducking into another fissure. Khalil gave a slight sigh of exasperation, folding his arms.

“And who do you think will see us up here, daytime or night?” he asked, dryly. “Perhaps the priestess’ apprentice be staring at the cliffs again, and assume we are the servants of the gods returned?”

“And she would be right! But the fewer people that see, the fewer questions we will be asked,” Fassahd replied, irritably waving him forward. “The fewer questions we are asked, the better.”

“If I hurry, will you tell me why you have really returned here?”

“I have answered that for you already,” Fassahd said, hurrying on ahead. Khalil rolled his eyes. A man did not bring a single burlap sack to rob a tomb, enchanted bag or no. Yet even that was better prepared than Khalil was, who carried only his swords and provisions. The dragoman had his own reasons for returning.

The tunnel seemed to go on for miles. Khalil felt the pleasant rush of cool air around his face as they went deeper. He had expected something different upon his return, some sign that the fiend was now gone, but it all felt very much the same. Perhaps he had been too blinded by avarice upon his last approach to have noticed anything that had been wrong... The fissure opened up, now, into the familiar cavern lay before them. The great temple was just as impressive as the first time he had laid eyes on it.

Fassahd simply trotted on ahead, paying little mind to the wonders of the past, but Khalil hesitated for a moment. The dragoman paused outside, not crossing the threshold into the tomb just yet. He idly ran his hands across the polished ebon wood of the twin guardian statues, his eyes running up to meet their impassive gaze. Once more, he felt the sensation of something watching him, as if the statues were weighing his soul in his mind.

“Effendi, if you are just going to stand there, I will leave you behind,” Fassahd’s voice called back. Khalil made a slight noise of annoyance, his eyes darting back to the statues before carefully eyeing the great stone door before him. With a deep breath, Khalil strode forward, back into Menetnashte’s tomb.

Fassahd was just inside the doorway, tapping his foot in impatience. The chamber beyond was a masterpiece of Akiri architecture, a magnificent sandstone hallway carved all around with painted scenes of Menetnashte’s defeat. A hundred pillars or more held the ceiling of the temple, every one so perfectly made as to look as if they were carved from a single piece of stone - and perhaps they had been. The floor held a large, luxurious pool, the bottom tiled with mosaics, that had once been filled with water. Khalil turned around slowly, running his eyes across every corner of the room. Not a single piece of sandstone was worn, not a chip of paint cracked off. Time had not touched this place, and yet it still felt ancient. No one else would ever come here, save lone thieves and explorers, scorpions and lizards. It was of the past, and not for the living.

“Not what you expected?” Fassahd asked. Khalil turned, broken out of his thoughts by the other man’s voice.

“So this is the true tomb of Menetnashte,” Khalil said, distantly. “It really was nothing more than an illusion.” Something uncertain echoed in his voice as he looked around, stepping slightly further into the grand hall. Relief, perhaps... or perhaps disappointment.

“Who can truly say? To summon a restless spirit, or to pull one from the mind of another... both things were well within the demon’s power,” Fassahd replied. “Men have turned their backs from the truth as often as they have blindly accepted illusion. In the end, it is only what you make of it.”

“You speak great words of wisdom, effendi,” Khalil said, raising an eyebrow. “How often do you follow them?”

“Are you questioning the gods in their choice of servants? Now come on.”

The priest began to pad off again. Khalil watched him for a moment, now vaguely curious. “Fassahd,” he asked, “why were you not tested in the same manner we were?”

Fassahd stopped dead at that. It was a while before he replied, his back still turned to Khalil. “What makes you think I was not?” he asked, very softly. Khalil had to strain to hear it.

Without another word, Fassahd walked forward. Khalil followed.

------------

The treasure chamber was everything Khalil had remembered and more. Gold and lapis lazuli, fine woodwork and heaps of myrrh and frankincense reflected the light of the torches. There were jeweled scepters, crafted of gold and inlaid with strips of ivory, sapphires sparkling around its hilt. Ceremonial shields and other honors were propped up against the wall, still in perfect condition after a millennia. A senet set of inlaid rosewood and ebony lay on a gilded table, while a war axe with a ruby-studded head hung on a hook in the wall. Coins were piled up and strewn around the floor like pebbles. Casks of gems lay stacked about, their lids cracked open to reveal the glittering treasures within. Statues made of solid gold stood in formation, a legion of treasure bearers for the Demon Pharaoh’s afterlife. Crowns, armor, weapons, the regalia of office, imperial formal-wear, here was the wealth of ages.

Khalil stepped forward, picking up a handful of the heavy golden coins. Each and every one of them was a relic of times past, a priceless treasure to the right person. A sack full of these could buy a man anything he had ever dreamed of. The desert guide opened his fingers, letting the gold fall through like grains of sand.

“Too much has been lost for this,” Khalil whispered.

“Yes,” Fassahd agreed, somberly.

“But,” the priest continued, picking up an ivory statuette and examining it, “There is no inherent evil in wealth, and no inherent good in refusing it. And since we have already lost everything for the money, we might as well take the money.”

Khalil flashed a small, wry smile at the other man. “Are those the words of Anubis, effendi?”

“Am I not his servant?” Fassahd said, nodding seriously. Khalil gave a small snort. Fassahd ignored him, stuffing the statuette in his bag. “Take some coins with you, at least. Atonement is a fine thing, Khalil, but you cannot eat it.”

Khalil stared down at the coins at his feet, letting another handful run through his fingers. “And what are the words of Fassahd, o priest? Can you tell me that?”

Fassahd picked up an ebony jackal, running it over with a critical eye. “Fassahd thinks... that we have buried too much of ourselves in the past. Fassahd thinks we have spent too long remembering what was, and not what could be. Our prosperity and our glory were buried with the dead. Perhaps it is time the living reclaimed them.”

“That is a very pretty way of defending this,” Khalil pointed out.

“Money is an oft reviled thing, but the Temple of Osiris will not rebuild itself,” Fassahd said, unrepentantly stuffing the jackal into his bag. “If the town suddenly finds the means granted to them by the will of the heavens, that is a joyous occasion, not a sorrowful one. If the priestess and her apprentice find they have a new statue or two, one of real gold and gems to honor Isis, well, it is a blessing, not a thing of evil. And I am tired of looking at the rotted old statue of Anubis in the ruined temple. This is no way to revere our gods. Now help me lift this thing.”

“You are more than strong enough,” Khalil complained, but complied anyway. “Will your grandfather not notice that there is a giant golden statue to keep his old one company?”

“He will live,” Fassahd said simply. The two men struggled with the statue for a few minutes, eventually tipping the thing headfirst into Fassahd’s enchanted sack. Khalil paused for breath, giving Fassahd a concerned look.

“I still am not certain I agree with this,” the dragoman said. “This treasure was that of a demon.”

“There is no curse here, against all odds, I have checked and checked again,” Fassahd sighed and shrugged. “I have taken a piece and tested it upon myself, I have asked the words of Anubis. It remains mere gold and silver, for all of the blood shed for it. It might have been more comforting if it were indeed evil.”

“No curse...” Khalil breathed. “None save the avarice of men.”

“And that, perhaps, is curse enough,” Fassahd quietly agreed.
"No, but evil is still being — Is having reason — Being reasonable! Mousie understands? Is always being reason. Is punishing world for not being... Like in head. Is always reason. World should be different, is reason."
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