Mummy's Mask - Empty Graves (IC)

[DarkOne-Rob]

"The Slave Trenches of Hakotep... But it's just the name of a place, as far as I know. Somewhere in the desert. I'll need to research further."

"It was certainly used as the name of a person. Perhaps the trenches are named for this 'sky pharoah' of which the cultists spoke," muses Vershab as he listens to the Pharasmins.

"Bheg? Bheg the alchemist? We knew this one was up to shady deals. Turned into a ghoul now? That's the frequent fate of those who use their own cursed merchandise! We shall chase him down!"

Vershab listens with his typical distant expression. "He was either a ghoul or ghast - I suspect only a ghoul - and did use alchemical weapons. I suspected his transformation was a result of overdose of mummia, but if the church knew of him that confirms my suspicions. Should your agents encounter him again they should be extremely careful. He was a very dangerous foe and tactically effective...I would be interested in studying him if he can be captured, though I suspect he will only be taken after being killed again..."

"...As long as you live, you will be welcome here, whichever kind of help you may seek. Healing, knowledge, and blessing shall be offered to you, with no expectation for donations in return. You have donated enough, in blood and service, that we can't repay you enough."

Vershab nods distractedly, his mind somewhere else. "That is very nice...thank you?" he mutters to no one in particular. Then he stands, somewhat focused again. "I have some research of my own to perform and will need some of the resources the city's merchants usually provide. Do you think they will open their shops anytime soon?"

[Farmerbink]

"You, Mistress Lehasti, Master Vershab, Master Calathon, young Turi, and Azkin - Let the Grand Mausoleum records show for all eternity, you saved countless lives with your heroic efforts. You saved our beloved city and its people at this time of great peril. Thank you."

Turi absolutely beams: humbled, awed, and more than a little overwhelmed by the high priestess' words. For perhaps the first time since their return, it is his emotions which leave him speechless, rather than the fear of punishment. He stands before Nebti, somehow both proud of his involvement while also respectful of the costs. He nods at her comments of reward and blessing, still unsure how he should respond. As he fumbles over words, with several "hem"s and "uhhh"s, he begins to blush furiously, offering the priestess a sheepish smile.

Spoiler: OOC

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Is Nakht going to need escort? I'm wanting to play Turi as the overwhelmed kid here, so I don't know that he would think to ask it, but I wanted to address it.

[Gwynfrid]

Sebti the Crocodile's weary smile betrays her state of physical and mental fatigue, but even then, she doesn't fail to notice the youngster's reaction. "Yes, I mean it. This comes to prove, once again, that it doesn't matter where you come from or who your parents were: Anyone who's willing can lead an honorable life, and maybe, even, a great one." A sideways look at Nakht isn't lost on Turi, even as he might not recognize the allusion's meaning.

Now, the High Priestess turns directly to Turi as she continues: "Now, if you feel strong enough to get back to the Necropolis, I'm sure that Commander Nakht can use your help further... What do you think?" The severe look on the Voices of the Spire Commander softens a little, and he admits: "Yes, boy, if you're up to it, I'd like you to guide me and my patrol. Not to the Observatory, for this is known to me, as well as how to open the portal in the floor. But beyond that point, we have not visited in many years, and I wouldn't mind a guide to possible dangers inside."

While Nakht makes arrangements for a follow-up mission, Lempteph answers Vershab's question: "Well, there are still some undead roaming the streets, and then there's the damage already done to the city, the wounded, and the dead that we will need to worry about first. I expect it will take days, maybe weeks until life is back to normal."

[DarkOne-Rob]

"Well, normal is a relative thing, but that makes sense. I mostly need materials to scribe spells into my spellbook - I have learned so much over the last several days! Perhaps I will be able to help get the shop opened in return for some inks..." Vershab says as he begins to wander off towards the exit, his mind already leaping ahead to the next task. "It is really too bad that we don't have access to some of the mindless undead...they would make a tireless workforce under the right supervision. That wouldn't do, however, what with the Pharasmins' support...Summoning really won't help since none of the outsiders will remain nearby long enough...Perhaps I should try this coffee that people have told me about, but I do have that chocolate still!"

Spoiler: OoC

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Vershab will wander off to start the tasks of leveling up, scribing spells, and performing his own research.

[JWallyR]

"Indeed you did. You even brought back prisoners, and as I recall, they stubbornly refused to answer our questions." Sebti turns to the Voices of the Spire leader. "They did, however hard we pushed. They were surrendered to Pharasma's judgment of their souls, as a just and fair reward for their unrepented crimes."

Lehasti shakes her head somberly at the cultists' fate, but she says nothing.

"You, Mistress Lehasti, Master Vershab, Master Calathon, young Turi, and Azkin - Let the Grand Mausoleum records show for all eternity, you saved countless lives with your heroic efforts. You saved our beloved city and its people at this time of great peril. Thank you."

Lehasti stands at attention, clasping her gauntleted fist across her breast in an unmistakable gesture of salute. Azkin, after a sidelong look at his mistress's respectful stance stands up as straight as he can, placing the butt of his spear against the floor and making his own one-fisted salute in a solid, if tentative, imitation of the paladin's. One corner of her lip curls up in the beginnings of a smile, but with a curt nod, Lehasti acknowledges the high priestess's praise.

"Wati shall not forget your two companions, Mistress Grekka and Master Menedes, who fell in battle to save all of us. I will conduct the ceremonies myself, to honor them and bless their souls for the great journey towards judgment. We will have a place of prominence to remember their sacrifice.

As for you... The Church has no reward that would fit your immense service. As a token of honor and gratitude, I will say this: As long as you live, you will be welcome here, whichever kind of help you may seek. Healing, knowledge, and blessing shall be offered to you, with no expectation for donations in return. You have donated enough, in blood and service, that we can't repay you enough."

"The High Priestess is too generous with her praise. I can only speak for myself in saying that I merely did my duty as a blade of the Dawnflower, and in service of the life She wishes for all who draw breath. As for those of my friends who cannot speak for themselves any longer," the paladin continues, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, "I humbly offer thanks for the honor given them at the start of the journey they now take. Perhaps even now, they guard the other souls of this fair city on their journey to be judged by Pharasma; may they all find their rest."

"Yes, I mean it. This comes to prove, once again, that it doesn't matter where you come from or who your parents were: Anyone who's willing can lead an honorable life, and maybe, even, a great one."

Azkin flashes a sudden smile at the compliment being paid to his brother and, implicitly, himself.

"Now, if you feel strong enough to get back to the Necropolis, I'm sure that Commander Nakht can use your help further... What do you think?" The severe look on the Voices of the Spire Commander softens a little, and he admits: "Yes, boy, if you're up to it, I'd like you to guide me and my patrol. Not to the Observatory, for this is known to me, as well as how to open the portal in the floor. But beyond that point, we have not visited in many years, and I wouldn't mind a guide to possible dangers inside."

Lehasti interjects, "If I may- Turi here has shown himself more capable than certainly I had dared hope, but a poor steward would I be of his fate in Grekka's absence if I were to allow him to guide you unassisted. With Nebta-Khufre no longer wielding his dark power, we should be able to guide you to the cleansing of his borrowed quarters without incident. When do we depart?" The paladin stands, prepared to lead the way.

[Gwynfrid]

"Far from me, any idea to stop you from continuing to help us. Please, if you still have strength after all these battles, I am sure the Voices will welcome your help. With clearing the streets of the city of any remaining undead, too. May the Lady of Graves' blessing go with you.

Also, Master Vershab, until shops reopen, please feel free to take any papyrus and ink as needed from the Mausoleum's reserves."

The discussion over, Sebti stands, and goes to share the good news with everyone in the temple, reassure and comfort the wounded and bereaved, and prepare for the many funerals that will be needed after these terrible events.

Over the remainder of the day, Turi, Azkin and Lehasti accompany the Voices of the Spire in a visit to the Sepulcher of the Servant. They clear the remains of the undead out of the building, cleanse the desecrated altar of Pharasma, put the blessed silver rods back in place to purify the water of the pool, and clean the tomb of Nefru Shepses as best they can. On the way, they have minor fights with gaggles of undead, clearing the streets on their passage.

Calathon and Vershab move on to research work, spellwriting, and other scholarly efforts.

Spoiler: OOC

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Within a week, the city is back to normal activities. Word of the Relic Knights exploits spread through Wati, and the group find themselves feted and thanked everywhere they go. They realize the city came very close to civic collapse and the mass flight of its citizens, an exodus that would certainly have cost countless lives.

[Farmerbink]

"Yes, boy, if you're up to it, I'd like you to guide me and my patrol. Not to the Observatory, for this is known to me, as well as how to open the portal in the floor. But beyond that point, we have not visited in many years, and I wouldn't mind a guide to possible dangers inside."

In an instant, Turi's sheepish green and dumbfounded gaze melts into an expression of wide-eyed wonder and excitement. "What!? Yes, of course! You want me?!- I mean, absolutely, I'll-"

Lehasti interjects, "If I may- Turi here has shown himself more capable than certainly I had dared hope, but a poor steward would I be of his fate in Grekka's absence if I were to allow him to guide you unassisted. With Nebta-Khufre no longer wielding his dark power, we should be able to guide you to the cleansing of his borrowed quarters without incident. When do we depart?" The paladin stands, prepared to lead the way.

Almost as quickly, Turi's excitement and wonder wane as his metaphorical thunder is stolen. For just an instant, he shoots the paladin an irritated glare, before quickly regaining mastery of his features. He doesn't interrupt Lehasti, but the moment she stops talking, he begins again. "I'm perfectly ready to lead you there, whenever you need! We can probably avoid some of the packs, unless you're more worried about dealing with them permanently!" A gleam, somehow both eager and a bit wicked, enters his eye at the prospect of carving into the bands of undead with his blades- the memory of Nebta-Khufre's supernatural defenses still an irritating reminder of his own limitations.

[CleverDragon]

Calathon quietly lets the others have their discussions, feeling distinctly uncomfortable with the sudden attention and acclaim. He nods and smiles uncomfortably when Sebti and Lempteph direct their gaze and comments his way, but stays silent and pensive, if not completely complacent. His confident manner in the process of adventuring and investigating historical texts and icons gives way to his history of servitude and slavery for over half of his life in Katapesh. And in the company of these powerful individuals, his personality shifts accordingly. He averts his gaze and lowers his head, quietly saying "Thank you, sir" or "The accolades belong to them, miss."

Given the opportunity to make his exit, he bows low to Sebti and Lempteph and then sighs heavily with relief once the sun hits his face upon exiting the temple. He looks up into the sun and basks in its warmth for a good minute or two before seemingly gathering his wits. He rubs his hands together and seems to come to a decision. He starts to wander around the city, aiding in the cleanup and recovery efforts.

He spends the next two or three days helping the citizens of Wati recover from the horrors of the past fews days. He relishes in the heat of the desert sun, his natural fire resistance coming in handy coupled with taking an endure elements and ant haul extract. As a result, he barely breaks a sweat and enjoys the time serving the people of the city, occasionally checking in with the Voice of the Spire as to where aid is needed most. And he pushes himself as long as he possibly can to the point of exhaustion before returning to his bed late into the night, time and time again.

After the worst of the cleanup is completed, only then does he permit himself to return to his studies and intellectual pursuits.

[DarkOne-Rob]

Vershab spends much of the next several days studying in the Pharasmin temple library, reading and re-reading Nebta-Khufre' spellbook with interest as he deciphers the arcane text. Once complete he works his way through the remaining spells in the spellbook of one of the cultists and several scrolls. "One could easily spend a lifetime researching and learning about such magical incantations," he says to Draak as the little dinosaur perches atop his chair, reading over the arcanist's shoulder. To his surprise, the creature seems to respond, the clicks and hisses suddenly making clear sense to the astonished academic. "Master, many great wizards do spend lifetimes in such pursuits. You have more urgent work right now, though. Protecting that mask and ensuring it doesn't get misused again. That necromancer was quite the unpleasant fellow...Oh! A tasty scorpion! Excuse me..."

With an excited hiss Draak leaps down and stalks the bug, returning several minutes later seeming to smack its mouth as if it had lips...

Vershab sits in quiet for several minutes, thinking on the mask in his pack and wondering. "Well, for now I need to buy more ink and get these spells documented in my notes. How many days has it been since I left this library? I should really keep better track of the hours. Come on, Draak...and since when were you able to speak?"

Since when did you learn to listen? I have been talking to you for weeks! quipped the little reptile flippantly as it scrambles into the arcanist's robes as the two leave the grounds, searching for vendors of magical ink and other materials who have opened the shop again after the recent plague.

Spoiler: OoC

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I have spent a sizable bit of our treasure, but we have more and I would like to start shopping before we start the next chapter. When can we expect to do some of this, and what limits are there to equipment for purchase in Wati now that the undead threat has subsided?

[Gwynfrid]

Lehasti and Turi accompany Nakht Shepses and his men to the Observatory and Sepulcher. They have to fight a few undead on the way, and while Lehasti is as ususal ruthlessly efficient with her flaming falchion, Turi gets his chance to exhibit his prowess with kukris and his speed to outflank and destroy zombies and ghouls. He receives appreciative nods from the dour Nakht, not a small feat in itself. The Sepulcher proves to be empty of any active undead and can be secured without too much trouble. Over the next weeks the Pharasmins regularly visit, to remove a great mass of zombie remains and any traces of the fights that happened there. Vershab's silver rods are humbly replaced in their correct locations, and the magical pool consecrated anew, regaining its original blessing powers. Nefru Shepses' tomb and sarcophagus are thoroughly cleansed, malevolent runes and inscriptions scrubbed clean, its protections restored - alas, some of the greatest rituals of old are no longer in practice in modern Wati, leaving the great hero's remains more vulnerable than before. The Voices of the Spire compensate this by setting a permanent guard around the Observatory, until improved camouflage and magical protections can be placed on the floor trapdoor and throughout the Sepulcher. Meanwhile, Nebta-Khufre's possessions and documents are retrieved, for examination by Lempteph, Vershab and Calathon.

Neth - Kutona 4715, beginning of Abadius 4716:

Over the course of the next few months, the city of Wati gradually begins to recover from what's come to be known as the Plague of Walking Death (in reference to the Plague of Madness 1700 years ago). Shops reopen, one by one, save for those that were destroyed by fire, or whose owners fell to the zombies. Nearly three hundred unfortunate victims need to be mourned and buried, which requires time and considerable effort, particularly from the overtaxed clergy of Pharasma, whose primary responsibility is dealing with the dead. For the first time in centuries, the dead are not interred in the City of the Dead - the memories of zombies pouring out of it, or even ghouls or worse, sometimes recognized as the walking cadavers of people who had been entombed just months before the disaster, make a burial of victims to the Necropolis unthinkable. Rather, a temporary shrine, soon to be replaced by a permanent stone building, is built near the Grand Mausoleum. There, all the deceased of the Plague of Walking Death are honored during ceremonies that last for days and weeks.

More solemn than any other is the funeral for the two heroes, the Champion of the Ouat, Menedes IX Tombguard, and the Champion of the People, Grekka Cailean. Sebti the Crocodile herself conducts the ceremony, and their eulogy is pronounced in person by Wati’s haty-a, or governor, Oshep Kahmed, the personal representative of Pharaoh Khemet III in the city. Great stone pillars are erected at the founding structure of the future shrine, and sculptors are hard at work carving hieroglyphs to recount the terrifying event and the heroic quest to put an end to it.

After about four months of study and prayer in the Temple of Sarenrae, lovingly coached by Yuia under the gentle eye of Lehasti, the youthful chosen of the Dawnflower, Azkin, is ordained to the priesthood. His brother's amazement at this turn of events notwithstanding, the new cleric seems overjoyed, full with an unceasing inner light. Even in the beginning of his noviciat, he is able to greatly contribute to the healing efforts for Wati's countless wounded, diseased and traumatized citizens. The understaffed clergy of Pharasma, usually jealous of their preeminence in Wati, do not begrudge the helpful Sarenrites' increased celebrity this time, even as it results in a good number of new donors to the tiny temple.

Once Vershab and Calathon are done exchanging notes and consigning much newfound knowledge to their arcane books, they can help Lemteph with researching the Mask of the Forgotten Pharaoh, Nebta-Khufre's documents, and the names Hakotep and Sky Pharaoh.

Piecing together Nebta-Khufre's story takes time, but with the help of his scribblings, however disorderly, and a few information requests to Wati's sister city of Tephu, the task isn't overly difficult. The necromancer was the scion of a wealthy family from Tephu who had long claimed a divine gift of speaking with the dead - an ability that had gained the family great wealth and power, although it had fallen on harder times under the reign of pharaoh Khemet I. Nebta-Khufre was born the final son of this proud clan, but lacked the family gift, delving instead into the secrets of arcane necromancy. At some point, he formed his own court of admirers: a secret society that drew its members from both the bored children of aristocratic families and promising young toughs from Tephu's street gangs (among them, a young half-orc girl by the name of Naghut). He sought to influence Tephu's politics through its rulers' children, buying them off with drugs or violently coercing them.

It appears that, sometimes after the death of his grandmother, Neferekhu, herself a noted oracle and speaker to the dead, Nebta-Khufre resolved to claim her gift for himself, broke into her tomb, beheaded her mummy, and cobbled together a ritual that returned Neferekhu's spirit to her severed head, now a tortured, undead abomination he placed in a gilded cage. After that, he transformed his secret society from a social club into a cult of personality. Bribery and coercion turned into arcane domination and murder, and Nebta-Khufre became more and more obsessed with his dead grandmother's visions of a "golden face" and the return of the "god-king of the skies" - a title that he came to believe would come to him.

Guided by the necromancer's obsessions, the activities of Nebta-Khufre's secret sect became more and more overt. Eventually, the authorities of Tephu took notice, and inquisitors of Pharasma were dispatched to eliminate the group. Most of Nebta-Khufre's once-loyal followers held status as heirs of Tephu's prominent noble families, which allowed them to hide behind claims of magical domination. Nebta-Khufre and his few remaining disciples were banished to the desert to die. But he saw his exile as an opportunity, and following his grandmother's deranged guidance he journeyed to Wati, where his arcane research allowed him to find the Mask of the Forgotten Pharaoh and unlock the secrets of ancient, profane rituals that triggered a necrotic pulse from the mask, causing the Plague of Walking Death. His finals scribblings indicate a mind turned mad, and Lempteph suspects that the terrible ritual must have destroyed a portion of his soul. In any case, he was seeing himself as a prophesied champion, destined to forge southern Osirion into a kingdom of the dead, with Wati as his capital and countless unliving armies at his beck and call.

Searches for the name Hakotep prove a great deal more frustrating. Some haphazard, centuries-old notes found by Lempteph in the Mausoleum's vault imply the belief by some scholars that Hakotep I ruled Osirion as pharaoh some time in the distant past. But virtually all records of his rule have been lost. His name survives only in cartouches found in a ancient network of earthworks now known as the Slave Trenches of Hakotep. The epithet "Sky Pharaoh" doesn't appear to be associated with Hakotep in any way. Lempteph can only speculate that Hakotep's name, assuming he ever existed, must have been erased from the records, for what purpose he is unable to even guess.

The researchers found no mention at all of either the cult or the Mask. It certainly seems that history has truly failed to remember the "Forgotten Pharaoh."

Starday, 18 Abadius, 4716

Sebti and Lemtepth gather with the Relic Knights once again, a sweet evening of Abadius, the coolest month of the year in Osirion, when day temperatures sometimes warrant a layer of clothing, and rain occasionally falls.

"I believe it is important to learn more of the mask's origins, and more about the strange cult seeking it", Lempteph begins. "However..." He turns to his superior. Sebti sighs. "After what happened to us here, the Grand Mausoleum has no servants to spare. The reconsecration of the Necropolis will need to be stronger than any other year, and we will need all of our brethren. I'm afraid I will have, one more time, to request your help."

Lemptep continues, "my best advice is to travel Tephu and consult its library. As you certainly know, it is perhaps the greatest repository of lore in all of Osirion. It is very possible that deep secrets can be found there even as they may have been removed from any other other records."

[Farmerbink]

As the days turn into weeks, Turi quickly tires of the academic pursuits of his companions. With the worst of the recovery process well underway; unused to the attentions of the clergy, and the odd popularity that comes from his associations, Turi ha never been more uncomfortable than the dreary month of Kutona in 4715. As Vershab and Calathon send various missives and letters to Tephu, the young wily thief starts disappearing for hours on end, sometimes not returning to the Tooth and Hookah or the Grand Mausoleum for a few days.

His lithe frame develops greater strength, as age and effort join forces to lay thin strips of lean muscle on his arms and shoulders. In his forays, he finds himself wandering familiar byways and alleys in the seedier parts of Wati. As the year draws to its cool conclusion, he makes an interesting discovery: on one of the larger barges lashed to the odd floating district on the river, he comes across a pair of men standing watch. Even as one of them steps forward to confront him, likely to direct the teenager on his way, the other man recognizes Turi. "You're gonna want to take your business somewheres else, kid. We got no time for-" "'Ey, can't you see it's that Turi kid!? One o' them Relic Knights who killed all the zombies! Let 'im in, if he wants!" After a brief argument, the would-be fan wins the day. Overcome by curiosity, Turi feigns intentional interest, and saunters past...

He approaches the hold of the barge, and quickly notices the sounds of fighting and yelling. Wary, but curious, he falls into a low stance and creeps forward. Below the upper deck, a pair of brawny, shirtless men wrestle, to the accompaniment of raucous cheers from a smallish crowd of about 50. For a few minutes he watches, as they exchange the advantage, both delivering more than a few blows and pins before one man falls unconscious. The fighting is somehow both brutal and controlled- there's no referee, and combat appears to last until one man can't fight anymore. Money changes hands, as winners collect bets from losers, and the hold falls into a relative hush. It's several minutes of smoking, sipping from vibrantly colored vials, and low conversations until the next pair comes forward. Using the next match as cover, Turi slips down the stairs and into the crowd....

It's there that he spends several nights of otherwise boring inactivity. After a few others recognize him, he decides to try his hand in the ring- some fights are allowed to use dulled or wooden blades, but the combat remains nonfatal. He wins more than he loses, though for a few weeks he has to make an effort to hide the bruises on his shoulders and head. It is one such night, with his cloak hitched high to cover his collarbones that Turi joins the other Relic Knights before Lempteph and Sebti. The youngster sighs quietly, unexcited about what will surely be a boring trip to Tephu, but ultimately Azkin's eager desire to please and simple peer pressure win the day.

"When do we leave?"

[CleverDragon]

Calathon fights a raging internal war over the next few weeks. He's troubled by a few conflicting desires. As always, he wants to study the historical artifacts and documents founds in their latest efforts. He finds them fascinating and they offer great insight into the past. But that's what troubles him...they are in the past.

Ever since he healed up from his wasting disease - the many long days laying there in bed doing nothing but thinking while his immune system fought off the disease - a spark of a thought had buried itself into his mind. And that spark found fuel in the battles with Nebta-Khufre and his followers and the ensuing restoration of the city. He found a solace in the good, hard work of helping the people around the beleaguered town. The sweat of helping the townsfolk bury and rebuild fueled him every day.

Every morning, he dutifully would help with identifying, cataloging, restoring and finding a place for the various artifacts. He would assist Minnothep in running her auctions, as before. He'd also spend time with Vershab with his arcane studies and poring through historical texts and items. But his heart wasn't fully in the tasks. He would become more and more agitated and distracted as the morning went on - exceedingly unusual for the elf. But as soon as the noon bells would ring around town, he would carefully shuck his employer's garb or daily wear and change into dirty, grungy laborer's clothes and check in with the Voice of the Spire and other town administrators to look for where the daily recovery and rebuilding efforts were.

He put everything into his mid-day efforts - it was almost meditative for him. He was completely unfazed and often unaware of the wary glances due to his horrific scarring or of the whispers that arose from people that recognized his role with the Relic Knights. His deep reddish-bronze skin glistened with sweat, day after day as he pushed himself - almost to the point of being punishing - under the afternoon sun. His skin color grew darker and darker as the days went by.

By the time the sun finally set each day, he would finish whatever task was required with the populace and then leave. And then he would walk home, aching and sore and smelling to high heaven and feeling alive. He'd set aside his laborer's clothing and then wash himself each evening.

Then, in the final hours before he would go into his trance, his third internal conflict would make itself known - his ever growing obsession with the undead anatomy. While his muscles ached and he applied alchemical soothing agents to address them, he would ponder over his notes and study the bits of ghoul, mummy and other undead flesh he'd found while cleaning the streets of Wati. And he'd experiment with them, pondering the potential uses and ramifications thereof and jot his notes furiously. Then he'd finally succumb to fatigue and go into his trance.

This is how he spent his many weeks - in a constant cycle of duty, punishment and personal gratification.

[DarkOne-Rob]

When Vershab shows up to the scheduled meeting his appearance has changed somewhat, though only to make the strange arcanist stand out more than before. Sporting a second stone orbiting his head, a finely made shirt with obviously custom-made sleeves, and a pair of spectacles that make his eyes appear abnormally large, the scholar looks patently absurd. His obliviousness to his appearance only furthers the disconcerting look.

"It has been years since I was in Tephu! The library there has so much to read and Nebta-Khufr was from there! We are sure to find more information to help us determine what is to be done with the mask. I can be ready to leave early tomorrow morning - I will just need a couple of hours to prepare provisions for the trip. Will we be traveling with a caravan or some other sort of guards? Though it isn't too far the desert can be dangerous and who knows what might confront us on the way..." he says, his eyes blinking rapidly in a dizzying way behind the lenses of his glasses. "Do you think we should expect opposition from cultists along the way? I have spent much of the last several weeks studying new spells and purchasing new equipment, but it couldn't hurt to stock up on some scrolls, just in case. What do you all think?"

[DarkOne-Rob]

As he finishes his questions Vershab carefully opens his bag and pulls the Mask of the Forgotten Pharoah from it. "I am still carrying this and intend to keep it safe. However, using it - instead of just carrying it - would greatly increase my ability to better aid the others and protect the mask itself. It is, after all, a powerful magical item in its own right. If I swear not to misuse its powers, does anyone know of a reason I should not begin wearing it so that I am attuned to its power before we leave?"

[Gwynfrid]

Sebti, Nakht and Lempteph exchange knowing glances when Vershab exhibits the golden mask, and the High Priestess sighs.

"We have analyzed and scrutinized this artifact to the best of our knowledge and talent. I truly do not think we can learn much more... Understand, honored Vershab, that one thing is for certain: We do not know what we do not know. There is no doubt that the Mask, terrifying as it is in the powers we have seen at play, holds yet more secrets. It is, therefore, a terrible risk you are taking in carrying it with you. Wearing it, even more so. Should any of these cultists still be around - and you told us of this invisible woman who escaped - they will stop at nothing to take it from you.

So, it would be wisest, in my view, and both the Commander and our most learned scholar agree..." She glances at Nakht Shepses and Lempteph in turn. "... agree that it would be safer to keep it hidden in the Grand Mausoleum."

"However, and this is decisive for us: I invoked Pharasma's guidance on this matter. For, as you know... All who live must face her judgment." The familiar invocation resonates heavily within the stone walls.

"The Lady of Graves' guidance is unequivocal: Your company's fate, that of the Mask, and that of a great many people, well beyond the walls of this city, are tied together. For better or for worse, we must not take it from you.

As far as wearing it... I will leave that to your wisdom, Master Vershab, and that of your companions."

[JWallyR]

The final foray into the late Nebta-Khufre's lair being safely accomplished, Lehasti delivers his young charge to the temple of Sarenrae, tarrying only when the cries of the fearful or wounded alert the Sarenite pair to opportunities to bring succor to those still threatened by the undead scourge and the lingering deprivations that have followed in its wake. When they arrive at the humble temple of Sarenrae, they find it nigh-overwhelmed; Yuia herself is at first not visible, obscured in a crowd of refugees from the city's turmoil, each seeking the priestess's aid. After several minutes of doing their own triage from the opposite end of the crowd, the paladin and burgeoning young cleric meet the priestess in the middle, where her relief at the pair's safety is tempered by her concern at the plight of the city's people and the strain and fatigue of their care upon the modest temple's resources. She swiftly reaches the determination that Azkin's most immediate training in the worship of the Healing Light is to bring the Dawnflower's power to bear on the worst of the wounded, and to aid the less wounded with what mundane skill at healing the young man has cultivated in his time on the streets. Lehasti's last sight of the boy as she leaves to assist in destroying the remaining undead in the city is his kneeling beside the priestess, watching and listening as her hands press and probe the flesh of a boy some few years younger than Azkin in search of the path to healing.

The paladin spends the daylight hours of the next few weeks in tireless hunting for the dregs of undead that persist in the darker corners of Wati. Placing herself at the disposal of the Pharasmin cleansing efforts from dawn's first light to the deepening of dusk, she goes wherever their scouts determine the greatest concentrations of restless dead to be. The paladin cannot help but notice that the squads with which she is placed seem to take heart from her very presence, and the gaunt faces that peer out of closed shutters brighten with glimmers of hope that their most immediate fears will soon be gone.

As the city grows to more closely resemble the bustling but peaceful city before the uprising of the dead, Lehasti finds less and less need for her sword- but the effort to cleanse and rebuild continues. Gently (but firmly) advised by Yuia to busy herself elsewhere while Azkin's tutelage continues, the warrior woman roams the streets of Wati, searching (and frequently finding) opportunities to roll up the sleeves of her simple tunic and put her calloused hands to work beside the city's humblest occupants in repairing homes and storefronts ravaged by the clawing of lifeless hands. It is at the end of one such day of simple, honest labor that the paladin returns to her quarters at the temple to notice that her presence is requested at the Mausoleum on the morrow.

---

After a night's rest and the temple's prayerful greeting of the dawn, Lehasti and Azkin meet at the temple's entrance to walk together to the Mausoleum. The paladin cannot help but note that Azkin carries himself with greater confidence, and greater purpose after his months under Yuia's care. He smiles warmly at the townsfolk the pair pass, smiles which are returned with some measure of curiosity at this less-known cleric accompanying the somewhat renowned blade of the Dawnflower. The pair arrive at the Mausoleum without incident, and greet their companions heartily. Azkin greets his older brother with particular enthusiasm, though signs of concern (and suspicion) creep into the cleric's eyes at the hints of injury that Turi has not quite managed to perfectly hide. He says nothing, however; and the pair seat themselves for Lempteph's address.

"The Lady of Graves' guidance is unequivocal: Your company's fate, that of the Mask, and that of a great many people, well beyond the walls of this city, are tied together. For better or for worse, we must not take it from you.

As far as wearing it... I will leave that to your wisdom, Master Vershab, and that of your companions."

Azkin's face is one of concern at the Pharasmins' pronouncement, and Lehasti is no less troubled. "Do you mean to say that the mask must remain in our care, or that Vershab must render it into your care of his own will? A course of action," the paladin turns to address the scholar, "that I heartily advise, mind you. I fear less that you would choose to misuse its power than that its power might overwhelm your mind- and worse, corrupt your very soul. I do not envy Pharasma's likely judgment on its previous 'owner', and I would keep a healthy distance from the path that he took."

[Gwynfrid]

Sebti turns to Lehasti to reply. The gravity of the decision weighs on her, the power of the vision received from the goddess haunts her eyes.

"No, Honored Lehasti, I'm afraid I haven't been clear. Destiny decrees that you should keep this accursed object, the mask that powered this unspeakable crime against both life and death. Should you separate from it, the Lady warned me that the mask would trigger events of catastrophic proportions. This overrides any human wisdom I could otherwise impart on you. The vision wasn't detailed, but..." Her voice trails off, as if she couldn't express the magnitude of the terror in her vision.

"As far as wearing it... I don't know. I share your concern, mind you... The existence of this artifact is a threat to all. But divine guidance says it must be your burden to bear."

[JWallyR]

Lehasti stares dumbly at Sebti. The paladin opens her mouth to speak... and closes it again, unable to find words sufficient for the shock evident on her face.

Azkin's face is a mask of conflicting emotions. "I..." the young cleric clears his throat, "...I wonder if Sarenrae has brought this mask to us for a purpose. Maybe its power over the dead is just an... echo of the darkness in the hearts of those who have wielded it for evil. Maybe... maybe the Dawnflower's wish is for Vershab to use its power rightly, in pursuit of the good of the living, and by that use to redeem it?" His expression of hope, tempered by uncertainty, darts between the Pharasmins, Vershab, and his mistress.

[DarkOne-Rob]

Vershab shrugs, appearing to take no note of the moral issues plaguing the others. "I will begin wearing it tonight," he says with confidence. "While not devote i do study religious matters, and Pharasma's portfolio includes that of foresight and predicting the future via prophecy. If she deems it necessary to carry the mask, it only makes sense to utilize its powers in our efforts. None of you need worry about me misusing it as Nebta Khufre did - I have no interest in sharing his fate or ruling over an army of undead. Their use continues to act as a flame to this poor moth, but I am no Black necromancer. I will even undergo an arcane cleansing ritual to ensure I am in the right frame of mind when I don it for the first time to further ensure my motives are considerate of the dangers it represents. Will that help to alleviate everyone's concerns?"

His most urgent question answered, Vershab waits patiently for the preparations to be completed before leaving to collect the items for the aforementioned ritual. He then spends the afternoon and evening in quiet meditation and contemplation before beginning the process of atuning himself to the artifact.

[Farmerbink]

Turi is calm and quiet as Sebti and Lempteph voice their concerns. His expression is serious, but not angry. Amid the uneasy silenced that seem to rise and fall, he begins to speak. “Haven’t we already dealt with some pretty catastrophic events?” He pauses for a moment, enjoying the recently-developed calm from the common rooms as he considered his next words.

“Power is power, right? I’d rather have Vershab use it than this other guy...”

[JWallyR]

“Power is power, right? I’d rather have Vershab use it than this other guy...”

"Oh no, my friend. Even the most divine power can be wielded for good or for ill, but power which springs from the darkness of evil and death can tempt even the most stalwart souls away from the paths of righteousness." says Lehasti, breaking her troubled silence. The paladin shifts her weight to face Vershab more directly before continuing, "Friend Vershab... if you deem it necessary, I will not seek to prevent you from donning this mask. Be warned, however- while I have trusted your knowledge of the arcane and judgment of its use thus far, I cannot trust that this artifact will not seek to dominate your mind and destroy your soul. So long as you wear it, I will be vigilant for any hint that you are no longer its master- but that it has become yours."

The weight of the paladin's unspoken promise weighs heavily upon the room's sudden silence.