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Episode 17 – Whispers Beneath the Sand
The Roving Adventurers found themselves at the threshold of a crumbling ruin that jutted from the arid sand like a broken tooth — the entrance to the lost temple-tomb of the Rha Empire. The prior evening had been restless; hot yet chilling winds howled through their camp, carrying whispers none could translate, and dreams had been murky with ancient chants and sand-choked corridors.
Marcho adjusted the straps of his pack, eyes darting to every shadow. “Remind me again why we thought this was a good idea?”
Makhulim snorted and stepped forward, his axes — This and That — already in hand. “Because we’re getting paid. And besides, when has ‘ancient ruin’ not meant treasure?”
Faylen’s slender fingers traced sigils in the air as she prepared protective spells. Her longbow, Charm, hummed faintly, already alert. “The wards are still active,” she murmured. “And something… lingers here.”
Nayzungit stepped forward last, his greataxe Clementine glowing with a faint green hue. “Let the dead whisper if they want. Angradd walks with us.”
Together, they descended into the darkness.
The Antechamber of Rha
The staircase plunged downward, flanked by faded murals of warriors with jackal-headed helms, their eyes rendered in crushed emeralds long since looted. The air grew stale, thick with dust and the iron tang of old blood.
At the base, they found themselves in a vast antechamber. Pillars shaped like lotus blossoms rose to meet a domed ceiling that shimmered with an eerie phosphorescent sheen — no doubt maintained by ancient magics. Carvings along the walls depicted scenes of kings sacrificing to gods with serpentine forms, their mouths open in silent howls.
Marcho paused at the threshold, eyes narrowing. “Trap,” he said. He knelt quickly, running gloved fingers over the stone. “Pressure plates. Two rows of them. Step wrong and we’ll probably be skewered.”
Faylen cast Detect Magic, revealing a lattice of arcane lines beneath the tiles. “Some are magical too. Conjuration — probably summoning or teleport traps.”
“Then we follow Marcho’s dance,” Makhulim grunted.
With precision, the halfling guided them across, choosing steps carefully. Once, Nayzungit misjudged a heel-to-toe placement. There was a loud click, and from the walls, obsidian darts fired outward.
Clementine moved faster than thought. The blade cleaved three darts midair, while Nayzungit took the fourth to the shoulder with a grunt. It dissolved into smoke — illusory.
“Clever bastards,” he muttered.
At the far end of the antechamber stood two great doors inlaid with bronze, tarnished green with age. They were inscribed in a tongue none recognized.
Faylen raised her hand. “Let me try.” She closed her eyes, touched the stone, and cast Comprehend Languages. The runes twisted before her, slowly revealing their meaning.
“Only the devout may walk beyond. The unworthy shall be fed to shadows.”
“Comforting,” Marcho muttered.
The Hall of Testimony
Beyond the doors was a long, columned hall where wind seemed to breathe despite the still air. Shadows whispered in corners, speaking in forgotten dialects that teased the mind. Makhulim grunted, axes ready.
As they moved, torches flared to life in sconces along the walls. The flames burned green and blue.
Hieroglyphs crawled along the ceiling — names of the high priests, their conquests, and sacred oaths. Then came a forked path.
“Left passage smells like incense and rotting linen,” Faylen said. “Right… burnt flesh.”
“So… left, then?” Marcho offered.
They chose the left and found themselves in a chamber with statues of jackal-headed sentinels. A central pedestal held an obsidian tablet, glowing faintly.
Marcho inspected the room. “Tripwire. Glyphs of Warding. There’s also a pit trap behind that third statue.”
He moved quickly, disabling the tripwire with a twist of wire and a whispered prayer to Desna. The glyphs required Faylen’s intervention; she dispelled one with Dispel Magic, narrowly failing on a second.
The resulting explosion of freezing air knocked them all flat. Ice coated the floor, forming crystals on their lashes. Faylen groaned. “That… was cold.”
On the pedestal was a riddle inscribed:
Born of sand but drowned in sky, I hide behind the traveler’s eye. Reveal my name to open the door, else walk these halls forevermore.
Nayzungit closed his eyes. “The answer is ‘Star.’”
The floor rumbled. A hidden door opened in the wall behind the statue.
Tomb of the Moon-Queen
This new corridor led to a crypt draped in ancient silk, woven with starlight thread. A sarcophagus of moonstone rested on a dais, guarded by skeletal priests in ritual poses. The air reeked of spices, age, and magic.
As they entered, the whispers grew louder. Faylen gripped Charm tightly, visibly shaken. “They’re chanting.”
The skeletal priests did not stir. But the moment Marcho stepped closer, the room shuddered. One priest’s eyes ignited with violet flame.
“Ah. There it is,” Makhulim said. “Knew it was too quiet.”
Battle erupted. The skeletal priests moved with grace and terrifying speed. Faylen summoned a wall of force to divide the room, keeping half the enemies at bay. Makhulim fought with brute strength, while Marcho circled the edges, slipping his blade between ribs and into empty sockets.
Nayzungit invoked Angradd’s wrath, turning several of the undead into dust with a divine pulse. “Let the fire of the forge consume you!”
When the dust settled, the sarcophagus began to glow.
Faylen reached out, muttering a prayer as she lifted the lid. Inside lay a woman’s remains — perfectly preserved, her skin silvery pale, a circlet on her brow.
As they watched, her eyes opened. “You are not my priests,” she whispered.
They tensed.
“I am bound no longer… The gate is open…” She disintegrated into silver dust, which spiraled into the ceiling and vanished.
A passage opened beneath the dais.
The Vault of Black Sands
The passage led to a sloping corridor filled with black sand that seemed to absorb light. They trudged downward, every step muffled, every breath echoing oddly. At the bottom, they emerged into a circular vault — the walls etched with constellations, the floor a mosaic of a great eclipse.
Pillars flanked the room, and at its center, a pyramid-shaped plinth pulsed with magical energy. Around it stood six statues of ancient warriors, each holding a different weapon.
“I don’t like statues anymore,” Marcho muttered.
Faylen pointed at the plinth. “The final key must be there.”
They stepped forward cautiously. Predictably, the statues animated.
“Called it,” Marcho sighed.
This battle was more brutal. The statues were enchanted constructs immune to conventional damage. Makhulim’s star-metal axe This cleaved through one, the celestial metal overcoming their magical resistance.
Faylen used Greater Dispel Magic to slow another, while Marcho darted to the plinth. “Almost there… just a few more glyphs…”
One statue caught him mid-run, sending him flying into a pillar.
Nayzungit cast Righteous Might, growing in size and strength. “FORGED IN FIRE!” he roared, smashing the construct into rubble.
Marcho, bloodied, reached the plinth and pressed the last glyph. All statues froze.
The floor trembled. The eclipse mosaic split open, revealing a staircase descending into darkness.
The Heart of Rha
They descended once more, entering a chamber that defied dimensions — walls twisted impossibly, stars burned in corners of the room, and the whispers became deafening.
At the center was a crystal sarcophagus floating in a beam of pale light. Inside lay a figure in golden armor, his face hidden by a jackal helm. He clutched a black scepter crowned with a burning eye.
As they approached, the spirit of the Moon-Queen reappeared, now vast and radiant.
“He is the Tyrant. Slay him, and I am free. Fail, and he returns.”
The sarcophagus cracked.
The Rha Amun rose — not fully alive, not fully dead. Magic rippled from him like a storm.
The final battle had begun.
Faylen summoned a Prismatic Wall, buying them moments.
Makhulim charged, axes flashing. Nayzungit invoked Holy Word, but the risen Rha Amun resisted, his scepter striking the divine spell back into smoke.
Marcho circled, waited, then leapt — plunging Courage into a gap in the armor. The Rha Amun shrieked.
Faylen poured her most powerful spells — Disintegrate, Chain Lightning, Time Stop. The chamber shook with every incantation.
It was Makhulim who struck the final blow — both axes swinging in unison, cleaving through helm, head, and soul. Rha Amun screamed, exploding into light and falling into dust and rags.
Silence fell. The whispers were gone.
Only a chilling air remained.
Epilogue: Ascending from the Dark
They climbed, quickly, in silence. The tomb collapsed behind them, dust billowing upward into the desert sky.
At the surface, the dawn was rising.
Marcho collapsed into the sand. “No more ruins. Ever.”
Faylen smiled faintly. “Until tomorrow.”
Nayzungit nodded solemnly. “The forge has tested us.”
Makhulim looked to the horizon, where the sun painted the world gold.
“Worth it.”
The Roving Adventurers turned away from the tomb of Rha, spirits quiet now, and took their first steps toward whatever came next.
And somewhere, far beneath the earth, a forgotten chant began. Again.
