- Messages
- 52
- Character Biography
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A mage by birth and a scholar by trade, Erita Kiran knew why her expedition was being financed. It was a legend of a coffin of great value, and a tomb of treasures. It was not because of the scholarly pursuit she so loved that it was being conducted, the great many logistics and funding needed to conduct such a journey and excavation.
It had taken nearly four decades of various scholars chipping away, but a breakthrough in the form of an ancient cartographer's workshop being discovered all the way in Falwood was the key to it all. From there, correspondence and ancient ledgers of payments to architects and builders. From the simple transcations of lime and brick, and mortar, gave way to the direction they needed to go, and eventually, to the tomb they were before.
The team of Elves and Orcs were hard workers, and Erita was grateful for their hard work. She had her fair share of it, shovel or brush in hand. It took weeks of moving sand, day and night, to even get close to the entrance. From then, it was bracing the structure to prevent the thousands of years of sand from collapsing on top of them.
Now, Erita lay before the entrance, sealed tight in an ancient language written above the door. It was a shame that they could not decipher the language above the door, but she theorized it to be a curse of those who entered.
Curses and magical barriers were nearly in the third week of her training as a mage.
And time had eroded the magic here, and with no upkeep, the barrier and curse was nowhere to be found when she reached out with her mind, sensing for any ancient magics. Traps were aplenty, however, and she had unfortunately lost two workers already. Their families were well compensated already, and funeral arrangements already made.
She took a deep breath, holding out her hand. The great stone door slowly rose, grinding against the stone, sand shifting. The torch-lit workers behind her slightly cowered, afraid of what lay inside.
And what lay inside of the room, even by just the torches dim light, was nothing short of amazing to behold. Dozens of skeletons, intricately laid with cloth and swords, lay in ready-made tombs. Each had what she presumed names above them, signifying what they must have done and their role here. Perhaps the subjects of whoever lay in the tomb. They all looked about the same age, so they must have died in a battle, or perhaps together in a sacrifice.
Before moving further, traps were searched for, and after it was presumed safe to move forward, she gazed upon the coffin. As foretold by history's legends, it was a solid silver coffin, in lay with intricate carvings of what appeared to be names. She could not read them, sadly. There would be time for study later. She turned and gazed a little longer, cocking her head.
It was an ancient script, one that she had seen before. Digging through her satchel for one of her many notebooks, she found one that she had made quite some time ago, a translator of sorts. It only worked roughly, what with dialects and all- but the effect was usually there. From one sandscript to another, and then to a third, it was the same in all of them.
She turned her head, realizing it was only one word.
"Aituk?"
The room shifted, and she turned to the coffin, laying a single hand on it.
----
He had been sleeping, or writhing in pain, for days, months, years. It was impossible to tell in the darkness. But he heard them some time ago. Pecking away above him. In whatever tomb they had laid him in, this prison.
He heard them when they built it around him, screaming curses at them for their treachery. He heard them slay themselves, entombing themselves. The last one went out of the door, sealing them inside, and took his own life out of the tomb, laying him in his prison for presumably all time.
A woman, mortals, spoke outside of his prison. He needn't make a sound. If they were well-experienced Hunters, or worse, Dreadlords, Elves- they'd be able to gain the upper hand on him. For now, he'd feign death, or accept it. He hadn't been living for quite some time to begin with, and death would be a relief from the constant burning of his silver coffin and chains.
The tomb was being moved, tools and grunting of strong backs shifting the heavy silver lid. And the light flooded his face- not the vile sun, but instead the warm orange glow of a torch and the blue light of a mage.
And then eyes- mortal eyes- gazed upon his decaying, rotten body. No sustenance had left him weak, corpse-like. But his mind remained sharp, even if his body betrayed him. Orc, Elf, and Human eye lay on him, he could feel them.
One of them said something in a language he did not speak, and another replied.
But they spoke his name. Or the woman did, at least.
"He's still... juicy."
"How?"
"Must've been preserved in that coffin, I suppose."
"Wonder who he was."
Not warriors. Scholars. Workers. Not here to kill him- no, they came here to die.
He reached a grotesque hand upwards, snatching one by the throat. His fangs protruded- and he drained the man, tossing him aside as he felt his body become invigorated.
--
Erita saw it happen, unable to stop it. She panicked, running for the door like her compatriots, but she felt herself be grabbed by an icy hand, and lifted into the air. Her books fell out of her satchel, and she cried out for help, mercy. She summoned flame into her hand, but found herself unable to move once the creature sank it's teeth into her neck. She felt her life go away from her, as if she was falling asleep far too quickly. The pain subsided, and she went limp, dead.
She fell to the ground with little fanfare, her only crime curiosity and the search of history. Another one of Lord Aituk's many victims.
Aituk, still corpse-like and decadent, crouched over her, grasping at one of the many books she dropped. He thumbed through it, nails growing so long that it was hard to move them. A trim was in order, as was many other grooming tasks. But one caught his eye above all others. A book, translating of sorts. He recognized one script... and from there, another.
He had such time to decipher the language, the time, and where he was in the world.
For now, he had to call to his children, his brethren. And so he screamed, echoing across all of Amol Kalit, and to the Vampires of the World, a faint whisper of a powerful Vampire beckoning them west.
---
Aratus awoke, outside of Vel Anir, yellow eyes glancing to and fro. The abandoned farm he was hiding in was quite lovely. From the clues he gathered, it was a soldier that went to war- and never returned. A tragic, and all too-common story, unfortunately.
He blinked, turning his head. Something awoke him. A noise. Not an intruder, no, not marching feet, not the silent steps of attacking forces of Dreadlords or Vampre Hunters or even the angry wife. No, something else.
A whisper.
The darker part of him, was thrust to the west. Something called him, but not by name. By birthright.
He shook with fear. Something that powerful calling to him was only a bad thing. No good things ever woke up a creature like him and summoned him for good intentions. He rolled his feet out of the bed, and began to lace up his boots.
He had to tell someone- something, about it. And find another like him, another hopeless soul to confirm his suspicion that he wasn't the only one hearing it.
