Lossefion/The Tomb At Erdinghast
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Beneath the fortress called the Mount of Erdinghast, there lies a forgotten passage. The skilled eye can find it at the lowest point of the manse, but even the grains of the minerals in the rock subtly bend the eye of the beholder to anywhere but the proof of the entrance. If you can see by any natural light, the cavern flares briefly in a wash of purple and blue. Lines illuminate the characters woven through the pillars and columns of the rock. As the beholders move to follow the story, the suddenly revealed figures unfurl and dance across the walls. They describe the horrors that erupted from the bowels of the dark, the ferocity of the battle that was fought here, and the terrible sorrow that the hunters fought one of their own.
The legend writes itself along the walls, a long enough time to unfurl in its exquisite horror before allowing the eye to follow the jarring and gruesome figures that are slain, while the hunters dance away towards the starkness of the passageway. Beyond the light that must be carried, all are equal in the dark. The grim hunters become solemn and reluctant as they close in on this penultimate cavern. A nameless, fathomless dread haunts these tunnels, and they know not whether they face mistress or slave. The tears start in their eyes – they have loved this one since she came among them, raised her among the spoils of wars they fought together. What brought them to this pass is unknowable, but it is stark reality to the viewer. She has betrayed them to the ancient nemeses of their kind.
The story pauses to reflect on the lives lead to this point. A shattered antechamber looms in the flickering light. Water drip, drip, drips in this broken hall. It pools in rents to the left of a broken fountain. Guardian statues line the boulevard, impassive. Great frescos adorn the walls, telling of great deeds that the hunters accomplished – each legend is almost unbelievable. The Hall of the Orchidine Glass overthrown by the arts of the Martinet, the Poison Ruby and her Scorpion Rain envenomed in turn by the Damask Widow. Others support them in their deeds: the Yellow Dragon, the Golden Queen, Shadow’s Grace and more. Fully half of the murals are defaced, however, scarred by the detonations of a later conflict.
Before the heavy stone doors lie tangled remains. Half-decayed corpses in crushed and rent jade-alloy armour mingle with the shards of the marble guardians that pepper the area. The statues’ sharp bronzed weapons are clear now, as they match the half-covered remains of those in the outer courtyards. From the count, one score and ten fell here - mortal and Exalted both. The broken dragons attest to the Realm’s dogs attempting to desecrate and destroy this sanctum. In both, they failed if only due to the diligence of the guardians. Still, the gate proper of their tomb is open to those who know the key: a lament ancient in days that perhaps only those that have heard it at the world’s dawning would now know.
The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out You left me in the dark No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight In the shadow of your heart
Once the song is sung, the branches and veins of stone unravel and unweave themselves to reveal an elaborate hall. Porticos and delicate vaulted ceilings carry faint echoes of the footsteps one takes – they resound like tiny bells, echoing the song that was sung to enter this hallowed hall. Lit by solar light, the story continues. The pleasing edges give way to rough stone. Here, the hunters met their quarry. Here, in the centre of the carnage fell two mighty enemies of the dark beyond and beneath the world and here were they buried.
The main body of the tomb is a mosaic of marble and gleaming stone. It would be exquisite, but for the wall opposite the entrance: an expanse of broken pillars, and scorched, half-melted granite. Clearly this is a focal point, but why? The broad aisle to the wall is interrupted by a simple altar bedecked with two offertories, and subtly graved with symbols of solar faith. It is in turn flanked by two polished marble biers.
The biers are perhaps waist height, allowing the onlooker to see the faces of the nobility lain thereon. The godkings and their treasured possessions are encapsulated by some kind of glass-clear, sapphire-tinted crystal. No pallor mars their visage, and no deathwound betrays their repose, testament to the skill of their embalmer. Their splendour is open for onlookers to see, but they are as untouchable as the far side of the moon.
Everesk, The Martinet of Stars lays here in state, an aged man with the hint of a smile playing about his lips even in repose. The crow’s feet about his eyes betray his maturity. His skin is sunbeaten and weathered. His short beard and long hair are a stormcloud white. His mane is caught in a low tie at the nape of his neck, and is drawn forwards in an elaborate braid, weighted by an organic threading of silver and gold. An intricate torc adorns his throat, and its ends weigh down only lightly. From his shoulders, simplicity ends. He wears armour the likes of which you have only seen adorn the richest of the Dragonblooded Gens, except in place of jade, massy gold and polished orichalc flare with lapis lazuli and amethyst delineating a fiery setting sun. Diamonds speckle the low horizon, giving the illusion of appearing stars. The rising moon holds a commanding position. On greaves and vambrace, celestial fires play, and define the subtle musculature of a man who commanded both Essence and the elements to their utmost. The plates are graceful and light, yet impenetrable. One hand lays atop his chest, curling a cloak of the same night sky as on his panoply. His other hand clasps a staff of orichalcum as tall as he. Wards and blessings are graved into its whorled surface, and the reflections of a stormy sky can be seen within. Tomes of great import are trapped in timeless crystal on his bier as well as he: The White and Black Treatises, The Genesis of Heathen Ritual, Daric’s Laws of Magic, and more you cannot fathom. No mere trinkets lie at this great sage’s feet, but the remains of a loyal companion: a great red bloodhound, steadfast and true. It lies as if asleep at the bottom of its master’s bed, still wearing the golden barding it achieved in life.
Opaline, the Damask Widow is a picture of porcelain innocence, a doll-like albino with her locks of hair arrayed about her like a halo. Her hair is swept back from her girlish face by a simple band of gold with a single red stone in the centre. The only colour on her face is her lightly rouged lips. Her hands are crossed atop her heart, hands aswathe with delicately jewelled bracelets linked by fine chain to the rings on her fingers. In her light grip are two jewelled fans, reminiscent of a peacock in splendour. Her raiment is blood-red silk, loose and elegant with intricate golden embroidery from the neckline cascading to her waist. The tunic is long and reaches to her knees, covering trews of the same material with the same flowing needlework. At her waist it is caught with a thin, intricately fashioned belt of sun-golden metal, silk and gemstone. Her feet are well shod in delicate red slippers, and the trews are caught in anklets of the same style as at her wrist. At her side lie obviously treasured items: a small copper bracelet – a gift from some child; a wooden carving, of a bird mayhap; some exquisite crystalline bottles containing scents and tinctures. All are arrayed around a large and weighty tome encysted by crystal as the rest. The single embossed symbol can be clearly seen on the white leather: Gold.
By each bier is a plaque, declaiming their occupants and listing their deeds. At the end of each is the same epilogue:
“Look kindly on those that died, for they are as the sun in these unlit realms. They do keep the dark at heel, even now. Even unto the end of days. Let our heritors beware.”
Almost unnoticeable amidst the wanton destruction and tumbled pillars is a stone coffer. An inscribed mural upon its lid and repeated in miniature upon its flanks depicts lost figures of light in an undefined world of endless night. They let their animas glow, as if they sense an end to their travails. A simple lock adorns the coffer, and a plaque reads:
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light. I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night
The key taken from one of the ruined corpses outside fits perfectly, although for some there is no need. The lock opens easily at your touch, perhaps recognising your nature. Several large lacquered boxes are stacked neatly within.
A rude parchment lays atop the contents. In the language of the gods, it says: Use these tools set here against a dawning of a day dark as night. Be well, our heritors. S.
With no small solemnity, you realise the time passed between all the deaths in here was not uniform, was not accidental…no, it was no accident you found this. One amongst you placed these goods here against the end of all that they knew.
