"First, share what you know about the other group of adventurers and how it is that you are certain they perished? Also, if they perished, is it possible that others have acquired the information about how to find the pyramid from them?" The young dark-haired woman says with a concerned look. If she had learned anything from her former...empoyer, it was that information gathering and planning was essential to any success and she was not about to accept this mission without having the full picture of what could be expected.
"Yes, of course. Uncertainty shrouds this entire endeavor--an intricate web of ‘what-ifs.’ But as I have said, I am a specialist in speculative investments." Menkaure smiles, a bit grimly. "Should you accept, your sole obligation is to deliver the skull to me--provided, of course, that you are able to claim it."
He pauses, his expression momentarily unreadable before he continues. "As for the fate of the first expedition, I unraveled that mystery through scrying. They fell to the wrath of a khamsin. Swallowed whole by the sands. Whatever knowledge they possessed has been lost, buried alongside them beneath the desert’s unyielding embrace."
Nature DC 10 for "khamsin":
The iconic desert storms of Osirion are locally known as khamsin. These blasts of hot wind can last days, sweeping across the desert and carrying the dunes before them until the land is changed beyond recognition. Khamsin are capable of swallowing whole towns, uncovering ancient ruins, and scouring skin from the bones of anyone foolish enough to be trapped in one. Though they resemble the sandstorms encountered in other deserts on Golarion, the violent khamsin aren’t simply mere meteorological phenomena—they’re seasonal sandstorms made truly dangerous after being affected by spirited conflict between various elemental chieftains of wind and fire that dwell in Osirion’s deserts. Once set in motion, a khamsin can be as unpredictable and as tempestuous as the warring elementals themselves.
Zahara lets the silence settle between Menkaure’s words and her own. Her dark eyes measure him—the flicker of lamplight against his features, the quiet calculation woven through his carefully chosen truths. A khamsin. A sandstorm vast enough to swallow an entire expedition, leaving no trace but the whisper of their failure.
She turns the desert lily between her fingers, its petals turn crimson, dark as spilled wine beneath the lantern’s glow. A blood-flower, some call it—a bloom that thrives in the harshest places, where roots seek life among ruin. It is an omen of endurance. Or perhaps, of sacrifice.
Her fingers brush the petal’s edge, delicate but firm.
“You speak of faith,” she murmurs, her voice soft as the wind before the storm breaks. “Faith that we will fare better than those before us. That fortune will favor us where it abandoned them.” Her gaze lifts from the flower, steady as the shifting sands. “But faith is not enough.”
She lets the words linger—not as defiance, but as truth, immutable as the dunes.
“You are a man of influence, a weaver of fortunes,” Zahara continues, her tone measured, unhurried. “But even the most skilled hand cannot pluck coin from an empty purse.”The lily twirls slowly in her grasp, red against her desert-worn fingers. “You claim certainty in their deaths, but not in the tomb’s true location. Not in the skull’s existence. Not in what dangers lie beyond the veil of shifting sands.” She exhales slowly. “Yet still, you wager upon us.”
A moment’s pause. The desert does not rush, and neither does she.
Finally, Zahara sets the blood-flower down upon the table, its petals unfurling against the worn wood like a promise—or a warning.
“So be it.”
She leans back, the weight of her choice settling like sand through her veins. “We will seek what you desire. But know this, Menkaure—faith is not a contract. We promise only the hunt, not the prize.”
Her fingers brush the flower one last time before retreating.
“And should the dunes seek to bury us as they did the last, I expect you will not waste your gold scrying for our bones.”
Menkaure turns to Zephirah, his expression measured, his voice smooth.
"Mistress, I can sense your unease. Perhaps you fear losing your life to the merciless sands, or perhaps you fear my reprisal should you fail. Such concerns are natural, for I am but a stranger to you. But consider that I forfeit nothing by seeking your expertise. Yes, the expedition may falter, the tomb may yield nothing but dust, or the skull may slip beyond your grasp despite your finest efforts. These are risks I candidly assume.”
“I ask only for your word that should you lay hands upon the skull, you will, in good faith, attempt to see it delivered to me. And in return, whether or not my prize is found, the treasures of the pyramid shall be yours to claim."
"A younger version of myself would be astonished to hear it, but I have amassed enough wealth. Certainly, the adventurers buried beneath the sand, having given their lives in pursuit of our venture, owe me no further debt. I would ask no more of you. My reputation is one of good business and shrewd politics. Ask any merchant, scribe, or mason in Wati, Lord Menkaure’s word is gold!”
Satina shakes her head. "Yes, if Mankaure will tell us how to get to the tomb, pay for our transport, our supplies, and expect nothing more then I'd take the deal. I just can't imagine he is so dull witted."
She looks at their potential patron. "I think what they're all hinting at is that if we are successful in obtaining your skull they would like some additional reward to be guaranteed."
Her gaze moves around to the others to see if anyone wishes to correct her on her assumption.
Ophelia's mind barely registers the negotiation, promises of found wealth, the existence of competing parties (along with one apparently perished one), and danger of the khamsin, which is a phenomenon she cannot quite remember the meaning of, but might gather from context, were she paying attention.
She sways, her voice a sing-song whisper, soft, lilting, and lacking the tonal richness of Zephirah's.
"Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed..."
The repeated mention of the jeweled sphinx skull finally breaks through her reverie, stopping her short. Her violet eyes widen. Ophelia gasps, sudden lucidity warring with the habitual spiraling distraction upon her brow as her gaze finally falls directly upon their prospective benefactor.
"The shadows of the abyss are as the petals of a monstrous flower that shall blossom within the skull and expand the mind beyond what any man can endure or woman bear, Lord Menkaure. Tell me true, you say you desire the Sphinx Skull for prestige and honor and favor from the halls of power. Yet why does this artifact command such things other than renown? What is the skull? What can it do in capable hands? What fell magic lies within? If we risk encountering others who seek it, to comprehend their motives, we should know of its power."
Her voice falls to a whisper. "I have dreamed of it, images floating swimmingly swimmingly up through the drowned depths of the caverns and cracks in my mind, and the teeth of such dreams, the glittering jeweled jaws, I fear, inexorably, inexorably shall devour and sustain and herald the passing of an age. Gods help me."
Zephirah tapped a nail gently against the wood of the table, a flicker of disappointment shadowing her golden gaze. She had hoped to press Menkaure into a verbal corner, to trap him in some careless phrasing she could later exploit—but the man was, regrettably, too polished for that. Slippery, yes, but clever. And clever men, while inconvenient, were often more interesting in the long run.
Still, his words had stirred something—her curiosity. The Jeweled Skull… such a name practically begged to be admired, studied, even… played with. After all, there had been no mention of urgency. No strict time frame. If they were to retrieve it—and if it truly existed—surely there was no harm in enjoying its mysteries for a while before presenting it like some gilded fruit at a nobleman’s banquet.
Her gaze slid sideways toward Satina, and she offered a languid smile. “Well, if you’re going, my dear, it would be criminal not to keep you company.” She turned back to Menkaure, her tone light but edged with velvet precision. “And I do think Satina’s made a fair point. If you wish to hasten our return, perhaps a token from your personal collection would pave the path. A palpable goal would certainly help us to find the quickest route.”
She raised her lyre and gently plucked a soft, dry note, like wind through hollow stone. “Consider it… an incentive. A glimpse of certain treasure not an ethereal promise that waits beneath the sand.” Her smile deepened, sly and knowing. “Sometimes the best way to ensure something is returned… is to let something be missed.”
For all the time Zahara has spent in Ophelia’s company, she has never truly understood her—until now.
As Ophelia gasps, her voice steadies, no longer adrift but anchored in something. The whimsy does not vanish, but beneath it lies something else: knowing. A truth fractured, shifting, glimpsed only in the spaces between her words.
Zahara watches in silence. Others might dismiss her as lost in riddles and reverie. But for the first time, as she listens—she begins to grasp the edges of what lies beneath.
Zahara folds her arms, the flickering lamplight catching in the bronze rings that adorn her fingers. She watches Zephirah with the faintest smirk, recognizing the subtle game at play. The bard’s words are a dance, weaving expectation and suggestion in seamless tandem.
Yet it is Ophelia’s earlier reverie that lingers in Zahara’s mind. The way her voice had sharpened—not lost in riddles, but warning of something real. Not a dream, but a premonition.
Her gaze flicks back to Menkaure. A token for an incentive? A fair ask. But she cannot shake the sense that they are not the only ones playing this game.
Still, she leans forward, her voice smooth, measured. “A gesture of faith, then. It does seem only fair, Lord Menkaure. Unless, of course… faith is something we should not afford you?”
Her eyes lock onto his, unblinking. A challenge. A test. If he means to lead them toward something greater—toward the shadows Ophelia fears—then he will have to prove that he is worth following.
Menkaure claps his hands together, his delight unmistakable. "I knew it! I knew it! Not only have I found capable adventurers, but shrewd negotiators. True scribes of the house." His grin is both knowing and amused. "Very well. A gift. A token of good faith."
Menkaure gently slides the golden serpent ring from his finger. Rather, it seems to slither free of its own accord. He turns it in his palm, the polished gold catching the light. "I believe your friend here admired this? Recovered from the tomb of Akhentepi, a celebrated commander who once led the forces of Wati before the plague swept through the land. A relic of power, it bears magic granting flight and the gift of insight into the minds of others. But its true potential is yet unwritten; it may be enchanted anew, molded to one's will."
He slides the ring to the center of the table. "Perhaps tonight, one in your party might bend its power to your purpose before setting out at dawn. May it serve you all well on the path ahead."
Menkaure continues. "While visiting Eto, I am residing at the home of Safira Neda, Field Director of the Ministry of Culture. The Ministry’s charge is to inspect the discoveries of the many explorers who seek the secrets buried beneath the sands of the Osirian Desert. Needless to say, our arrangement, and the very existence of the skull, must remain strictly private."
"Before dawn, you will find camels and provisions awaiting you at the stables adjacent to the bazaar. My man, Nesu, will be there to assist you with any final preparations before you set out. He will also provide you with a map. The weather will be unrelenting, as one might expect." He smirks slightly. "I will remain in Eto for another tenday before duty calls me back to Wati. Should you return after my departure, Nesu will be in town to see to my affairs, and you may deal with him in my stead. Should you recover the skull, I would be most pleased to welcome you as honored guests in my home. Nesu will be made aware of the necessary arrangements."
He clasps his hands together, inclining his head toward the table in a gesture of respect. "Thank you, my new friends. I have no doubt that our venture will prove mutually auspicious."
Zahara watches as Menkaure removes the ring, her eyes narrowing slightly at the way it seems to move of its own volition, the golden serpent slithering free as though it still draws breath. Not mere ornamentation, then. Something alive, in a way—if not in body, then in purpose.
She does not reach for it immediately. Instead, she studies Menkaure, his ever-present amusement, his self-assured delight at having won their favor. He plays his part well—generous, charming—but Zahara has spent enough time among the clever and the powerful to know that gifts are rarely given without expectation. Still, she asked for a token of faith, and he has provided one. That, at least, is worth acknowledging.
Slowly, she extends her hand, fingers brushing the cool gold before lifting it from the table. She turns the ring between her fingertips, feeling the weight of it, the smoothness of metal long handled, long worn. A relic of power. A thing that remembers.
She does not speak right away. Instead, she lifts her free hand, palm upward, and breathes a single whispered syllable. A faint shimmer of green-gold light gathers at her fingertips, coalescing into the form of a delicate bloom—desert lavender, tiny and fragile, a thing of life in the midst of dust and timeworn stone.
She sets the flower down before Menkaure, as ephemeral as the desert breeze. A response not in words, but in acknowledgment. A gift, however fleeting, for a gift given.
Then, slipping the ring onto her finger, she meets his gaze, eyes steady. “May it serve well indeed.”
The young dark-haired woman had a lingering feeling that the group of adventurers their client claimed to have been lost in the desert will still somehow have a part to play in this, but there was no use asking more questions about them. She gives the teifling, and then the others, a concerned look as the tiefling takes the ring and places it on her finger. She had no claim to it herself but she hoped the others would be as understanding. Perhaps they all knew each other and had no reason to challenge the tiefling for the ring.
Having no further questions to their client, she leans back in her chair, enjoying her golden drink while waiting for the man to leave so that she could get to know her new companions before setting out into the desert with them.
Zephirah’s silvery eyes trace the serpent’s slither with open distaste, lingering on the ring now perched on Zahara’s finger. A spell to pry into someone’s thoughts? She tenses at the idea—thoughts should remain one’s own, not scavenged by gold-plated curiosities. Still, she makes no move to claim the trinket. She offered Menkaure a bargain, not a key to her mind. Now that she knows what power it holds, it seems less a gift than a quiet threat.
Exhaling softly, she shifts her attention to the others. “I’ll be content with the comfort of a decent saddle and a swift camel,” she murmurs under her breath, voice tinged with subdued resignation. A few dry chords from her lyre drift in lazy succession—music without meaning. The excitement she’d felt earlier has dulled to a pragmatic acceptance of the journey ahead. “Let’s hope we reach that pyramid quickly and avoid another khamsin. Storms, mind reading… the night’s revealed enough ugliness for now. I need another drink just to swallow it all.” Despite her clipped tone, a half-smile toys at the corner of her lips, 'We need to get back to our thorough research.'
Satina watches the exchange of the ring and Menkaure's explanation that seems to presume to have concluded their talk. She watches Zahara, who seems quite content.
Finally she turns to Menkaure. "I do not doubt your gift is of great value. Yet it seems you have made a deal with Zahara, but none of the rest of us. A curious choice, but your camels, provisions, and map will be most helpful." And she leaves it at that.
She looks to Zephirah with a nod. "Yes, a drink. Let's enjoy this evening so we can turn to more serious things tomorrow." Her eyes shift over to the dark haired woman and her sphix-cat. "And we should get to know you if we're going to be working together."
The pact seemingly formed, Lord Menkaure Al-Saqqara, the Jackal of the Sands, rises with grace. His black and indigo silk cape whispers as it drapes over his shoulder. He offers a final bow as a fleeting acknowledgment before he vanishes into the shifting currents of the room.
From the gathering, she emerges, silent, unseen until now. A phantom in studded leather, a khopesh gleaming at her side, she joins Menkaure like a shadow. White silks obscure her face, save for her eyes, which are watchful, unreadable, brushing over your group like a blade barely drawn from its sheath.
A tambourine rattles. The wind stirs, hot and restless. And, like smoke in the night, the pair are gone.
"And we you..."The young dark-haired woman answers the heavily armoured one. "...since we are trading at this table we will trade our names for yours." She continues with a playful smile to the armoured woman although the tiny bluish winged feline on her naked shoulder seems unamused by her foolery, simply rolling his eyes once more. "You would have to excuse her, she is still under tutelage. The girl's name is Nephthys and I am her mentor Thoth. We are both honoured to have your companionship on this endeavour."The tiny sphinx says with it's quite scholarly voice. The pair of them looks around at the others present hoping for more names to be shared.
Satina's eyes shift to focus on the sphinx-like creature. "Thoth. Good to meet you. I am Satina." She then shifts her gaze to the woman. "And you as well Nephthys. You travel with your mentor?" She seems curious, and there is maybe the hint of a grin at the thought this woman required supervision. "I think we were getting drinks," she says, looking over at Zephirah. "Or maybe she was trying to get Zahara to drink, not sure. But in any case, join us?"
She turns to head towards the bar, then stops suddenly and turns back around, looking towards Nephthys and Thoth. "I meant the mentor - do you drink? Is your student allowed to drink?"
Ophelia remains staring after the departure of Lord Menkaure and his shadow, into the far distance in the direction that the pyramid is purported to be. Her hands clenching and unclenching involuntarily, her brief bout with lucidity vanished as if it had never been, and her voice a throaty whisper.
"Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away."
Like a wayward child, Ophelia drifts back to join the strangers who she now instinctively considers her companions. In the labyrinth of her own mind, she responds to Satina's words, though they were not meant for her. The candle of her thought flickering as if in a warm desert breeze.
No. Not meant for me. Meant for the Sphinx. Patron of scribes and counselor to the gods. Join. Drink. For that which joins shall still know life in death as all that decays is not forgotten, and reanimated it shall walk the world drinking in once more the fire reborn which knows the naming of you.
"I... I am Ophelia," she ventures again to everyone and no one, though she had already said so some time before. Hadn't she? She tries another smile.
"Alas, the youth of today does not heed the advice of their elders as they ought to."Is the only somewhat dry response coming from the tiny scholarly sphinx. "And no, I do not need to drink."It adds after a moment as if it was obvious that it wouldn't waste time on frivolities such as simply enjoying a drink.
The young dark-haired woman laughs softly as if it was an ongoing banter between the two. "Let's just say school is out and students are allowed to make their own choices."She says, her hands reaching for the tiny winged feline on her shoulder to place it on the table where it curls up and scoffs. "The student needs more of that golden delicious refreshment to make plans for tomorrow." The young woman says and follows Satina over to the bar to have her cup filled and perhaps something edible to go along with that. "Good to meet you Satina, you have a quite impressive armour if I may say so, have you seen a lot of fighting then?" She asks with a curious smile, her hand briefly touching the metal where it is visible.
Meanwhile the sphinx back at the table looks around at those still present. "I assume unlike my negligent student that you all know the history related to the tomb of Akhentepi?" It says but does not await any response before delivering a lengthy lecture on the subject with several less relevant anecdotes the sphinx finds quite amusing.
Excerpts from the lecture for those willing to endure it.
About 2,000 years ago, the cult of Lamashtu (goddess of monsters and madness) unleashed a terrible disease called the Plague of Madness on the city of Wati, where the Asp and Crook Rivers converge to form the River Sphinx in southeastern Osirion. More than 60 percent of the city's population perished in the streets and in their homes, and Wati was virtually abandoned for over 450 years. In 2953 AR, the church of Pharasma (goddess of birth, death, and fate) returned to Wati and established a new temple in the city's ruins called the Grand Mausoleum. Walling off much of the original city, the Pharasmins transformed the abandoned settlement into an enormous necropolis, consecrating it in honor of the city's dead. Over the next 1,700 years, people returned to rebuild a new city adjacent to the old one, and today the living city of Wati is more than three times the size of the old city.
Akhentepi was a celebrated military commander who presided over the troops garrisoned in Wati prior to the city's downfall. He was born in 2416 AR and died in 2488 AR, 11 years before the Plague of Madness decimated most of the city. His tomb is found in the large necropolis of that city. In addition to a successful military career, he had a loving wife and two children. But they befell some tragedy, possibly murder or sickness, and he was left widowed. He later took a mistress, who he planned to marry, but he died unexpectedly. He was intombed with his many slaves and collection of pet cats, all of which were mummified.
Seven years ago, Pharaoh Khemet III, the Ruby Prince, formally opened Osirion's ancient tombs and burial sites to foreign explorers. Unlike many of Osirion's tombs and graveyards, however, the necropolis of Wati has remained largely untouched, in no small part because of local taboos and the protection of the Grand Mausoleum's priests.
"I admit I strikes me as peculiar that our client has been able to procure that ring from a necropolis under the protection of the Grand Mausoleum."He finishes, curious eyes studying the ring on the tiefling's finger. "Would you mind terribly if I had a closer look at that?" He then asks the tiefling with the ring.
Zephirah lifts her silver eyes, the frustration of the night still lingering, but she musters a warm—if slightly forced—smile for Nephthys and Thoth. “Zephirah,” she offers graciously. “If ever you need something thoroughly charmed or irreverently critiqued, I’m your tiefling. I’m also the one who insists on another round to drown the memory of a disrupted evening.”
She waves a slender arm to catch the bartender’s attention. “Drinks all around! I believe we were in the midst of an academic endeavor, yes?” Her smile regains some of its sparkle as she turns to Zahara. “You’ll join me, of course, in thoroughly studying this tavern’s offerings—and anyone else who wishes to participate in our…research.” Her tone drips with playful irony, quietly acknowledging the group’s new commitments while searching for a fleeting moment of carefree levity.
"First, share what you know about the other group of adventurers and how it is that you are certain they perished? Also, if they perished, is it possible that others have acquired the information about how to find the pyramid from them?" The young dark-haired woman says with a concerned look. If she had learned anything from her former...empoyer, it was that information gathering and planning was essential to any success and she was not about to accept this mission without having the full picture of what could be expected.
"Yes, of course. Uncertainty shrouds this entire endeavor--an intricate web of ‘what-ifs.’ But as I have said, I am a specialist in speculative investments." Menkaure smiles, a bit grimly. "Should you accept, your sole obligation is to deliver the skull to me--provided, of course, that you are able to claim it."
He pauses, his expression momentarily unreadable before he continues. "As for the fate of the first expedition, I unraveled that mystery through scrying. They fell to the wrath of a khamsin. Swallowed whole by the sands. Whatever knowledge they possessed has been lost, buried alongside them beneath the desert’s unyielding embrace."
Nature DC 10 for "khamsin":
The iconic desert storms of Osirion are locally known as khamsin. These blasts of hot wind can last days, sweeping across the desert and carrying the dunes before them until the land is changed beyond recognition. Khamsin are capable of swallowing whole towns, uncovering ancient ruins, and scouring skin from the bones of anyone foolish enough to be trapped in one. Though they resemble the sandstorms encountered in other deserts on Golarion, the violent khamsin aren’t simply mere meteorological phenomena—they’re seasonal sandstorms made truly dangerous after being affected by spirited conflict between various elemental chieftains of wind and fire that dwell in Osirion’s deserts. Once set in motion, a khamsin can be as unpredictable and as tempestuous as the warring elementals themselves.
Zahara lets the silence settle between Menkaure’s words and her own. Her dark eyes measure him—the flicker of lamplight against his features, the quiet calculation woven through his carefully chosen truths. A khamsin. A sandstorm vast enough to swallow an entire expedition, leaving no trace but the whisper of their failure.
She turns the desert lily between her fingers, its petals turn crimson, dark as spilled wine beneath the lantern’s glow. A blood-flower, some call it—a bloom that thrives in the harshest places, where roots seek life among ruin. It is an omen of endurance. Or perhaps, of sacrifice.
Her fingers brush the petal’s edge, delicate but firm.
“You speak of faith,” she murmurs, her voice soft as the wind before the storm breaks. “Faith that we will fare better than those before us. That fortune will favor us where it abandoned them.” Her gaze lifts from the flower, steady as the shifting sands. “But faith is not enough.”
She lets the words linger—not as defiance, but as truth, immutable as the dunes.
“You are a man of influence, a weaver of fortunes,” Zahara continues, her tone measured, unhurried. “But even the most skilled hand cannot pluck coin from an empty purse.” The lily twirls slowly in her grasp, red against her desert-worn fingers. “You claim certainty in their deaths, but not in the tomb’s true location. Not in the skull’s existence. Not in what dangers lie beyond the veil of shifting sands.” She exhales slowly. “Yet still, you wager upon us.”
A moment’s pause. The desert does not rush, and neither does she.
Finally, Zahara sets the blood-flower down upon the table, its petals unfurling against the worn wood like a promise—or a warning.
“So be it.”
She leans back, the weight of her choice settling like sand through her veins. “We will seek what you desire. But know this, Menkaure—faith is not a contract. We promise only the hunt, not the prize.”
Her fingers brush the flower one last time before retreating.
“And should the dunes seek to bury us as they did the last, I expect you will not waste your gold scrying for our bones.”
Menkaure turns to Zephirah, his expression measured, his voice smooth.
"Mistress, I can sense your unease. Perhaps you fear losing your life to the merciless sands, or perhaps you fear my reprisal should you fail. Such concerns are natural, for I am but a stranger to you. But consider that I forfeit nothing by seeking your expertise. Yes, the expedition may falter, the tomb may yield nothing but dust, or the skull may slip beyond your grasp despite your finest efforts. These are risks I candidly assume.”
“I ask only for your word that should you lay hands upon the skull, you will, in good faith, attempt to see it delivered to me. And in return, whether or not my prize is found, the treasures of the pyramid shall be yours to claim."
"A younger version of myself would be astonished to hear it, but I have amassed enough wealth. Certainly, the adventurers buried beneath the sand, having given their lives in pursuit of our venture, owe me no further debt. I would ask no more of you. My reputation is one of good business and shrewd politics. Ask any merchant, scribe, or mason in Wati, Lord Menkaure’s word is gold!”
Satina shakes her head. "Yes, if Mankaure will tell us how to get to the tomb, pay for our transport, our supplies, and expect nothing more then I'd take the deal. I just can't imagine he is so dull witted."
She looks at their potential patron. "I think what they're all hinting at is that if we are successful in obtaining your skull they would like some additional reward to be guaranteed."
Her gaze moves around to the others to see if anyone wishes to correct her on her assumption.
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi ||
Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue || Satina Cindermark, Fighter || Meira Dheran, Rogue
Ophelia's mind barely registers the negotiation, promises of found wealth, the existence of competing parties (along with one apparently perished one), and danger of the khamsin, which is a phenomenon she cannot quite remember the meaning of, but might gather from context, were she paying attention.
She sways, her voice a sing-song whisper, soft, lilting, and lacking the tonal richness of Zephirah's.
"Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed..."
The repeated mention of the jeweled sphinx skull finally breaks through her reverie, stopping her short. Her violet eyes widen. Ophelia gasps, sudden lucidity warring with the habitual spiraling distraction upon her brow as her gaze finally falls directly upon their prospective benefactor.
"The shadows of the abyss are as the petals of a monstrous flower that shall blossom within the skull and expand the mind beyond what any man can endure or woman bear, Lord Menkaure. Tell me true, you say you desire the Sphinx Skull for prestige and honor and favor from the halls of power. Yet why does this artifact command such things other than renown? What is the skull? What can it do in capable hands? What fell magic lies within? If we risk encountering others who seek it, to comprehend their motives, we should know of its power."
Her voice falls to a whisper. "I have dreamed of it, images floating swimmingly swimmingly up through the drowned depths of the caverns and cracks in my mind, and the teeth of such dreams, the glittering jeweled jaws, I fear, inexorably, inexorably shall devour and sustain and herald the passing of an age. Gods help me."
Inge(Barbarian2): Krayveneer's After the Fall|Seri(Cleric1/Sorcerer1): Uhtred's Windward Isles|Xarian(Fighter1): NioNSwiper's Tyranny of Dragons
Dyson/Eleo(Cleric4): Vos' Beyond the Veil|Soren(Druid5): Bartjeebus' Ravenloft|Nivi(Rogue4): Raiketsu's CoS|Ophelia(Sorcerer3): Ashen_Age's Risen from the Sands
Joren(Fighter6): NotDrizzt's Simple Request|Toa(Barbarian6/Fighter4): MrWhisker's Dark Lord's Return|Sabetha(Monk3): Bedlymn's Murder Court
Zephirah tapped a nail gently against the wood of the table, a flicker of disappointment shadowing her golden gaze. She had hoped to press Menkaure into a verbal corner, to trap him in some careless phrasing she could later exploit—but the man was, regrettably, too polished for that. Slippery, yes, but clever. And clever men, while inconvenient, were often more interesting in the long run.
Still, his words had stirred something—her curiosity. The Jeweled Skull… such a name practically begged to be admired, studied, even… played with. After all, there had been no mention of urgency. No strict time frame. If they were to retrieve it—and if it truly existed—surely there was no harm in enjoying its mysteries for a while before presenting it like some gilded fruit at a nobleman’s banquet.
Her gaze slid sideways toward Satina, and she offered a languid smile. “Well, if you’re going, my dear, it would be criminal not to keep you company.” She turned back to Menkaure, her tone light but edged with velvet precision. “And I do think Satina’s made a fair point. If you wish to hasten our return, perhaps a token from your personal collection would pave the path. A palpable goal would certainly help us to find the quickest route.”
She raised her lyre and gently plucked a soft, dry note, like wind through hollow stone. “Consider it… an incentive. A glimpse of certain treasure not an ethereal promise that waits beneath the sand.” Her smile deepened, sly and knowing. “Sometimes the best way to ensure something is returned… is to let something be missed.”
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
For all the time Zahara has spent in Ophelia’s company, she has never truly understood her—until now.
As Ophelia gasps, her voice steadies, no longer adrift but anchored in something. The whimsy does not vanish, but beneath it lies something else: knowing. A truth fractured, shifting, glimpsed only in the spaces between her words.
Zahara watches in silence. Others might dismiss her as lost in riddles and reverie. But for the first time, as she listens—she begins to grasp the edges of what lies beneath.
Zahara folds her arms, the flickering lamplight catching in the bronze rings that adorn her fingers. She watches Zephirah with the faintest smirk, recognizing the subtle game at play. The bard’s words are a dance, weaving expectation and suggestion in seamless tandem.
Yet it is Ophelia’s earlier reverie that lingers in Zahara’s mind. The way her voice had sharpened—not lost in riddles, but warning of something real. Not a dream, but a premonition.
Her gaze flicks back to Menkaure. A token for an incentive? A fair ask. But she cannot shake the sense that they are not the only ones playing this game.
Still, she leans forward, her voice smooth, measured. “A gesture of faith, then. It does seem only fair, Lord Menkaure. Unless, of course… faith is something we should not afford you?”
Her eyes lock onto his, unblinking. A challenge. A test. If he means to lead them toward something greater—toward the shadows Ophelia fears—then he will have to prove that he is worth following.
Menkaure claps his hands together, his delight unmistakable. "I knew it! I knew it! Not only have I found capable adventurers, but shrewd negotiators. True scribes of the house." His grin is both knowing and amused. "Very well. A gift. A token of good faith."
Menkaure gently slides the golden serpent ring from his finger. Rather, it seems to slither free of its own accord. He turns it in his palm, the polished gold catching the light. "I believe your friend here admired this? Recovered from the tomb of Akhentepi, a celebrated commander who once led the forces of Wati before the plague swept through the land. A relic of power, it bears magic granting flight and the gift of insight into the minds of others. But its true potential is yet unwritten; it may be enchanted anew, molded to one's will."
He slides the ring to the center of the table. "Perhaps tonight, one in your party might bend its power to your purpose before setting out at dawn. May it serve you all well on the path ahead."
This is a Ring of Spell Storing, currently imbued with Fly and Detect Thoughts.
Menkaure continues. "While visiting Eto, I am residing at the home of Safira Neda, Field Director of the Ministry of Culture. The Ministry’s charge is to inspect the discoveries of the many explorers who seek the secrets buried beneath the sands of the Osirian Desert. Needless to say, our arrangement, and the very existence of the skull, must remain strictly private."
"Before dawn, you will find camels and provisions awaiting you at the stables adjacent to the bazaar. My man, Nesu, will be there to assist you with any final preparations before you set out. He will also provide you with a map. The weather will be unrelenting, as one might expect." He smirks slightly. "I will remain in Eto for another tenday before duty calls me back to Wati. Should you return after my departure, Nesu will be in town to see to my affairs, and you may deal with him in my stead. Should you recover the skull, I would be most pleased to welcome you as honored guests in my home. Nesu will be made aware of the necessary arrangements."
He clasps his hands together, inclining his head toward the table in a gesture of respect. "Thank you, my new friends. I have no doubt that our venture will prove mutually auspicious."
Zahara watches as Menkaure removes the ring, her eyes narrowing slightly at the way it seems to move of its own volition, the golden serpent slithering free as though it still draws breath. Not mere ornamentation, then. Something alive, in a way—if not in body, then in purpose.
She does not reach for it immediately. Instead, she studies Menkaure, his ever-present amusement, his self-assured delight at having won their favor. He plays his part well—generous, charming—but Zahara has spent enough time among the clever and the powerful to know that gifts are rarely given without expectation. Still, she asked for a token of faith, and he has provided one. That, at least, is worth acknowledging.
Slowly, she extends her hand, fingers brushing the cool gold before lifting it from the table. She turns the ring between her fingertips, feeling the weight of it, the smoothness of metal long handled, long worn. A relic of power. A thing that remembers.
She does not speak right away. Instead, she lifts her free hand, palm upward, and breathes a single whispered syllable. A faint shimmer of green-gold light gathers at her fingertips, coalescing into the form of a delicate bloom—desert lavender, tiny and fragile, a thing of life in the midst of dust and timeworn stone.
She sets the flower down before Menkaure, as ephemeral as the desert breeze. A response not in words, but in acknowledgment. A gift, however fleeting, for a gift given.
Then, slipping the ring onto her finger, she meets his gaze, eyes steady. “May it serve well indeed.”
The young dark-haired woman had a lingering feeling that the group of adventurers their client claimed to have been lost in the desert will still somehow have a part to play in this, but there was no use asking more questions about them. She gives the teifling, and then the others, a concerned look as the tiefling takes the ring and places it on her finger. She had no claim to it herself but she hoped the others would be as understanding. Perhaps they all knew each other and had no reason to challenge the tiefling for the ring.
Having no further questions to their client, she leans back in her chair, enjoying her golden drink while waiting for the man to leave so that she could get to know her new companions before setting out into the desert with them.
Zephirah’s silvery eyes trace the serpent’s slither with open distaste, lingering on the ring now perched on Zahara’s finger. A spell to pry into someone’s thoughts? She tenses at the idea—thoughts should remain one’s own, not scavenged by gold-plated curiosities. Still, she makes no move to claim the trinket. She offered Menkaure a bargain, not a key to her mind. Now that she knows what power it holds, it seems less a gift than a quiet threat.
Exhaling softly, she shifts her attention to the others. “I’ll be content with the comfort of a decent saddle and a swift camel,” she murmurs under her breath, voice tinged with subdued resignation. A few dry chords from her lyre drift in lazy succession—music without meaning. The excitement she’d felt earlier has dulled to a pragmatic acceptance of the journey ahead. “Let’s hope we reach that pyramid quickly and avoid another khamsin. Storms, mind reading… the night’s revealed enough ugliness for now. I need another drink just to swallow it all.” Despite her clipped tone, a half-smile toys at the corner of her lips, 'We need to get back to our thorough research.'
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
Satina watches the exchange of the ring and Menkaure's explanation that seems to presume to have concluded their talk. She watches Zahara, who seems quite content.
Finally she turns to Menkaure. "I do not doubt your gift is of great value. Yet it seems you have made a deal with Zahara, but none of the rest of us. A curious choice, but your camels, provisions, and map will be most helpful." And she leaves it at that.
She looks to Zephirah with a nod. "Yes, a drink. Let's enjoy this evening so we can turn to more serious things tomorrow." Her eyes shift over to the dark haired woman and her sphix-cat. "And we should get to know you if we're going to be working together."
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi ||
Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue || Satina Cindermark, Fighter || Meira Dheran, Rogue
The pact seemingly formed, Lord Menkaure Al-Saqqara, the Jackal of the Sands, rises with grace. His black and indigo silk cape whispers as it drapes over his shoulder. He offers a final bow as a fleeting acknowledgment before he vanishes into the shifting currents of the room.
From the gathering, she emerges, silent, unseen until now. A phantom in studded leather, a khopesh gleaming at her side, she joins Menkaure like a shadow. White silks obscure her face, save for her eyes, which are watchful, unreadable, brushing over your group like a blade barely drawn from its sheath.
A tambourine rattles. The wind stirs, hot and restless. And, like smoke in the night, the pair are gone.
"And we you..." The young dark-haired woman answers the heavily armoured one. "...since we are trading at this table we will trade our names for yours." She continues with a playful smile to the armoured woman although the tiny bluish winged feline on her naked shoulder seems unamused by her foolery, simply rolling his eyes once more. "You would have to excuse her, she is still under tutelage. The girl's name is Nephthys and I am her mentor Thoth. We are both honoured to have your companionship on this endeavour." The tiny sphinx says with it's quite scholarly voice. The pair of them looks around at the others present hoping for more names to be shared.
Satina's eyes shift to focus on the sphinx-like creature. "Thoth. Good to meet you. I am Satina." She then shifts her gaze to the woman. "And you as well Nephthys. You travel with your mentor?" She seems curious, and there is maybe the hint of a grin at the thought this woman required supervision. "I think we were getting drinks," she says, looking over at Zephirah. "Or maybe she was trying to get Zahara to drink, not sure. But in any case, join us?"
She turns to head towards the bar, then stops suddenly and turns back around, looking towards Nephthys and Thoth. "I meant the mentor - do you drink? Is your student allowed to drink?"
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi ||
Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue || Satina Cindermark, Fighter || Meira Dheran, Rogue
Ophelia remains staring after the departure of Lord Menkaure and his shadow, into the far distance in the direction that the pyramid is purported to be. Her hands clenching and unclenching involuntarily, her brief bout with lucidity vanished as if it had never been, and her voice a throaty whisper.
"Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
Like a wayward child, Ophelia drifts back to join the strangers who she now instinctively considers her companions. In the labyrinth of her own mind, she responds to Satina's words, though they were not meant for her. The candle of her thought flickering as if in a warm desert breeze.
No. Not meant for me. Meant for the Sphinx. Patron of scribes and counselor to the gods. Join. Drink. For that which joins shall still know life in death as all that decays is not forgotten, and reanimated it shall walk the world drinking in once more the fire reborn which knows the naming of you.
"I... I am Ophelia," she ventures again to everyone and no one, though she had already said so some time before. Hadn't she? She tries another smile.
Inge(Barbarian2): Krayveneer's After the Fall|Seri(Cleric1/Sorcerer1): Uhtred's Windward Isles|Xarian(Fighter1): NioNSwiper's Tyranny of Dragons
Dyson/Eleo(Cleric4): Vos' Beyond the Veil|Soren(Druid5): Bartjeebus' Ravenloft|Nivi(Rogue4): Raiketsu's CoS|Ophelia(Sorcerer3): Ashen_Age's Risen from the Sands
Joren(Fighter6): NotDrizzt's Simple Request|Toa(Barbarian6/Fighter4): MrWhisker's Dark Lord's Return|Sabetha(Monk3): Bedlymn's Murder Court
"Alas, the youth of today does not heed the advice of their elders as they ought to." Is the only somewhat dry response coming from the tiny scholarly sphinx. "And no, I do not need to drink." It adds after a moment as if it was obvious that it wouldn't waste time on frivolities such as simply enjoying a drink.
The young dark-haired woman laughs softly as if it was an ongoing banter between the two. "Let's just say school is out and students are allowed to make their own choices." She says, her hands reaching for the tiny winged feline on her shoulder to place it on the table where it curls up and scoffs. "The student needs more of that golden delicious refreshment to make plans for tomorrow." The young woman says and follows Satina over to the bar to have her cup filled and perhaps something edible to go along with that. "Good to meet you Satina, you have a quite impressive armour if I may say so, have you seen a lot of fighting then?" She asks with a curious smile, her hand briefly touching the metal where it is visible.
Meanwhile the sphinx back at the table looks around at those still present. "I assume unlike my negligent student that you all know the history related to the tomb of Akhentepi?" It says but does not await any response before delivering a lengthy lecture on the subject with several less relevant anecdotes the sphinx finds quite amusing.
Excerpts from the lecture for those willing to endure it.
About 2,000 years ago, the cult of Lamashtu (goddess of monsters and madness) unleashed a terrible disease called the Plague of Madness on the city of Wati, where the Asp and Crook Rivers converge to form the River Sphinx in southeastern Osirion. More than 60 percent of the city's population perished in the streets and in their homes, and Wati was virtually abandoned for over 450 years. In 2953 AR, the church of Pharasma (goddess of birth, death, and fate) returned to Wati and established a new temple in the city's ruins called the Grand Mausoleum. Walling off much of the original city, the Pharasmins transformed the abandoned settlement into an enormous necropolis, consecrating it in honor of the city's dead. Over the next 1,700 years, people returned to rebuild a new city adjacent to the old one, and today the living city of Wati is more than three times the size of the old city.
Akhentepi was a celebrated military commander who presided over the troops garrisoned in Wati prior to the city's downfall. He was born in 2416 AR and died in 2488 AR, 11 years before the Plague of Madness decimated most of the city. His tomb is found in the large necropolis of that city. In addition to a successful military career, he had a loving wife and two children. But they befell some tragedy, possibly murder or sickness, and he was left widowed. He later took a mistress, who he planned to marry, but he died unexpectedly. He was intombed with his many slaves and collection of pet cats, all of which were mummified.
Seven years ago, Pharaoh Khemet III, the Ruby Prince, formally opened Osirion's ancient tombs and burial sites to foreign explorers. Unlike many of Osirion's tombs and graveyards, however, the necropolis of Wati has remained largely untouched, in no small part because of local taboos and the protection of the Grand Mausoleum's priests.
"I admit I strikes me as peculiar that our client has been able to procure that ring from a necropolis under the protection of the Grand Mausoleum." He finishes, curious eyes studying the ring on the tiefling's finger. "Would you mind terribly if I had a closer look at that?" He then asks the tiefling with the ring.
Zephirah lifts her silver eyes, the frustration of the night still lingering, but she musters a warm—if slightly forced—smile for Nephthys and Thoth. “Zephirah,” she offers graciously. “If ever you need something thoroughly charmed or irreverently critiqued, I’m your tiefling. I’m also the one who insists on another round to drown the memory of a disrupted evening.”
She waves a slender arm to catch the bartender’s attention. “Drinks all around! I believe we were in the midst of an academic endeavor, yes?” Her smile regains some of its sparkle as she turns to Zahara. “You’ll join me, of course, in thoroughly studying this tavern’s offerings—and anyone else who wishes to participate in our…research.” Her tone drips with playful irony, quietly acknowledging the group’s new commitments while searching for a fleeting moment of carefree levity.
Despite the fading notes of their earlier amusements, Zephirah’s gentle strumming picks up tempo. Somewhere between the desire to forget the day’s business and the readiness to face the morrow’s unknowns, her music becomes a buoy—light, inviting, and just mischievous enough to draw her companions a little closer.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||