- Peace and quiet. It’s always relaxing to walk through an empty mine. There’s no noise, no bustle, and even the walls themselves seem to breathe a sigh of relief after being hammered all day. “No worries, you’ll yield more beauties to us come the morning.” he said, patting the wall. He was here for different reasons tonight. The mine had been producing a fine amount of gold, and even after two weeks the men were still as excited as school children on holiday. Lots of laughter and optimism around the cook fires, and only a little trouble from the local savages. Nothing the guards couldn’t handle. The first shipment of gold was heading back to Amber in the morning, and there were some final experiments to run before solving the mystery of what happened to the previous inhabitants. Kiff doesn’t pay well for slow work, so the report had best be finished tonight.
First stop, the vertical shaft. The smell was mostly gone, and the workers have been mining with no ill effects, but there was still one more thing to check. Taking a long string, he lowered a slip of paper down the shaft and tied it to a nearby beam. Off to stop number two.
The crypt itself was unofficially off-limits. There wasn’t much gold in this part of the mine, and no one wanted to be near the sarcophagus or bas-reliefs. Or the corpses. Those mercenaries did good work here, but dragging the destroyed undead out of the mine was an unappealing chore upon arrival and no one dared or bothered to come and get them out of here. “Not that anyone has even seen these but myself and the foreman”, he thought. If there was a shadow darkening the mining operation this crypt would naturally be it. However, everyone likes a good ghost story, and by now the crypt was part of the nightly banter and local color.
Dwarven darkvision or not, a little real light was needed here. He held his lantern aloft and looked around. The art and runes it illuminated were disturbing to behold. Promises of disease and undeath to defilers were unsettling to read when you were alone in an ancient crypt in the middle of the night. “Okay now, I’m not taking anything, and I’m at least the third visitor you’ve had recently, so leave me be.” He said aloud, almost like a prayer. Then he approached the shattered vase. Raising an enlarging lens, he looked at the cross section of the pottery by the light of the lantern. Interesting. For a crypt this old the techniques used to make this piece were quite…
…did something just move? He whipped his head around and peered into the shadows. It wasn’t the corpses, as they were on the far side of the room from whatever he thought he saw, and he only found himself staring at the wall. Strange. Must have been a flicker from the lantern. Back to the cross section. The clay they used was quite pure. He’d already learned that the residue inside the vase was a poison, virulent and once laced with necromantic magic but now inert and non magical. The examination of the pottery cross section and the arrangement of the pottery shards in the room left little doubt. The poison had been an inhalant, kept under pressure in the vase. When the crypt was originally breached…
…something definitely moved this time. Stepping away from the vase he raised his light and looked around. Nothing was moving now. He peered at the wall again. Had some of the glyphs changed? He’d spent some time trying to translate them before but he was no expert, and he couldn’t recall exactly what they were. Alchemy and history were his better strengths. “By Torag, I wish I had my blade.” he whispered, cocking his arm that held the lantern back. A face full of flaming oil would serve for self defense, maybe. He held perfectly still, poised for action, and the silence stretched on ominously. A trickle of sweat rolled from his temple to his braided beard as he tried to control his breath. He took a careful step backwards, and another.
And then it happened. Several glyphs around the room changed at once, the ancient pigments writhing and twisting like black worms slithering from a corpse. He didn’t see what happened next, as he had already squeezed through the exit and was in the hall beyond. He climbed over the simple barricade and stopped, staring at the crypt entrance, wide eyed and panting. His face felt too hot in the cool mine, yet his feet felt frozen to the floor. “Move!” he urged himself, “Move. Move!” and his legs finally found their purpose. He ran down the hall, and somehow remembered to grab his slip of paper from the shaft before fleeing the mine.
He stopped just outside the entrance, relieved to be breathing the cool night air. The guards on night watch didn’t notice him or his light. They were looking for threats from outside, not within. He shuttered the lantern and went to his tent. He sat at his camp desk, uncorked his reserve of Dwarven pepper whiskey, and took a long pull, disdaining his cup for faster delivery. Well that was a uniquely terrifying experience. He looked at his shaking hands and forced a laugh. “So much for ghost stories”, he muttered. Thank Torag the work was now complete. He checked the paper. The solution it was coated with reacted to the air as he suspected; the old poison was heavier than air and settled into the dead end shaft. Proper ventilation cleared it from the rest of the mine some time ago.
The whiskey was definitely helping. He took some more, filling his cup and draining half. He got his writing tools and wrote his report. It would seem that when the crypt was breached the miners unleashed an especially clever trap. The breach caused a change in the crypt’s air pressure, triggering the vase to explode and expel its contents. The airborne poison alone was deadly enough, but the ancient Urgathoans had enchanted the dust with necromantic power. There was evidence of alteration magic as well, probably something to ensure the explosion would cover a greater area than physics would normally allow. Urgathoan priests may still know the methods used to do this but Kiff wasn’t paying him nearly enough to conduct those kinds of interviews. That could be someone else’s job. The poison killed the miners and imposed undeath on the remains. It was fortunate that some of it settled in the vertical shaft; this mystery would have been harder to unravel if not for that. All of this was written in code, of course. The report was signed, stored in a leather tube, and was ready for delivery.
On second thought, there was no reason to stay. The foreman knew who his real employer was and would cover for his absence. He’d deliver his report in person and demand some hazard pay. And then someone else could come out and keep an eye on things for Kiff. Just thinking about the crypt got his hands shaking again, but it was easier to ignore now that he was pleasantly dizzy from the liquor. He quickly packed his camp desk, his research gear, and the rest of his things. Finally he topped off his glass, downed it, and laid down.
He woke up later than he intended the next morning. From the sounds outside it was obvious that the supply wagon had arrived. He tried to sit up but fell back. The headache was terrible, and it wasn’t just from the spirits. Or maybe it was, if you think of that word another way. He raised a shaky hand to his forehead and knew he was fevered. His breath felt a little raspy, too. This was bad. He forced himself up and rummaged through his bag, producing a vial of antiplague and choking it down. Foul tasting but hopefully effective. Then he found a dose of Alchemist’s Friend. Great for hangovers but in this case it would serve to mask his symptoms and minimize unnecessary questions.
Moments later he was bringing his things out to the wagon. Just in time; it seemed they were ready to depart. He waved at the driver and approached. “Heading back to Amber. Mind if I ride in the back?” “Cost you a silver to ride” was the reply. The driver kindly added, “You look like a sick goblin’s piss pot”. Thanks for that. He flicked a coin to him. “I’d always heard goblins were incontinent. Just like wagon drivers.” He climbed into the wagon and laid back down, not caring about finding a comfortable position. He was fast asleep when the wagon started moving.