Journal: Discovery of the Tomb (Day 16)

by Tavara Sewel

"Why do I write? I must… not so much because there must be some record of this… what’s happened here… as for my own sanity. The act of putting pen to paper calms me, focuses me, even in this madness. Lysander is dead. So many are dead. And we’re trapped here, trapped forever in this nightmare. He would not let us pass, wild in his psychosis, furious, spitting, covered in blood, he swung the ancient dagger at any who approached. He babbled incoherently, cursed at us, the most hateful curses, prophecy, doom upon us. Bergen would have none of it. Finally, he leapt at Lysander, his massive axe at his side. But he would not be the end of the mad mage… no… they were… those hands, covered in the dirt of the grave, maggots, filth. They rose up behind Lysander. That look of curiosity on the mage’s face as Bergen skidded to a halt… t’was almost a moment of sanity for him, surely, to attempt to comprehend what could have stopped the warrior in his tracks. And then they were upon him. Skeletal hands, arms, and faces with loose, corrupted flesh hanging from yellow bone. Inhuman, yet once human, staggering towards us as their companions tore at Lysander, coming towards us in droves."

Day 16, Later

"We Ran. What could we do? We ran back towards the entrance, cutting at them when we could. T’was a nightmare, and yet nothing to prepare us for what would come. We were almost there, the entrance to the abhorred crypt in sight. Then the earth shook with such a force that we were dropped to our hands and knees, stumbling in the darkness with those... those things surely behind us. The noise of falling rock and crumbling stone drowned out our piteous cries. No sign of the entrance remained. We owe our lives to Bergen, whose wits returned quickly. That he could make us hurry back into the main antechamber... actually run back towards those eldritch dead that stalked us. But we did, the strength of his convictions enough for us in the moment.

And at our campsite we erected our last defense, a pitiable wall of wood and stone, anything at hand that might block the tide of those nightmare creatures. And I sit against it even now. I can hear their moans, their wailing cries in the distance – they’ll be here soon, even at the unhurried pace of the shuffling dead."