"Eh? Well," Roland paused and recalled Henri's supposed translation of the engraving. "Isn't 'he' the heathen? That's what it sounded like," he shrugged. "Anyways, I'm pretty sure whoever ‘he’ is died a long time ago. Unless he was immortal or something, I guess.”

And he very well could have been immortal, but that seemed a rather far off conclusion to jump to just from reading a small, probably incomplete story on the wall of some archway. Roland was already stretching his belief limits by entertaining Henri’s absurd claim to actually being able to read and understand this extinct language. He was not going to accept that some heathen king could be in the treasury and laughing manically. Although, spiders were a different story. There could maybe be spiders and that would probably be bad.

“Anyways,” Roland said, gesturing towards the entrance once more: “Ladies first.”

"If he is immortal our weapons aren't gonna do us much good either." Absurdity knew no bounds for Henri. For Roland it may have been more just playing along with his friend's crazy ideas, but when you're the one recognizing a language you've never seen in ancient ruins you've never explored, an immortal being guarding some kind of secret treasure didn't seem to unlikely.

"Hm." Pouting, he was seriously considering the possibility. "Oh! My Roland you're such a gentleman." He helped himself along the archway, imitating a girlish giggle and gait a little too well.

Roland thought on commenting about just how well Henri's imitation had been, but thought twice about it for fear of Henri taking it as a compliment. It would not have been a compliment.

The entrance of the archway was spacious, looking up would give the two an idea of just how impressive the architecture was; it was an endless rise of hand-carved stone with little wear and tear, despite the poor condition that the previous parts of the ruin had been in, and neither of the two would be able to tell just how far up the walls went. Of everything they had seen in the ruins thus far - admittedly, not much more than broken debris - it was, without a doubt, the most obvious signs that people really had lived here. Thousands of years before, some extinct civilization had touched these stone walls, traveled through here, possibly died on the very floor they now tread, and here they were, much later, strolling through on some adventure.

Roland loved it and was pretty sure that Henri, too, was enjoying himself.

The distance between either wall was easily enough for three or four men to walk shoulder-to-shoulder and still have an inch to spare between one another, but, even so, they would begin to widen just a tad bit, more and more, until, finally, an exit was in sight: It was a rectangle of darkness created from the small amount of illumination that Henri and Roland’s torches provided. Like the rest of the ruin, it was dead-quiet, without even the sound of scurrying vermin, chittering spiders, or any other obvious signs of life. The immortal being guarding the ancient treasure appeared to not exist.

Nearing the entry-way, Roland would rush ahead just a bit and poke his torch and head in, leaning forwards just slightly; he looked around, from side to side, moving his torch to and fro’ before turning to face Henri: “There’s pictures on the walls and junk.”

The room was circular and quite well-kept considering its location; it had several great stone columns that rose from floor-to-ceiling and, of course, this ceiling was (comparatively) much lower than the one that had been present - but obscured - in the archway’s hall. Although Henri and Roland would have to squint to see it in the darkness, they would be able to just barley make out the fact that the ceiling above, like the walls surrounding them, was painted upon. The pictures, themselves, was what an educated man not from River’s End would call a mural - and this mural seamlessly continued a story that was being presented on the walls; it was very hard to make out (or comprehend what little they could make out, given the lack of context) the images above, however. Likewise, some of the wall paintings showed men and women of very odd make, as well: Multiple or missing limbs, several mouths, a single eye, arms that ended in points or legs that bent inwards; it was all very odd looking, though well painted, Roland had to admit.

In-between each pillar and in front of each wall was an exhibit of some sort, some ranging from psychotic-looking sculptures, to contraptions, to mechanisms of curious design, and, eventually, on the far right side of the room, to weapons.

Roland found himself gravitating towards the far right exhibits.

In the northern wall, the wall facing the entrance that had lead into this room of artifacts, was another entryway - presumably, this lead to another chamber or maybe even an exit - and, like many of the exhibits, there was an engraving nearby that featured more of the same odd words from before.

"Whoah..."

Henri gazed up and marveled at the ceiling, of which there was none.Maybe they just needed a stronger light, but he couldn't see anything above him. Perhaps there wasn't a ceiling to be found. Perhaps, they'd venture so far down they weren't in River's End at all, but in the very pits of the earth, some kind of underworld or something like the land of the dead or other story. He'd heard many, and they were all exciting his imagination. At any rate, for safety he wouldn't be eating any of the food here, or else he'd never return.

It was nothing like the small worn down tunnel they'd been traveling through.

Ksssh....ksssh. The sound of the stone scraping the wall didn't seem to echo or bounce of the walls anymore, but disappear into the blackness itself. No tunnel worm with hands could have created this, and if it did he'd hate to see the size of the thing.

But there was nothing, not a sound. You'd figure a worm that size would make some kind of noise, like a slipping or sliding, but he heard absolutely nothing until Roland spoke up. “There’s pictures on the walls and junk.”

"Really?" Roland was a bit ahead of Henri, so he hadn't seen it quite yet, but rushed immediately into the room to inspect the area. Henri almost made a bee line for the towering structures in the middle of the room, but something he saw from the corner of his eye stopped him dead in his tracks.

The wall.

As if the wall were going to bite him, Henri approached it with great caution, squinting his eyes and cocking his head in confusion and disbelief. Those images, they were.."Rolaaaand." He called (quietly of course) his friend over to him, a hint of concern in his voice, he'd been acting weird ever since the start of the job. "I don't think it's an accident that we're here."

Roland dismissively waved Henri off and continued inspecting several of the weapon exhibits; he, not feeling the need to be careful, even went so far as to heft up a large, bone-like sword from its stand and marveled at the weight of the thing; it wasn't that it was heavy, but that it was incredibly light and easy to hold.

Truthfully, even if he believed that Henri could read the magical extinct language of jagged text and symbols, it would have been incredibly hard to pull himself away from these swords, because they held his attention like no other, something about them - how light they were and how odd they looked; he couldn’t tear himself away from them; at least, not until he figured out how to ferret one of the weapons away without the Esconian soldiers noticing.

“Yeah, yeah-you’ve seen all this before,” Roland shouted over his shoulder with a touch of sarcasm. “Kind of busy right now, ‘tho.”

Roland could not be reached and messages were being deleted after the beep. Maybe Henri would have more luck investigating on his own.

Henri began his day the way he always did, late, sore, tired, hungover, and barely dragging himself off to work. He remembered not being at all excited about having to dig a hole and that the day just went downhill from there. His friend Roland had come to get him as usual, only this time he was dressed differently, and smoking, leaning up against the wall. Roland would also break some weird news in an unusual language.

They weren't digging holes, he walked him over a bridge farther away from their destination, to show him...someone dying? He was confused, and as people walked by their numbers of limbs and other body parts seemed to grow and grow. Just like the people on the wall. They were just like in his dream.

"B-but I have..." He said more to himself with a pout and a mumble, protesting in a child's whine. "well I'm gonna check out the walls some more. What did you find? Anything we can take home?" He said looking back at Roland.

Roland had replaced the sword onto its stand and moved over to a collection of daggers; they were made of the same material as the sword, but, surprisingly, were much heavier. Like before, Roland didn't really turn to face Henri and instead shouted over his shoulder: "Just some weapons. Cool stuff," he shrugged and looked the weapons back over again; he could probably sneak a dagger off, but, on the other hand, a sword would have been so much cooler.

In order to check out and appreciate the mural, it would make the most sense to begin with the very first segment and move on from there; it started on the left side of the room and had a small engraving, like most other things in the room nearby; in this case, it was just below the mural and read:



Unlike the words inscribed upon the archway's entrance, these letters did not twist, skitter or otherwise attempt to remove themselves from prying eyes; instead, they seemed far more intricate and sophisticated - there was no feelings of loss and sadness, but, in their place, there was a sensation of terror, anxiety, and . . . excitement.

Like a snake, a shiver would attempt to work its way into a coil down Henri's spine.

The words, if read, would imprint themselves upon Henri’s mind and his vision would blur immediately as the painted pictures on the wall begin to bleed into one another.

Quite suddenly, there was an eruption of sound, of angry shouting and fearful pleads.

If Henri looked to see if Roland was reacting to the sounds, he would be able to see that his friend was quite removed from the situation, he was there, still in sight, but phased out, almost a dim figment of corporeal existence. If he could hear the sounds coming from the mural, it did not show.

Alongside the sounds that the mural was producing, the images were moving, men and women were making demands, speaking and yelling, and a humanoid man, the most natural looking in the picture, made his way through an empty line of space between two great oceans of multi-limbed creatures. The man spoke to no one as he traveled through the city and, eventually, came to a stop just before two unbelievably large doors.

The scene was unfolding during the morning and dealt with the arrival of a foreign power - Maut, the Djinn had called him - to the Mother City, to the Point of Reflection, specifically; it was also an unforgivable interruption to the crowning of the last king of Sadh, the Marīd and Ifrīt controlled temple city.

The noise became a deafening roar as the man placed his hand atop the surface of the doors.

Unopened for centuries, the doors slowly creaked open as rays of pristine light shot through the passage. The crowd of Djinn closed in on itself and grew deathly quiet, expectant and anxious.

Without hesitation, the lone figure continued on his way. His steps echoed, bouncing off the floor, walls, and ceiling of the forbidden place.

Silent, sickening outrage and fear blossomed within the crowd

Only their High King, the lord and ruler of the Djinn, had ever stepped before the Reflection; it was a holy place that had never once been sullied, defiled or otherwise made to suffer the presence of a heathen. Yet, all gathered knew who graced them, who chose to be the first blasphemer, and who could wipe them all out in an instant - Death, he wore it like a mantle.

The doors slammed with a thundering boom.

The mural grew still once more.

"Oh sweet deal! I'll check em out in a bit. These murals are ..." Henri paused and struggled to find a proper word to describe the murals, speaking to Roland the same way Roland was to him, talking, but not in his direction, unable to look away from the pictures. What were the murals? They were interesting, awesome, but they crossed the line as soon as they began moving.

"What the...." Henri mumbled to himself, squinting his eyes and bringing his face closer to the wall to get a better look. The mural was moving, as if it was playing out the scenes of a movie. The movie was probably called Sabah al-Maut and it felt like, some kind of horror movie he was excited to see?

There was definitely fear, and it shook his body, causing Henri to twitch a bit in a violent shiver and his vision to fog over. This seemed more and more like the symptoms of a sort of illness. When the silence of the cave was broken by the screaming and shouting of the cave paintings, they startled Henri, causing him to jump up in a start.

"AH! R-Rolaaaaand!" He called Roland again in the same whine, only this time it sounded more urgent. "C-come lookit this." It might have been a reaction to the shit Roland fed him at breakfast or something, he wanted to know if Roland saw what he saw, just to be safe.

The story seemed to be about someone important of a higher power, being called to a duty of sorts, tending to some kind of gravely serious and important responsibility behind the two towering doors. From the doors a bright slit of light shot out from between them, and Henri reached his hand out to caress the scene, to see if the wall was still in front of him at all. It rippled like the waves in a pond, if it was the wall it wasn't very solid.

The figure disappeared into the doors that slammed behind him and the mural stopped rippling and moving. If Roland actually came to Henri he would find him pale and staring up at the mural, nervous and afraid.

For however long it took the scene to unfold in its entirety, Roland did not move or say anything - no, it was better put that he could not move or say anything; after all, once the mural was activated, everything outside its viewing area became irrelevant for the duration. For a brief period of time, Henri and Roland were no longer sharing a common reality. The latter was pushed further away from the former, who had been temporarily thrown into a head-long dive towards the unreal.


“What?” Roland turned from the weapons for the first time; he violently swung his torch to bear as he glared at Henri. The whining was really starting to grate on his nerves; it would not be long before Roland got fed up and left Henri in the chamber by himself. Earlier today may have been forgiven, but it wasn’t entirely forgotten. “I am trying my best here, Hen’, but I can’t take much more. Do not call me again.”

And then Roland turned back away from Henri and moved over to a selection of bows.

It was now in Henri’s best interest to take a hint for once in his life and leave Roland alone. He was aggravated and deep in thought - and this was a very bad combination. He had important things to think about . . . He had things to do and to accomplish; and god dammit, he wanted one of these things to take home.

Matha tureed?

A voice -

Maa‘refa?

Old and stern -

Kuwa?

Strong and powerful -

The voice was asking something - its words were in the same language written all over the ruins, but its pronunciation was different ... It was translatable, but Henri would have to devote a considerable amount of time to it. And brain power. More than that, the voice seemed to be beckoning to him; it was asking him something.

In the north of the room, there was a small rectangular engraving just outside an entryway that lead to another, smaller chamber, and a word was written atop its surface. It was calling him . . .

"BUt I-! I just wanted-! The walls are-!" All Henri wanted to do was show Roland the wall, it wouldn't kill him to leave the swords for two seconds to take a peak now would it? He was so injured by Roland's words and how unfair he was being that he was tripping over his own protests. "Fine whatever." And he couldn't do anything about it, especially not when Roland was in that kind of mood.

"You're right, who cares if the walls are coming to life anyway." He muttered sarcastically to himself, because if he gave Roland that kind of attitude he would be left alone in the dark spooky cave. He turned away dejectedly when suddenly, a voice...

Matha tureed?

Maa'refa?

Kuwa?

More strange sights and sounds he didn't understand, powerful and beckoning, asking some kind of question he didn't know the answer to, yet. How would he discover it, were the voices real? If this was some allergic reaction induced delirium? Second guessing your reality wasn't a healthy habit, but ignoring it wasn't an option. It was just too real.

He wanted adventure and he was getting adventure. His adventure began at the entryway, the voices said so, or so it seemed. He didn't understand the language but the words penetrated his mind with orders to go to the entryway, so go he must.

If Roland could peel his eyes away from the weapons, maybe out of the corner of his vision he'd see his friend walk towards the entryway in a trance, eyes affixed onto some weird text chiseled into it.

The letters engraved near the entryway were lightly stroke, but were wide and slanted; they looped in several places and ended in a swift, bold slash.


There was a very sudden, powerful and quite physical shift in the chamber. Like a heavy fog drifting into the room, the air felt heavy and humid and damp; it was not entirely unpleasant, however, because just underneath the fog, there was something else - something that wasn't disheartening, that was, instead, . . . pleasing. It was hidden, however, pushed deep underneath the Unreal cloak that wafted about the room.

The chamber connected to the entryway was shining and golden; it was the first and only source of light to present itself down in the ruins that wasn’t brought by the expedition team. The hall that lead to this next chamber had finely detailed markings chiseled up and down its length, some were of a great dragon, others of multi-armed men and women holding up an icon, a symbol - it was all almost religious looking.

Inside the chamber was four pillars, much like the ones outside, but these met a low ceiling and boxed in a shining, golden pedestal and artifact.

The artifact, floating a mere fraction of an inch from the surface of the pedestal, was a crystal the size of a man’s fist; it was flat and rough, but was quite obviously valuable . . . It had an entire chamber dedicated to it; it was also something or religious focus, from the looks of it, too.

Behind the columns that guarded the pedestal was a statue with sunken eyes, thin lips and hunched shoulders. It was a pitiful sight . . .

Henri was acting strange. Ever since the expedition he'd been giving mixed emotional signals, whining and complaining despite supposedly being super thrilled about the trip. He was scared, hearing the unhearable and seeing the unseeable, and if Roland saw Henri now, he would look quite ill.



He'd have no idea why Henri suddenly shuddered and fell to his knees as if bracing for some kind of imaginary impact, but for Henri the room physically shifted and shuttered, as if it was shedding it's old decrepit skin and replacing it with a more glamorous golden hide. It wasn't all that bad.

Bringing himself back to his feet, he walked into the room and looked at his new surroundings. The room represented the other room Roland was in behind him, only a more spiffed up version, it had the pillars and the stuff in the middle, only this time instead of swords it was a GIANT GLITTERING CRYSTAL.

"Whoah nice." Henri walked up to the crystal and inspected it, it's light shimmering and dancing of his wide greedy eyes. The gem commanded attention in the room, it drew attention, it was the focal point. The thing commanded so much respect and seemed so gosh darned important that Henri felt he should look elsewhere first, and save the best for last.

The walls were his first target, he inspected them, just in case the images decided to start moving again.

The chiseled images from the hall leading into the chamber did, indeed, make their way to the walls of the chamber, itself, but they were not murals; they did not have a name or anything of the like. Still, they were obviously of the highest craftsmanship, detailed and awe-striking.

A great dragon spread its wings wide atop the surface of the wall as kneeling figures bent in worship of the beast. The wall went on with the dragon giving the crystal to the Djinn, presenting it to them as a gift or . . . or a trust. It was hard to make out the exact context of the pictures, but the carvings definitely did their best to tell their story.

Kaaed al-Malik

The voce spoke again, but it was a harsh whisper, almost a spitting insult hidden underneath its breath; it did not elaborate, but the words translated themselves in Henri’s mind as: Leader of Kings - and it may have been what the Djinn had titled the dragon.

After the crystal was gifted, the dragon left on its way, never reappearing on the wall, and, after a few more scenes, the wall carvings came to an abrupt stop in a series of ugly alterations; it was like someone had rashly attempted to erase whatever had been there.

He watched the carvings perform their story, in a room of gold and riches, standing still and ignoring all the shimmer around him to place events from last night up until this very moment together. The dream, the murals, the engravings, all of it.

"Kaaed al-Malik!" The voices spat at him, he knew what to do but he didn't want to do it.

Think on the days past, of grief yet to come
Whereupon a gilded seat so sat the Blue King,
Alluring, focused, and foolish;

“The time has come,” the council warned in unison
Their king had earned no favor in their hearts.
“King made,” they explained, “but not king eternal.”


Under the rule of a heathen, our world crumbles
Slick with death and burdened with regret;
"At least we have our treasure," he had laughed.

Henri approached the diamond cautiously, staring at it and going over his decision. This should be a no brainer. A huge sparkling crystal Henri take it! This action seemed to have serious consequences though.

He concluded this was probably the treasure the writings were talking about, from the king everyone hated. The mural's had shown him the king going into the room to where the crystal was. Casting a glance back onto the wall, the engravings played their charade over and over, what was behind the door, a giant dragon entrusting him with the crystal, and after that, the engravings twisted into chaos.

Would that happen if he took the crystal? The king seemed to be viewed with such contempt and hate, was it for taking it? But then again, how could Henri not? With those voices beckoning him, hissing commands and the crystal slowly drawing his hand closer and closer to it like it had a gravitational pull of it's own that would draw him into it. But only almost.

Not while he felt like he was being watched.

He could feel someone or something's prying eyes on his back. It felt dirty, like trying to masturbate while your parents were still home, he couldn't enjoy the moment with the constant anxiety of being caught in the act.

Hunched and bent over the crystal, he turned his head over his shoulder to see the perpetrator, the statue that looked so horribly upset watching him take the crystal that he almost felt guilty for doing it.

"What the..." Henri moved from his spot next to the crystal, and decided to go and inspect the statue, face to face, as close as possible.

It was a slight sound, a tiny fragment of noise that echoed throughout the chamber like a falling pebble. Perhaps it had; the ruins offered unlimited debris and the corridors oft settled with gravity' whim and whimsy.



A second later, a louder sound, this one more centralized than the last. The chamber. This basin the chamber, echoing through and ringing about its walls. Another second, and Henri would find himself face to face with the source, staring into a pair of eyes that had only recently opened. These were not stone eyes, crystalized or fossilized; cracked eyelids revealed the image of horrid, black eyes--oily, bleeding schlera with no iris to account for ...

Someone was awake ...