Discovery of the Tomb Book Ten

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Discovery of the Tomb

by Tavara Sewel

Day Sixteen:

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.