The Tomb of Al'Ashay
We found the leather satchel three days into the salt wastes, clutched in the bony fingers of a half buried corpse. He was propped against a jagged outcrop of sandstone, his robes reduced to grey ribbons by the wind. The desert had claimed his flesh, leaving only parchment-dry skin that hung taut over his bones, but the satchel remained tucked beneath a ribcage filled with drifted sand. The waste offered nothing else: no canteen, no tools, no tracks. He sat there, gazing at a n empty sky that was no longer his own. staring at the empty sky in silence, broken only by the hiss of sand against his bleached skull.
Inside the crumbling satchel, protected from the unforgiving sun and winds, lay this journal.
Swordday, 14th of Second Summer, 210 AE
On the 8th day, by the grace of the merciful gods, we finally found it. We had spent the week searching the arid hills that stand like broken teeth at the foot of the mountainside. The landscape here was merciless, a punishing maze of sun-baked slopes and dry gullies where the wind echoed between the stones. The red dust of the desert settled into every crease of our skin and tore at the fabric of our robes. My guides, usually a chatty and cheerful folk, had grown entirely quiet and solemn. They did not joke anymore, their eyes fixed on the looming peaks as if waiting for a storm to break, or perhaps for a voice; my voice, to tell them to turn back.
But then, just outside a narrow ravine, half buried by sand and rock, we found the first marker. It was a tilted limestone stele, carried on the broad, sand-drowned stone backs of two crouching river horses. They were massive, bloated things, their heads bowed low to the grit as if the weight of the stele was more than they could carry. The guides refused to approach it. They stood twenty paces back, clutching amulets and whispering hushed prayers I did not recognize. I knelt alone before it, brushing away the salt of centuries, a shiver running down my spine as the ancient words echoed in my mind:
The guides backed away from the stele, their faces pale beneath the red dust on their skin. They refused to pick up the supplies or look at the path ahead, threatening to threatening to flee back to the coast. Only the offer of three heavy rings from my personal chest, along with the promise of a double share of whatever gold lay within, convinced them to press forward.
Greed is a swift master, but it buys neither heart nor soul. They took their treasures in trembling hands, their eyes still darting toward the dark fissures in the cliffs above as we prepared to move.
We abandoned the horses where the path became too steep. The animals were frantic, white-eyed and straining against their leads, sensing something in the stones that we were too stubborn to acknowledge. We pushed on foot into the throat of the shadowed ravine. Here, the sun-bleached plains turned into a jagged, winding chasm that led into the gaping maw of the earth beneath. The air grew stagnant and thick, pressing against every labored breath and strangling even the soft sound of our boots on the dust. With every step, we felt eyes stare at us: we were not alone. Something ancient watched from the fissures in the stone, judging our intrusion with cold, silent indifference.
Then, the path ended.
There, deep within the belly of the ravine, where the light of the midday sun had not touched the earth in a thousand years, was a single, monolithic slab of heavy granite, grey and as old as the serpent's heart itself. Its surface was covered in line after line of flowing script, the characters forming a doorway on the unyielding stone.
Flanking this colossal door were two river horses, watching us with stony, boiling malice. They were massive, bloated monuments of stone, their hindquarters still trapped within the mountain while their front legs lunged forward into the gloom. Their powerful jaws were locked in an eternal, silent roar, their hollow mouths wide enough to swallow a man whole. Centuries of scouring sand had smoothed the rougher edges of their bodies, yet their faces remained fixed in masks of unyielding fury. One of my men screamed, stumbling backward when his torchlight flickered across them, swearing he saw the stone eyes of the left beast glaring at him.
I stepped forward, wary of their stony glare, my fingers tracing the deep-cut grooves of a Madani dialect that had not been spoken for a thousand years as I uttered the inscription aloud.
We had found it. The ancient blessing engraved in the stone made my heart soar. I cared nothing for the frantic prayers of the men behind me. They huddled in the shadows, frozen in terror by the stone guardians, blind to the glory before us. There was no talking to them then, so I left them to their fears and their silence. A night of rest in the canyon, a final tally of the coin remaining in my chest, and their courage would return. It must.
Sun-day, 15th of Second Summer, 210 AE
The guides are gone. I woke to a silent camp. They took the horses and every waterskin except the small one I kept beneath my head. There are no tracks. The wind has already filled them in. I am three days from the hills and at least five from the nearest well. I have to walk. If I can find the wadi again, I might have a chance. I am leaving the heavy gear here.
Moonsday, 17th of Second Summer, 210 AE
The water is finished. I drank the last of it at noon. My throat is as dry as the salt wastes and every breath of the scorching air hurts. I have been walking toward the coast, yet the dunes look the same in every direction. A nearby ledge of sandstone offered shade, but the ground beneath it was too blistering to sit on. My hands are shaking. I keep looking back over my shoulder. I think I hear the sound of stone scraping on stone.
Inside the crumbling satchel, protected from the unforgiving sun and winds, lay this journal.
Swordday, 14th of Second Summer, 210 AE
On the 8th day, by the grace of the merciful gods, we finally found it. We had spent the week searching the arid hills that stand like broken teeth at the foot of the mountainside. The landscape here was merciless, a punishing maze of sun-baked slopes and dry gullies where the wind echoed between the stones. The red dust of the desert settled into every crease of our skin and tore at the fabric of our robes. My guides, usually a chatty and cheerful folk, had grown entirely quiet and solemn. They did not joke anymore, their eyes fixed on the looming peaks as if waiting for a storm to break, or perhaps for a voice; my voice, to tell them to turn back.
But then, just outside a narrow ravine, half buried by sand and rock, we found the first marker. It was a tilted limestone stele, carried on the broad, sand-drowned stone backs of two crouching river horses. They were massive, bloated things, their heads bowed low to the grit as if the weight of the stele was more than they could carry. The guides refused to approach it. They stood twenty paces back, clutching amulets and whispering hushed prayers I did not recognize. I knelt alone before it, brushing away the salt of centuries, a shiver running down my spine as the ancient words echoed in my mind:
Halt thy steps, seeker of the parched ways, and bend thy knee in worship.
For beyond this threshold even the sun holds no power
and the winds of the living cannot stir the dust of ages.
Thy breath is but a thin veil before the voice of Al’Ashay,
Master of the crimson sands, who slumbers in the deep.
He who once held dominion of the desert paths,
now commands the deep stillness of the earth
He who ruled the shifting dunes,
now rules the silence of the bone.
Let the ones who come to exalt his name be guided by the light of the stars.
Let them find favor in the mountain’s shadow and sing among the righteous.
May their path be made smooth and their house be filled with the glory of the king.
But as for the thief, the hollow-hearted who breaks the rest of Al'Ashay:
Let the deserts maw gape like a hungry beast to swallow his path.
The scorpions shall be his kin,
and the brine of the white wastes his only drink.
May the stars go blind for him and the moons judge his fate,
he who covets the sacred gold.
Let his name be scoured from the memory of the seven winds,
and let his spirit wander without well or resting place,
leaving not even a shadow to mark where his feet once trod, forevermore.
For beyond this threshold even the sun holds no power
and the winds of the living cannot stir the dust of ages.
Thy breath is but a thin veil before the voice of Al’Ashay,
Master of the crimson sands, who slumbers in the deep.
He who once held dominion of the desert paths,
now commands the deep stillness of the earth
He who ruled the shifting dunes,
now rules the silence of the bone.
Let the ones who come to exalt his name be guided by the light of the stars.
Let them find favor in the mountain’s shadow and sing among the righteous.
May their path be made smooth and their house be filled with the glory of the king.
But as for the thief, the hollow-hearted who breaks the rest of Al'Ashay:
Let the deserts maw gape like a hungry beast to swallow his path.
The scorpions shall be his kin,
and the brine of the white wastes his only drink.
May the stars go blind for him and the moons judge his fate,
he who covets the sacred gold.
Let his name be scoured from the memory of the seven winds,
and let his spirit wander without well or resting place,
leaving not even a shadow to mark where his feet once trod, forevermore.
The guides backed away from the stele, their faces pale beneath the red dust on their skin. They refused to pick up the supplies or look at the path ahead, threatening to threatening to flee back to the coast. Only the offer of three heavy rings from my personal chest, along with the promise of a double share of whatever gold lay within, convinced them to press forward.
Greed is a swift master, but it buys neither heart nor soul. They took their treasures in trembling hands, their eyes still darting toward the dark fissures in the cliffs above as we prepared to move.
We abandoned the horses where the path became too steep. The animals were frantic, white-eyed and straining against their leads, sensing something in the stones that we were too stubborn to acknowledge. We pushed on foot into the throat of the shadowed ravine. Here, the sun-bleached plains turned into a jagged, winding chasm that led into the gaping maw of the earth beneath. The air grew stagnant and thick, pressing against every labored breath and strangling even the soft sound of our boots on the dust. With every step, we felt eyes stare at us: we were not alone. Something ancient watched from the fissures in the stone, judging our intrusion with cold, silent indifference.
Then, the path ended.
There, deep within the belly of the ravine, where the light of the midday sun had not touched the earth in a thousand years, was a single, monolithic slab of heavy granite, grey and as old as the serpent's heart itself. Its surface was covered in line after line of flowing script, the characters forming a doorway on the unyielding stone.
Flanking this colossal door were two river horses, watching us with stony, boiling malice. They were massive, bloated monuments of stone, their hindquarters still trapped within the mountain while their front legs lunged forward into the gloom. Their powerful jaws were locked in an eternal, silent roar, their hollow mouths wide enough to swallow a man whole. Centuries of scouring sand had smoothed the rougher edges of their bodies, yet their faces remained fixed in masks of unyielding fury. One of my men screamed, stumbling backward when his torchlight flickered across them, swearing he saw the stone eyes of the left beast glaring at him.
I stepped forward, wary of their stony glare, my fingers tracing the deep-cut grooves of a Madani dialect that had not been spoken for a thousand years as I uttered the inscription aloud.
Turn thy gaze to the stone, wanderer of the dunes,
and learn of the river beyond the veil,
for this is the path where thy footprints fade in the sands.
Turn thy gaze to stone and salt, for this is the path.
For the flesh, there is the silent house of Al'Ashay before thee,
where his bones finds rest in salt and his golden mask keeps vigil.
Here his body shall wait, wrapped in the embrace of the mountain that never sleeps.
But for the soul that takes wing, beyond the hidden veil,
a different dawn awakens upon shores of endless grey.
Beware the vale of fog and mirrors,
where the horizon whispers tales of the serpent and the mist hides truths,
as mountains melt and the sky dances,
crumbling into smoke, like dreams of conquest and riches.
Have no faith in the path of fleeting dreams.
Turn thy gaze onto the path of souls,
the one that burns with colors unknown to the moons.
Behold, the waves churn scarlet and silver,
heavy with the heat of lives spent before their noon.
Behold, the torrent turns quiet,
where the silent spirits found their rest.
The tides do not roar,
they murmur with the voices of those who went before.
In the whisper of the stream lies the child’s laughter,
the soldier’s final prayer, and the mother’s cradle-song.
The tides do know thy name,
and they sing the ancient song of thy birth.
Do not gaze too long at the sights before thee,
to watch has broken the minds of prophets.
Do not gaze at the shadows,
for the shadows hide the shadows without face;
they hunger for the warmth of thy soul,
They do not stalk; they wait for thee.
See now the parting of ways upon the threshold of the soul.
Join the silent caravan, walk the path towards the sea of souls,
trudge toward the scales of the gods to have thy deeds measured in truth.
Or yield thy weary self to the current.
Step from the shore and unravel like morning mist;
surrender thy name and become the river itself.
and learn of the river beyond the veil,
for this is the path where thy footprints fade in the sands.
Turn thy gaze to stone and salt, for this is the path.
For the flesh, there is the silent house of Al'Ashay before thee,
where his bones finds rest in salt and his golden mask keeps vigil.
Here his body shall wait, wrapped in the embrace of the mountain that never sleeps.
But for the soul that takes wing, beyond the hidden veil,
a different dawn awakens upon shores of endless grey.
Beware the vale of fog and mirrors,
where the horizon whispers tales of the serpent and the mist hides truths,
as mountains melt and the sky dances,
crumbling into smoke, like dreams of conquest and riches.
Have no faith in the path of fleeting dreams.
Turn thy gaze onto the path of souls,
the one that burns with colors unknown to the moons.
Behold, the waves churn scarlet and silver,
heavy with the heat of lives spent before their noon.
Behold, the torrent turns quiet,
where the silent spirits found their rest.
The tides do not roar,
they murmur with the voices of those who went before.
In the whisper of the stream lies the child’s laughter,
the soldier’s final prayer, and the mother’s cradle-song.
The tides do know thy name,
and they sing the ancient song of thy birth.
Do not gaze too long at the sights before thee,
to watch has broken the minds of prophets.
Do not gaze at the shadows,
for the shadows hide the shadows without face;
they hunger for the warmth of thy soul,
They do not stalk; they wait for thee.
See now the parting of ways upon the threshold of the soul.
Join the silent caravan, walk the path towards the sea of souls,
trudge toward the scales of the gods to have thy deeds measured in truth.
Or yield thy weary self to the current.
Step from the shore and unravel like morning mist;
surrender thy name and become the river itself.
We had found it. The ancient blessing engraved in the stone made my heart soar. I cared nothing for the frantic prayers of the men behind me. They huddled in the shadows, frozen in terror by the stone guardians, blind to the glory before us. There was no talking to them then, so I left them to their fears and their silence. A night of rest in the canyon, a final tally of the coin remaining in my chest, and their courage would return. It must.
Sun-day, 15th of Second Summer, 210 AE
The guides are gone. I woke to a silent camp. They took the horses and every waterskin except the small one I kept beneath my head. There are no tracks. The wind has already filled them in. I am three days from the hills and at least five from the nearest well. I have to walk. If I can find the wadi again, I might have a chance. I am leaving the heavy gear here.
Moonsday, 17th of Second Summer, 210 AE
The water is finished. I drank the last of it at noon. My throat is as dry as the salt wastes and every breath of the scorching air hurts. I have been walking toward the coast, yet the dunes look the same in every direction. A nearby ledge of sandstone offered shade, but the ground beneath it was too blistering to sit on. My hands are shaking. I keep looking back over my shoulder. I think I hear the sound of stone scraping on stone.
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