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Crypt of the Unnamed Monarch

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The fire felt warm just above the thief’s hand. The flickering light of the torch illuminating the faces of long dead kings whose treasure has spent a millennia lying untouched or unseen by mortal eyes. The thief could close his eyes and hear the gold jingling in his coin purse when he found the fortune. The only sound audible in the empty crypt was the sweet song of greed being sung by the coins lying just out of reach. The walls were adorned with strange glyphs and images telling the tales of heroism and regality exalted in an era of brave adventurers and noble knights. The thief snorted with contempt at such ridiculous morals, he lived only to serve himself, having no thought or concern for others.

He licked his lips in excited anticipation of the riches waiting for his grimy hands to retrieve from these dark sepulchers. Carefully picking his path through the labyrinth of halls and walkways he noticed a strange golden light emanating from the hall directly in front of him. He took a few tentative steps towards the menacing glow. The thief had lived a hard life, stealing from when he was a small child, and after living such a hard life he had developed some finely honed instincts to help him survive. Every single one of them told him to flee with as much haste as his bony legs could manage.

As he turned to make his escape, the song of gold whispered its alluring melody in his ears and he turned again, back to face the strange glow. His mind screamed for him to run, to escape, to do anything save go to the light. He walked, as if in a trance, to the burning golden glow at the end of the hallway

The thief placed his filthy greased hand upon the gem encrusted handle of the door from which the golden glow shone from. Slowly he turned the handle down to heave the great door open.

“Last chance,” whispered the tiny voice of reason. “You can run, and live another day, steal another treasure.” Oh, how badly did the thief wish to run back to the surface and forget this tomb ever existed. But some ancient force pushed his hand and with a heave of effort he pushed the ancient door open, killing the golden glow. A blast of steaming air blasted the thief as he peered into the room, unlit, save by a lone crack streaming a small ray of light into the far corner of the room.

Slowly, a look of unknowable regret, and anger began to work its way to the thief’s eyes. The room was clearly designed for a great king; the walls were covered in ancient mosaics depicting some unnamed rulers great deeds throughout his life. But all that was contained within this lavish throne room was a small pine table covered in spider webs, a cheap wicker chair clearly worn down from ages of use and later, abandonment.

What strange king had the thief chosen to tomb raid? Who had he robbed? What king leaves nothing of his legacy behind, nothing of great battles won, noble lands conquered, only a small table and a little chair. Then a low, loud rumble began to erupt from outside the room. The thief turned to watch as the only exit out of this damned room began to slowly seal itself. This was the moment in which the golden glow returned, although this time it lit up the room like never before, and now the thief saw the true contents of the room. Dozens of half decayed, mummified corpses of kindred souls seeking to make an easy fortune lined the walls of the cursed room. Heartbroken and openly weeping with despair, the thief screamed out for mercy, with only the echoing laughter of long dead kings calling back to him.





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