The ground was cold and the air damp, the only light coming from a single candle. The wax low, and it's brass holder weathered heavily with age and misuse. The dark brown eyes of Black-stripe whipped left and right over the leather-bound pages held in one hand, the candle in the other. Careful steps taken through the dark tunnels, unused even by the gangs of the Scorched Fen. These were his favorite tunnels. No one to disturb the silence, an area where he could learn of the worlds wonders in peace. The current subject being the scientific wonders of the humans. Most likely the book fell from a foreign caravan, mud caking most of the pages. The few he could make out however, astounded him as most books did.
The great catacombs were a welcome home for the frail weasel. The silence and solitude it provided were a welcome gift from the rabble who lived in the central tunnels. Here, he had control. Not a noise was made without his consent, and the only light within was under his power. Small things but they were important to young Black-stripe. So much taken from his life, he latched onto whatever control he could have.
His steps echoed through the empty tunnels as he turned a page and a corner, only to be met with a crumbled wall. He had taken this path countless times since the plague past. The wall must have crumbled recently, dust still hanging in the air. Woken from their rest from the crash of brick and mortar. Beyond the crumbled wall was not earth and un-worked stone however, but another path. A path seemingly unaware of the passage of time, it's stone walls polished and floor's dry and clean. Cautious steps forward were taken as he crept forward, book closed and placed safely under the crook of his arm. His breathing shallow, certainly not comfortable with the unknown.
The path extended a few hundred feet with no change, the grey stone walls going on seemingly forever. A trick of the light simply however, as the path soon turned to the right, opening to a great chamber, walls lined with great tablets. The tablets were set with silver inlays, the strange characters alluding to a writing much older than anything he had seen before. In the center of the room was a single pillar. Pitch black in color, it's presence was impossible to ignore. The dull colors of the walls continued to draw the eye back to the support.
The entire room was a mystery, a puzzle. Excitement replaced any other emotion Black-stripe had felt. This was unknown fr who knows how many years, discoveries untold and untouched for decades, centuries even. Deciphering the texts became paramount to his life. Rushing out of the unsealed tomb, he remembered the path he had taken and made his way to his 'home.' Grabbing as many supplies as he could, (food, water, tools and as many books as he could bring) and rushing back, but not without notice.
"Wordsman!"
This shrill voice called in the distance, unmistakably that of part of the gang he included himself with. Crooked-tail. A grey furred rat with a mouth that got him out of trouble as much as it did in.
"Hey wordsman! Where are you off to in such a rush huh? Taking your books for a walk?" He sneered, content for the weasel obvious to anyone within earshot. Black-stripe grimaced, slowing his pace. Followers couldn't be had for this. No this was his discovery. Better to deal with this here, far from the outer tombs.
"What's it matter to you Crooked-tail, I've gotten my quota for the boss already leave me to my namesake you've so happily given me."
"Watch your tone, you only barely got it this month and have been getting slower each time. Keep it up and you might lose the protection little weasel." He laughed.
'Protection, ha' Black-stripe shook his head softly. Everyone was on their own. The only protection he needed was from the very rat claiming to give it. He seemed to let it go for now and walked off and out of view. Waiting a moment to make sure he wasn't being followed, he made his way back to the tomb.
Enough food for two days, Black-stripe worked constantly, working out word for word slowly. It was great fun for the white weasel, the letters coming one by one, slowly making out the mysterious language etched deep into the stone. They seemed to call to him, urging him to discover what was alluded to in this great chamber, each discovery of a letter surged through a new hope to complete the riddle. A large chunk of progress was due to the most common word within. Order. It was gilded on each tablet along their borders.
A day had come and passed, but the deciphering was complete. The cryptic message running through his head over and over again.
Ye who enter this great tomb, know power is mastery over ones doom. Recite these scripts with back to the center, and only then shall my scion enter. Chaos enters, life gives it shape, life it contains, life gives it weight. Order calls to all with this life, brings with it peace, an end to the strife. So call to my psion, ye bringer of chaos. His will be your guide, his will to not cross.
'Maybe, no this was written in a language older than time.' He thought to himself 'I suppose it couldn't hurt to have a little fun. Either way, this discovery could get me some recognition in the least.' He recited the scripture over and over, mouthing the words to himself until he was sure to get it perfect, and stood as instructed, back to the pillar.
"Ye who enter this great tomb, know power is mastery of ones doom." Nothing, no rumbling, no bright lights, no loud sounds.
"Recite these scripts with back to the center, and only then shall my scion enter." A smile framed his face, enjoying the freedom this seemed to give. Acting out his own desires. The lack of reaction continued but it bothered him not.
"Chaos enters, life gives it shape, life it contains, life gives it weight." The candle flickered, but nothing more. Draft through these tunnels was common as one could never know where a connection to the surface could appear.
"Order calls to all with this life, brings with it peace, an end to the strife." This time it blew the candle out, but it was little matter. The room was empty, a simple act to rummage and relight it.
"So call to my psion, ye bringer of chaos. His will be your guid, his will to not cross." The wind rushed through this time, nearly knocking Black-stripe off his feet, as a sudden realization came to him. 'This is no draft.'
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