An Extract From The Hagiography
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Gorrunx ponderously surveyed the interior of the tomb -slowly moving the flaming torch around in a complete circle- before he took another step into the lifeless chamber. He saw nothing glinting amongst the rotting wood and stone. Tall ceramic pots on low pedestals bore the only sign of colour. He stepped closer to prove that only paint adorned the containers: no gems or gilt filigree. Not even the treasure of wisdom in the archaic lettering. Just words of sorrowful adoration.
He backed up towards the tomb entrance and flung his axe at the pots. A puff of dust billowed amongst the clattering sherds. After it had settled Gorrunx approached, sniffing the air. There was no tell-tale scent of ashvile. He had been informed that it was customary amongst the Hoxian people to poison the remains of their dead ones. To keep them sacred from the prying fingers of people like Gorrunx. Although Gorrunx was far from ready to dip his fingers into this ash pile. More direct deterrents were used -other than ashvile-to sanctify ash pots. Fingerstabs; razor snappers; cursed glass shards; the hibernating larvae of the toxic spider jack. Although these pots were old enough that any spider jack larvae would have perished or crawled away to find a mate by now.
He slipped his shiv out and risked the point -rather than his flesh- in the ash. Nothing. He retrieved his axe and smashed the remaining pots in similar careful fashion, before leaving the tomb to its darkness and silence.
Shenn waited for him outside, stripped down to the waist, skinning a tree rat by a fresh fire.
“Nevermind dinner, lockpicker. We travel to Scurn. I want to kneel before a chapel sigil and offer up a boast to the miserliness of my ancestors.”
Get used to it? No, you never get used to it.