Sacred Nights of Il-hamun
Ureku, son of Alman, guard of Annam, citizen of Il'sha-ah, picked his path carefully over the many soft paths of the necropolis at Il-hamun, his sandals sinking into the loose sand and dust of the quarries. To his left Tul, their armor dull in the night, raised a hand in warning. The words which slipped from Ureku's lips fell still, sat upon his tongue like a dull weight as the hand rose, as his eyes followed theirs.
His ears felt full of silence in the night, save the soft wind which blew across his skin, setting him to shiver, which set a hushed rush across his ears. He looked to Tul with a questioning gaze before their eyes turned to him. It was only when their gaze met his that he heard the faintest scratching noise in the middle distance.
The two separated. Tul circled to the north while Ureku's steps turned to the south. Both traveling toward the sound. Each step grated upon Ureku's ears. Yes, the sand was quieter than the stone under his feet, but when one stalks through the night with intent to hear, every sound seems louder, harsher, more clear to the world.
Above, the twin moons cast their pale light down upon the world, bathing it in sacred blues and deepest black shadows. Ureku's eyes had long adapted to the night, early in the patrol, to the point where everything seemed near as bright as day. But those shadows in the valley of Il-hamun never seemed to part, to allow the light of moon or star pierce them. And though they sound came from further west, it was to the shadows his eyes were drawn.
What horrors had come from that darkness in the ages cince Il-hamun was first carved? What terrors did they hide? Ureku had long heard tales of the old guard, and more, passed down from their predecessors, and their predecessors in turn. Stories of haunted dead, unquiet, stirred from their grave to horror and death anew. And though he had walked the Dead City patrol for nearly a year, he could not shake the terror which gripped at his heart whenever he drew too near to that cloying darkness...
Tul, in the distance, turned their footsteps toward the sound. Picking their way through the tombs and paupers graves of the necropolis, they slowly drew their blades. The bronze blade of the khopis glinted in the wan light of the night, a brief comfort for the guard who approached the scratching in the memory of the first drawing of that sickle-blade under midday sun. But the memory quickly faded as they moved west.
Tul, child of Akenton, Guard of Annam, citizen of Il'sha-ah, slipped into the shadows which Ureku shunned so fiercely. Their footsteps muffled in sand, their form hidden in darkness, their eyes intent upon the world around them, they became as the living shadow. They turned toward the sound, for they, and Ureku, were upon it, now, coming from a small tomb carved with an ancient depiction of battle.
Ureku and Tul, each armed, turned the corner of the tomb almost in unison, to see who scratched upon the stones, who sought to break the seal... And found only each other in the night. Confusion marked each face. Concern and distress followed with quickness.
Their eyes turned from each other as the scratching, now so loud that their heartbeats could not be heard to pound in their ears, came from within the sealed tomb. And to their joint horror, the clay seal that had been undisturbed for centuries fell to the sand, split in half by the sawing of a claw.
