RAVEN'S GAMBIT | Part 38: Whispers Beneath the Plaster
Thalia Emberbranch lowered herself carefully into the spike-filled pit, guided by rope and steady hands above. Tessa ‘Quickfingers’ Vell kept a watchful eye, ensuring that no further traps triggered as her ally descended.
"Lira deserved better," Thalia muttered as she maneuvered around the bloodied spikes and reached the broken form of Lira Valesong.
As she tied a sturdy loop around the bard’s waist for retrieval, her eyes caught the glint of something half-buried among the debris—a pair of slender goggles, covered in dust and grime. Curious and cautious, she pocketed them quickly, saying nothing to the others above.
Tessa waited tensely, calling down, “Ready?”
“Bring her up,” Thalia responded, climbing out behind Lira’s lifeless form.
The group pulled them both to safety.
Tessa crouched at the edge of the pit again, her eyes narrowing as she examined the far wall just beyond the fallen section. “That mural’s plaster is too thick in this one spot,” she said, fingering the edge carefully. “This feels… off.”
Using the point of her dagger, she began chipping away. Flakes fell into the darkness below. Her hands were patient, precise—until a click rewarded her efforts.
A hidden door creaked open.
Beyond, a 20-foot corridor, dark and silent, stretched into shadow.
“I already understand why they call this place the Tomb of Horrors,” Tessa whispered as her allies gathered behind her.
“Everything is a lie wrapped in death.”
Far above the swamps and the tomb below, Raven stood atop his citadel’s peak, shrouded in shadow and shimmering starlight. His raven-black cloak rippled though there was no wind.
Eight efreeti arrived outside the Tomb.
Each stood over ten feet tall, muscle-bound, wreathed in swirling smoke and fire, their eyes like twin coals. They scanned the area with disdain.
From his perch, Raven watched.
“Curious,” the god muttered, narrowing his eyes. His anger simmered like thunder in the distance. Keraptis… The wizard’s meddling was no longer simply disobedient. It was offensive.
But Raven was a god of rules and challenges, not conquest. He could not intervene… not directly.
However, there were no rules against what he was about to do.
Outside the tomb, the efreeti surveyed the three entrances carved into the base of the hill.
“Which one do you think they entered?” one growled, flames licking from his shoulders.
Before any could answer, a sound—a faint clatter of falling stone—echoed from one of the paths.
“There,” another hissed. “That must be it.”
With unnatural grace for their size, they crept toward the noise and entered the unassuming corridor.
Inside, cobwebs hung thick and sticky from the ceiling, obscuring the 20-foot height above. The plain stone tunnel, devoid of traps or decorations, gave the illusion of safety.
At the end of the corridor, double oaken doors loomed. The flames from their bodies danced across the wood.
“Open them,” an efreeti ordered.
Another approached, reaching for the handles.
That was when the ceiling collapsed.
KR-KR-KRRAKKK!!
Tons of jagged stone and rubble came crashing down with cataclysmic force, sealing the corridor and burying the efreeti beneath a suffocating tomb of their own.
At the Citadel, Raven allowed himself a small smile.
“I never said I couldn’t warn the mountain,” he said aloud to no one, then turned his eyes back to his champions below. The true horrors had only just begun.