#sarcophagus lid

[poet-to-none]

You know what I have always liked about Magnus?

He was (told or aware) he didn't have a right to exist as an immortal before he was one, to the end of his immortality, without a break, but he thought "I do have a right" and he stayed strong.

Anyway, when definations are going to chaos all around you, relax a little on the inside, you do have a right to just be doing you.

[yourantiquarian]

Bronze Age sarcophagus lid

ITEM Sarcophagus lid MATERIAL Pottery CULTURE Bronze Age, Canaanite PERIOD 1400 - 1200 B.C DIMENSIONS 270 mm x 157 mm x 35 mm CONDITION Good condition PROVENANCE Ex Museum Exhibiton of the Arbeitsgruppe für Biblische Archäologie, Germany (Deaccession) The Canaanite sarcophagus lid is an extraordinary artifact that sheds light on the burial practices and artistic traditions of the ancient Canaanite civilization, which flourished in the Levant region from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age. These lids, typically crafted from stone such as limestone, were designed to cover sarcophagi, or stone coffins, that housed the deceased. The lids often featured intricate carvings and reliefs, reflecting both the artistic abilities of the Canaanites and their beliefs about the afterlife. Many Canaanite sarcophagi, particularly from the Late Bronze Age, show a fusion of Egyptian and local Canaanite influences, indicating the strong cultural exchange between these civilizations. One notable characteristic of Canaanite sarcophagus lids is the stylized human face or mask often carved into the stone. This representation of the deceased, though somewhat abstract, was believed to honor and preserve the identity of the individual in the afterlife. The facial features, typically simple and symmetrical, were not highly personalized but followed conventional designs, which might have reflected the Canaanite belief in the continuity of the soul beyond physical death. Read the full article

[iron-hearts-ablaze]

He pushed aside yet another sarcophagus lid. Draped himself over it. A cocky expression on his lips. "So who are we thanking today for his show of strength?"

"You're right, I should thank him for giving me a break with the heavy lifting." With a knowing smirk, Karlach swiped at the empty bottle at Astarion's hip, cradling it in her calloused hands. Turning now to speak to the empty flask. "Thank you, Cloud Giant Strength potion that Astarion nicked from my pack. You did great work today." Karlach gives the glass a little kiss before tossing it to the side and leaning over into the sarcophagus to see what was inside.

[slytherverse]

many years ago me and best friend were traipsing around the local history museum . the museum had an oft overlooked mummy exhibit on the third floor

the sarcophagus on display was open, the elaborate lid hanging a foot above the casket to barely reveal the mummy inside, like;

and bestfriend said, Sometimes they wrote messages under the lid for the Dead to read ,

and she laid down on the dirty museum carpet next to the glass case , patting the ground next to her for me to follow suit . sure enough, the underside of the casket lid was covered in inked characters , a brochure of directions to the afterlife in case they woke up all organless and confused

someone else wandered in to the little mummy room and asked if we were ok. she said, Come check this out. so he laid down on the other side.

i crossed my arms over my chest , and so did they . four bodies in a row , seeing a message intended for one; we love you, we miss you, we hope you find your way

[riverpiracy]

Joseph Robinette Biden, the forty-sixth president of the United States of America, was seen today being sealed into a container thought to resemble a sarcophagus. Hewn from a stone unknown to the large language model our reporters asked about it, the thing's lid made a terrible grinding noise—described unanimously by the nations tweens, who have begun performing contortions to the sound on TikTok and similar short-form video platforms, as "the gnashing of all teeth upon all whetstones, ong bro, ong."—as it was slid into place, and our cameras' view of the president's slowly probing hand was reduced until only a slit remained of the eighty year old Pennsylvania native's fingers as they moved across their newfound ceiling in the manner of reading braille, and this was also removed from sight. In Spaces, an audio-only livestream hosted on X, the platform previously known as Twitter, vice president Kamala Harris spoke of the incident, saying "He loves it in there, oh my God he really does (laughing) he really just (unintelligible) and I wish him the best. I wish him the best."

[ancientrome]

Marble sarcophagus with the Triumph of Dionysos and the Seasons. Roman ca. 260–270 CE. x

This highly ornate and extremely well-preserved Roman marble sarcophagus came to the Metropolitan Museum from the collection of the Dukes of Beaufort and was formerly displayed in their country seat, Badminton House in Gloucestershire, England. An inscription on the unfinished back of the sarcophagus records that it was installed there in 1733. In contrast to the rough and unsightly back, the sides and front of the sarcophagus are decorated with forty human and animal figures carved in high relief. The central figure is that of the god Dionysos seated on a panther, but he is somewhat overshadowed by four larger standing figures who represent the four Seasons (from left to right, Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall). The figures are unusual in that the Seasons are usually portrayed as women, but here they are shown as sturdy youths. Around these five central figures are placed other Bacchic figures and cultic objects, all carved at a smaller scale. On the rounded ends of the sarcophagus are two other groups of large figures, similarly intermingled with lesser ones. On the left end, Mother Earth is portrayed reclining on the ground; she is accompanied by a satyr and a youth carrying fruit. On the right end, a bearded male figure, probably to be identified with the personification of a river-god, reclines in front of two winged youths, perhaps representing two additional Seasons.

The sarcophagus is an exquisite example of Roman funerary art, displaying all the virtuosity of the workshop where it was carved. The marble comes from a quarry in the eastern Mediterranean and was probably shipped to Rome, where it was worked. Only a very wealthy and powerful person would have been able to commission and purchase such a sarcophagus, and it was probably made for a member of one of the old aristocratic families in Rome itself. The subjects - the triumph of Dionysos and the Seasons - are unlikely, however, to have had any special significance for the deceased, particularly as it is clear that the design was copied from a sculptor's pattern book. Another sarcophagus, now in the Hessisches Landesmuseum in Kassel, Germany, has the same composition of Dionysos flanked by the four Seasons, although the treatment and carving of the figures is quite different. On the Badminton sarcophagus the figures are carved in high relief and so endow the crowded scene with multiple areas of light and shade, allowing the eye to wander effortlessly from one figure to another. One must also imagine that certain details were highlighted with color and even gilding, making the whole composition a visual tour de force.

Very few Roman sarcophagi of this quality have survived. Although the Badminton sarcophagus lacks its lid, the fact that it was found in the early eighteenth century and soon thereafter installed in Badminton Hall means that it has been preserved almost intact and only a few of the minor extremities are now missing.

[zackprincebooks]

🌑Seven Sentence Sunday🌑

Thanks for the tag, @the-golden-comet! Have a snippet from my Sanguinius x Reader fic, Beloved of the Blood Moons.

Please note, this work will have heavy religious themes and imagery, as well as smut. Read with care.

With each step, the Holy Sepulchre is revealed to you: Blood Angels adorned in their ceremonial robes line the entrance, their voices lifted to the vaulted ceiling where incense burners gently sway. The Blood Moons shine through the stained-glass windows depicting The Great Angel’s many victories and shine muted colors on the walls. Once you have ascended the stairs, you can see the Golden Sarcophagus. You have seen it on previous Sanguinala celebrations, where you gazed at The Great Angel’s visage in his eternal slumber. It always occurred to you that he looked…lonely in there, laying in an ocean of red silk. You wanted to climb into his coffin and rest his head on your chest, stroking his hair. Halfway through your approach, the lid of the coffin moves, for the first time in ten thousand years.

Tag list below! Please interact with my taglist post to be added:

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[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 15 "Herr God, Beware"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 3k

A/N: Thank you so much for your comments on the last chapter in particular. It was my favorite out of the entire fic 🥺🥺 And now, just some smut before we enter the finale (3 more chapters) 🥹

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter, Next Chapter →

Feyd-Rautha's strong hand clutches the wrist of his giggling, ticking time bomb as he herds her down the hollow hallway, back to her own chambers. Blackened water still dribbles down the thick curve of his pale calves and his feet leave wet imprints on the tiles. A black bathrobe clings damply to his shoulders, fabric curling around the salacious shape of his muscles.

Lilia quickly vacates her Lady's quarters and closes the door, Glugo at her hand, when the half undressed na-Baron and his beloved rush past her into the bedroom in a hurry.

His darling had wanted to have him right there in his tub. He had to stop her, rising out of the diluted healing concoction dripping wet. For their first time as proper betrotheds, he doesn't want to be submerged in claustrophobic bath water. He has a special place in mind, one that has her eyes growing round when she realizes that Feyd-Rautha does not intend to fuck her on the bed.

"Feyd! It's meant for cryo sleep, not for—"

"Open the lid, my darling, please."

Desire claws at his belly and a near perverse delight floods him when his fiancée obeys. Her pupils give a telltale flicker to the side and the top of the Sarcophagus swings open by her invisible command.

"What are you doing?" She giggles, her voice still high-pitched from the afternoon's victory.

Feyd-Rautha lets the bath robe drop to the floor and her eyes fall from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist and the muscles of his glutes that flex beneath his fair skin when he raises one long leg and climbs into the man-shaped mold that had sheltered his darling during her long journey between the stars.

"I want you to have me in here."

His semi-hard cock falls against his navel as he sinks down. The gel padding of the mold is surprisingly soft, cool to the touch but quickly warming up to his damp skin. The surrounding walls are lined with tubes like blood vessels and the chamber hugs him like he was transferred back into the womb.

"It's designed for one person," she scolds, but her hands are already at her waist, sliding under the hem of her trousers.

"And your trousers are designed for men, yet you are wearing them." Feyd-Rautha lets one corded arm dangle out of the sarcophagus, beckoning his betrothed closer with a curl of his hand. "Come here," he purrs. "Sit in my lap."

"You dare lecture me on my clothing when I've just discovered—?" Her trousers and boots are kicked to the floor with ferocity and when she climbs into the mold to him, Feyd's cock swells to full hardness without even a touch. His woman's eyes flash with the kind of indignance that he had hoped to spark.

His pelvis leaves just enough space on each side of the chamber for her to slot her folded legs, though it is a tight fit. Feyd-Rautha's hard flanks warm her knees and she frees her torso from the cover of her tunic with a swift curl of her arms that has her chest popping out and her breasts lifting as she stretches her arms high. The garment tumbles to the floor and Feyd-Rautha's hands are immediately at her hips and belly.

When she meets his gaze and lets the apex of her thighs sink down on his pelvis, feeling the soft squishiness of his balls against her cunt, she realizes the true nature of Feyd's provocation. While her eyes are glaring with fire, his are glossy and wanton like the deep-blue oceans of her old home.

The hand with which she intends to aim the gun at the Baron slides over Feyd-Rautha's warm chest, where his heart beats, and he makes no move to overpower her or coax her into action, just holding her expectantly to his straining manhood. She lowers her voice, wild giggles replaced by a sultriness that comes from the overflowing well of her earlier victory. 

"Is that what you desire right now?" She coos, eyes gliding proudly over the hard, masculine body that lies so docile beneath her. He has been vulnerable with her before, when he needed her touch to keep himself from drowning, but never like this. Not with his pretty mouth open and his blue eyes rendered so dark with lust, like he's going to come apart willingly at a fleeting touch of her hand.

His submission is not an escape tonight, it is triumphant.

Feyd-Rautha nods and his tongue darts out briefly to wet his pink bottom lip. She eclipses the light of the golden glow globe and he readily cranes his head for her trailing hand, moaning when her fingers encircle his throat. The thick tendons that stretch from base to jaw strain against her palms, yielding under pressure, because despite how hard he looks, Feyd-Rautha is made of soft flesh, like anyone else.

As he gazes up admiringly, he briefly wonders how old his betrothed actually is. He's never asked her, but she glances down at him with a wisdom and confidence that melt his bones. Willingly, his knees fall apart against the walls of the man-sized cavern.

She's going to make it alright. She's going to cure his rot.

"Can you ask me again?" He demands pleadingly, his voice a low rasp that vibrates against the palm of her hand.

"Ask you what?" Her thumb brushes over the sharp tip of his Adam's Apple. It is cute, the way it jumps away from her touch, like a frightened animal.

"To be your husband."

"But you already said yes," she purrs and makes sure that he feels the weight of her against his pelvis. With the way she's seated on him, her clit comes to rub against his smooth pubic mound as she leans forward a little.

"But I want to say it again," Feyd-Rautha confesses. A part of him yearns for her to ask him again every new day, so he knows she hasn't changed her mind.

"How about you ask me now?" At that, her betrothed's strong fingers twitch around the soft flesh of her hips.

"Will you be my wife, my darling? Will you honor and serve me til death do us part?" His pupils fill out the blue pools of his irises with comical dilation and a heavy inhale raises his chest a bit closer to her breasts.

"Is that how Harkonnens ask for the hand of their Lady?"

"You need to say yes," Feyd-Rautha snarls with a pleading darkness gathering behind his eyes.

"I will, if you ask me right." Her cheeks are rounded in a coy grin, infuriatingly disregarding the distress that pounds against Feyd's ribs. His hold on her tightens and so does hers around his pale throat. At the possessive touch of him, her cunt provides moisture that flows across Feyd-Rautha's sac.

"Will you be my wife and let me honor and serve you til death do us part?"

She laughs brightly and the flexing of her muscles brings the cradle of her thighs against his pelvis in an involuntary jerk. When her betrothed moans, she repeats the same motion, this time deliberately, and leans down to his face, nestling it within her palms.

"I was thinking more of loving and caring for each other til death do us part, but I suppose honoring and serving works too, as long as we both do it."

"And does that mean yes?"

"Of course it does, silly boy. Yes, I will be your wife. And my wedding gift to you will be death."

He shudders obscenely at the power that lies at their fingertips. The power to not only put an end to his tormentor's regime, but to throw the universe into a new dark age — The universe that had always looked away from his suffering, endorsed it.

"Would you say this is a worthy gift, my love?" His woman purrs lovingly and slowly grinds her sweet, wet cunt against the base of his cock. 

Feyd-Rautha nods, moaning quietly. His hands just lightly aid the rolling of her pelvis that has his cock jump longingly against her abdomen, plump head almost nudging her navel. She feels the velvety hardness of him against her belly and arches her spine to meet the next twitch of his aching length.

"Then so be it."

One hand abandons his neck and embarks on a journey down the length of his smooth, tapered torso.

Feyd is the perfect harmony of strong and vulnerable. Thick muscles wrapped around his chest and shoulders, his thighs powerful and hard, his wiry forearms entwisted by prominent veins that stretch all the way down to his hands, knuckles still dusted in the purple remnants of bruises from the afternoon brawl. 

Yet, there is a graceful felinity to his long limbs and slender core and the way he carries himself, every muscle in a perfect equilibrium of poise. The skin she skims is made soft by lotions and oils, the perfectly delicate cover for the hard swells of his abdominal muscles that flex deliciously in the wake of her fleeting fingertips.

"Woman~" he moans low and sweetly and her gaze falls on the absurd dip of his cupid's bow and the plump curve that defines his bottom lip.

"Yes?" Her fingertips gently dance around his twitching length, indulging his abdomen in ticklish caress while avoiding the place where he aches all over.

"Please." Feyd's pelvis rolls up against her cunt, bare feet seeking purchase against the odd, cushioned floor of the sarcophagus.

To Feyd-Rautha, tonight is a night of self-indulgent weakness. He has grown long tired of living behind the guards of violent defense that he has erected around himself, sick of the impotent fear and rage his uncle has cultivated in his misshapen boy heart.

Perhaps Feyd would have been able to kill the Baron without her. But an animal may not be able to free itself from its cage, even when the key in the lock is turned. It may just need someone to push the handle and open the gate.

His darling may be diabolical for the knowledge she has unlocked with the aid of the machine that calmly hums beneath his back, but she is not diabolical to him. One sweet plea from his lips has her lifting her pelvis and his cock readily jumps against the folds of her cunt.

Another day, his hand would have been around the thick base of his cock to angle himself into her entrance, but tonight he waits for her smaller hand to guide him. The briefest of touch has his mouth open and his neck strained in anticipation, and then the wet heat of her meets his weeping slit.

"Oof~" A little sound escapes her lungs when the blunt tip of him spears her open wide, generously slick but otherwise unprepared. She holds herself there, fingers twisted into the skin of his tensing stomach. Feyd-Rautha waits with agonizing patience as the head of his cock is veritably crushed by her tight walls.

He is so absurdly sensitive, the impossibly slow descent of her pelvis has him hissing through his teeth.

"God, what did they, agh, feed you to make you grow to this size?"

Feyd-Rautha lets out a burst of boyish laughter, then curses to the Sun in Harkunnin  before he can tell her that, if not genetics, it could have only been the extraordinarily carnivorous diet he had enjoyed as a boy. She raises herself and the slow glide of her cunt massages the aching inches of his cock.

His voice grows guttural and deliciously pathetic as she establishes a slow, rolling pace, aided only gently by the push and pull of his hands. He feels truly cocooned in the way her walls wrap around his cock and her soft hands on his chest press him down into the cushioned gel pads.

The moisture from the bath has long dried on his skin and what dampens it now is a warm flush of arousal. Blue eyes are glued to the movement of her flesh, trailing over her tummy and breasts before meeting the calm, simmering confidence in her eyes. Her torso folds itself halfway over his chest, one hand propped against the gel cushion next to his head, the other cupping his flexing jaws.

"My baby just needs someone to take care of him, isn't that right?"

Feyd-Rautha's brows twitch briefly at the unfamiliar moniker, but its meaning is clear and his pelvis shudders against his will. A deep, sweet desire blossoms at the base of his spine, waiting to be spilled.

"My baby boy has been so lonely all his life, but I'm here now. I'm taking care of you."

He wants to be something for someone, something of value, something precious, something coveted and even vulnerable. For once in his life, someone is standing up for him and Feyd falls head first into the white-hot ignition of love that pulses at his core and reaches so quickly into his balls and the root of his cock.

"Yeeesss," he moans, brows scrunching together tightly. The steady rocking of his beloved's hips milks him dry of his cum and his lungs wheeze in breathless huffs. Tears prick at his eyes below closed lids.

"My darling," she sighs, her voice a shiver that flows across his face along with her hot breath, so close, so sweet.

"More," he demands even though his empty cock begins to burn from the deep rhythm that fills her out from entrance to navel. Feyd-Rautha's strong fingers cling needily to her hips and she grins upon his request, straightening herself. A bead of sweat dribbles down between her breasts.

"Then be good and help me, yes?"

His thumb is on her bundle of nerves before she can even finish her sentence, blue eyes wickedly gleaming with determination. It is the least he can do to reward her for being an angel sent to him across space and time. 

Her pelvis rolls back and forth, meeting the perfectly placed pressure of the pad of his thumb. Even with him half flaccid, she still feels deliciously full, and the gravelly moans she pulls from his throat sinfully aid the approach of her climax, a tightening pressure against the base of her spine that seems to be pulling every muscle inwards to her core.

In their wake, they make a mess all over his lap and balls, inky seed marking them both in sticky trails.

Where another man might struggle, Feyd-Rautha has little trouble growing hard again from having his future wife around his overstimulated cock. The pleasure-pain of it makes him sink his teeth into his plush bottom lip and his fingers into her waist, taking back a smidge of control. His shaft twitches against her tender walls.

"Just like thi-is, ahh, Feyd—!" Her toes curl against the outsides of his thighs.

"Almost there, sweetling," he promises, positioning his soles safely against the cushioned ground and then pistons up into her cunt. The force and stamina behind his thrusts is effortless, splitting her poise. Her torso falls against his, breasts flattened against the hard planes of his chest, lips finding his.

Feyd-Rautha drinks up his to-be wife's needy whines like wine from a chalice, wraps one strong arm around her middle while his thumb remains on her swollen, little clit. His cock does the rest, rhythm powered by his thick thighs, he slams himself into her slick cunt.

Moments away from climax, her tongue squirms against his and her pelvis tries to escape from his hold, the first tendrils of white-hot pleasure so overwhelming that her first reaction is flight. But Feyd-Rautha's grip screws itself tight around her waist and the next, perfect circle of his thumb has her coming apart on his cock, drool slipping into his open mouth, in glistening rivulets down his black teeth.

Feyd gives himself to the sweet strangulation of her cunt, shuddering from each burst of seed that is wrenched from his balls. Each clench of their combined release sparks like a bang of fireworks, a rumble that shakes the fundament of the universe.

Their bodies grow still aside from their lungs' heaving and Feyd-Rautha's cheeks are dusted in a blush, lids drooping low as he lets his big hands wander over the curves of her body in blissful delirium. When his hand arrives in her nape, their lips meet again for a slow dance in the afterglow of their release — lazy, sloppy kisses and slow grinding of their hips while sweat cools on their flesh.

A silly thought tugs on the strings of his drowsy mind. If he fell asleep right here and she closed the lid of her sarcophagus over him, he could time travel to a world where the Baron is already dead and burned. He has not a doubt in his heart that she will make it happen.

With a sweet sigh, his darling straightens herself, fingertips lingering on his belly as she admires him from above. Golden glowglobe light spills from the crown of her head down her shoulders like a bridal veil, like a ruler's cape. Feyd-Rautha's hand moves up her sternum and cups her warm cheek. Her lashes flutter shut and she exhales slowly, and by the time she casts them open again, her gaze has sharpened itself to the tip of a spear.

She was an unshaped piece of wood, pulled out of the grave, then carved into a lumpy shape by the Bene Gesserit and set on the board, a wildcard pawn with promising genes, ready to play.

Now, she is about to shatter the chessboard with a fractal hammer, because now she has a reason. 

For him. For her new kin. And out of rage. And for freedom.

The Bene Gesserit didn't just open a relic from space. What they did is unleash an invasive species from a time capsule into a delicately stable ecosystem, and she intends to unravel it like a tumor from within.

Ash, ash — You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the [ice] I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

   - Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath

A/N: Because I'm an asshole, I will say the following: Two characters will die in the next chapter, and one of them you're looking forward to. Give me your best guesses 😌✨ If anyone guesses correctly, I'll eat my own arm.

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

[blueiscoool]

The Tomb of a Royal Scribe Discovered in Egypt

Czech experts have made another important discovery in the Egyptian archaeological site in Abusir. They found the hitherto unexplored tomb of the royal scribe Dzhehutiemhat, which is richly decorated in the form of many hieroglyphic texts and images. They mainly consist of ritual and religious texts, which were supposed to ensure the soul of the deceased an eternal life in the next world.

In April and May of this year, another part of field research by Czech Egyptologists regarding shaft tombs from the middle of the first millennium BC took place in Abusir, Egypt. It was here that the archaeological team of the Czech Institute of Egyptology of the Faculty of Arts of Charles University discovered the tomb of a hitherto unknown dignitary from the time of the Persian invasion of Egypt.

“It is a richly decorated shaft tomb of medium size, whose owner, a certain Džehutiemhat, held the office of royal scribe,” explains Ladislav Bareš, who has been coordinating the research of Abusir shaft tombs for a long time.

From the tomb, the above-ground part of which was destroyed already in ancient times, only the main shaft was preserved, at the bottom of which lay a burial chamber made of limestone blocks at a depth of 14 meters. Access to it was provided by a small, more northerly shaft and a narrow corridor approximately three meters long connecting the access shaft with the burial chamber.

For reasons still unknown, this access shaft was largely filled with several dozen decorated limestone blocks, originating from the dismantled above-ground part of the nearby majestic tomb of General Menechibnekon.

A tomb with rich decoration

The burial chamber is richly decorated with texts and other scenes. A long sequence of incantations against snakebite from the Pyramid Texts covers the north entrance wall. Interestingly, the snakes mentioned in these magical texts represented a potential danger, but could also serve as powerful protectors of the deceased and his mummy.

“While the entrance to the nearby Menechibnekon’s burial chamber was protected by the guardians of the gates of the 144th chapter of the Book of the Dead, in the case of Džehutiemhat, snakes from the Pyramid Texts play this role,” adds Renata Landgráfová, director of the Institute of Egyptology and an expert on the ancient Egyptian language and texts.

The south and west walls are covered with a sacrificial ritual and an extensive sacrificial list. On the ceiling of the burial chamber are depictions of the journey of the sun god Reo through the sky, first in the morning and then in the evening celestial bar. The depictions are accompanied by hymns to the rising and setting sun. Inside the burial chamber covered with relief decoration is a large stone sarcophagus, which also bears hieroglyphic inscriptions and depictions of gods, both outside and inside. The lid is decorated with texts taken from the Book of the Dead, but also excerpts from the much older Pyramid Texts, which partially repeat sayings that also appear on the walls of the burial chamber.

Ritual texts for eternal life

On the bottom of the inner wall of the sarcophagus bath, the goddess of the west, Imentet, is depicted, and its inner sides bear the so-called canopic sayings, spoken by this goddess and the earth god Geb. “The goddess of the west inside the sarcophagus represents the protector, guide and symbolic mother of the deceased,” explains Jiří Janák, who analyzes and interprets religious and magical texts as part of field research.

All the mentioned spiritual-ritual texts were supposed to ensure the deceased a smooth entry into a blissful and well-secured eternal life in the afterlife.

The tomb of the scribe Dzhehutiemhat was discovered almost empty, as it was robbed probably already in the 5th century AD, similar to other tombs in this burial ground.

The deceased suffered from sedentary work

From the anthropological analysis of the skeletal remains, which was carried out by leading Egyptian experts, it was found that Dzhehutiemhat died at a relatively early age of around 25 years, he bore the signs of a kind of occupational disease (wear and tear of the spine during sedentary work) and suffered from severe osteoporosis, i.e. thinning of the bones.

The latter fact could place him in the family of other inhabitants of the Abusir shaft tomb burial, in whom the disease was also confirmed, such as the famous Iufaa, the owner of a nearby much larger tomb, whose unlooted burial chamber was discovered in 1996.

It is therefore possible that most of the owners of the tombs buried in this part of the Abusir necropolis belonged to one extended family, firmly anchored in the military elite of late Saiyan Egypt. However, Dzhehutiemhat’s mother probably came from completely different circles and a different part of Egypt at that time. Her two names can be translated as “Nubian” and “Fox”, while the latter is written in an unusual, most likely Berber form.

They also found a collection of pottery in the tomb. “The discovery of a large fragment of a Chian amphora with a perfectly smoothed edge is also very interesting, because the ancient looters probably used it as a shovel,” says Květa Smoláriková, who is an expert on Egyptian ceramics and Greek imports in the Czech team.

“The recently discovered tomb of the dignitary Džehutiemhat on the Abusír archaeological concession is the latest piece of knowledge in the mosaic of the history of ancient Egypt at the end of its glory in the late period, in the 6th century BC,” says Miroslav Bárta, director of Czech archaeological research in Abusír, about the discovery.

“The shaft tombs represent a special type of tombs of this time. They were created as a specific attempt by the ancient Egyptian elites for a renaissance and are based on the form of the tomb of King Djoser, the founder of the famous Old Kingdom, the time of the pyramid builders in the 3rd millennium BC,” he adds.

[meseqet]

Goddess Nut, inside the lid of the sarcophagus of King Merneptah (19th dynasty, 1273-1202 BC)

[egypt-museum]

Sarcophagus lid of the Vizier Sasobek

Late Period, 26th Dynasty, ca. 664-610 BC. Now in the British Museum, EA17

The lid is finely carved, showing the deceased wearing wig, beard and collar and with two vertical registers of hieroglyphic offering texts, surmounted by a figure of Nut. “It may have been found in Sais, the city from which Psamtik’s family came.

The sarcophagus is one of the finest examples of its type, and very well preserved. While many anthropoid (human-shaped) sarcophagi have rather exaggerated features, Sasobek’s face is naturalistic (although not a portrait) and serene. Sasobek holds the djed pillar representing the god Osiris in one hand and the tyet knot of the goddess Isis in the other."

Read more

[bluebellhairpin]

I'm going to revert to 17 year old me who was obsessed with night at the museum for a second. So bare with me an imagine this reincarnation au.

So reincarnation is so completely not what ancient Egyptians believe it. It basically ruins the concept of an afterlife (something they lived their whole lives around, literally) by saying that after you die you're born again as a human. So let's say, for this sake, that soulmate reincarnation existed, but back then they didn't have much of a grasp on it. If they got visions of a past life they mightve chalked it up as divinic visions, especially, say if you were at a god-like status of Pharaoh.

So when Ahkmenrah's tablet was formed, it essentially stopped him for being reincarnated, tying his whole being to his old body. You however, didn't have the privilege. You, his soulmate, was buried somewhere else by Kahmenrah as a final "fuck you" to spite his little brother in the afterlife. You, having being reborn over and over for thousands of years and never finding your soulmate ever again - because he isn't being reborn.

However you've always had a love of all things ancient Egyptian. Something about it comforted you. Your past lives spoke for that; a writer, acreologist, teacher, explorer, even glimpses of a life in old streets of Memphis. It made sence then that now you worked in the British Museum when you weren't working on your degree.

One night had you working later than usual. Everyone else had gone home. The sun disappeared over the tops of buildings and darkness rose to follow it. The nightguard, having know you for weeks now, decided to let you stay a little bit longer as your finished up writing about the stela before you. Her face was knowing, she left you with the words "be careful", which at the time seemed like a far too obvious thing to say.

But when the carvings on the stela began to move, turning to look up at your with tilted heads, you thought that meant it was time to go home to bed. When you turned, finding the giant stature of Ramses II staring down at you, you almost screamed. When the sarcophagus lids of Merenkahre, Shepseheret, and Ahkmenrah started moving and the mummy's - no, fully dressed people - sat up, you practically fainted.

Well actually you did faint.

When you woke up though, looking up at the face of a man you knew you knew as your lost lover, you smiled. And so did he.

[memories-of-ancients]

Mummy sarcophagus lid, Egypt, twenty first dynasty, 1075-945 BC

from The Penn Museum

[majorasnightmare]

The Dark Urge Performs an Autopsy and Does Not Think of His Father (W.I.P.)

Exploring the brief stint of time in between Gortash and Dirge forming the beginnings of the Absolute's plan, and Ketheric formally joining the alliance to unite the Dead Three in single purpose. Isobel's resurrection was the sole request Ketheric made of Myrkul in return for his service, and was required before Ketheric would acquiesce to delving below Moonrise.

However. Gortash commands the deaths of others. Ketheric leads an army set upon devastation. Bound to a necromancer god, how skilled is Ketheric actually with the task at hand? Unwilling to trust a matter of such import to two amateurs, the Dark Urge is forced to take matters into his own hands, and prepare Isobel's corpse for Resurrection himself.

Handling the body of the Moonmaiden's Cleric, whos revival will seal the doom of the world, the Chosen of Bhaal tries very hard not to think about the father Isobel has, that he does not.

4000+ words as of right now! currently unfinished but polished enough to post

Ketheric stands, fingers splayed across the surface of the coffin. The nameplate beneath, beautiful and elegantly carved, reads isobel thorm. The justiciar’s daughter. The lynchpin to bring forth the death of the world. The Dark Urge leans against a back wall, tail switching back and forth in impatient irritation, waiting, for something. It never comes. Sentimentality holds Ketheric paralyzed. Or perhaps fear. A century has she slept within a bed of stone, and rot always finds a crack through which to claim its dues. Even Gortash’s near infinite (comparatively) sympathies run short, and he strides to Ketherics side, smooth voice undercut by the gravel of barely restrained frustration. 

"Are we merely here to stand idle as your daughter resurrects herself? If so, one would appreciate being informed beforehand, to avoid making hazardous, unnecessary excursions-"

Ketherics curt tone cuts him short. 

"The Doctrine of Bane must certainly teach the values of patience? Or is there a habit of blindly rushing forth in your practice?" 

Gortash makes a dismissive noise through his teeth, but Ketherics hand refuses to move. The Chosen of Bhaal cocks his head to the side, focused on a small detail on the sarcophagus centered in the room. He makes an interested click, loud enough to catch attention, and once both heads have started to twist towards his claimed corner, he graces the fetid stale air with the scratchings of his voice.

"There's a crack, there in the lid. Near the seam, where it connects with the base." Keterics attention predictably snaps to the spot in question, keen eyes quickly finding the miniscule detail. The implied meaning behind the bhaalspawn’s comment makes itself obvious. How long has it been there? When did it begin to splinter? How deep does it go? How long has his daughter's body been exposed to rotting cursed air? As Ketheric's thoughts tumble down the train of questions, panic predictably breaks him from his mournful reverie and strong hands fasten themselves to either side of the tomb's lid. Sturdy fingers crack into stone, and the Chosen of Bhaal watches as the muscles in Ketheric's shoulders clench and strain, as the man grips, and then rips the sarcophagus's lid right off. As he does so, it takes some of the base's sides with it, jagged wounds blasted through carved stone. Ketheric tosses it aside, and while the bhaalspawn cannot see his expression, he hears Gortash's low whistle. Curiosity is enough to move him from his spot against the wall, and Ketheric is silent for a long moment before his voice, heavy with grief, punctuates the empty air. 

"Like a day had never passed...She's..." 

Gortash sidles up against the coffin to stare down below, breaking Ketheric's trailed silence.

"Impressive! I must say, typically most corpses I see certainly show their wear after a few days, let alone a century." 

Ketherics head snaps towards Gortash's in irritation, but before he says anything, the Dark Urge finishes his languid prowl towards the center, and stares down into the coffin's depths.

She's beautiful. All corpses are, in their way. The thin veneer of skin pulled back, insides out, arcs of crimson marking the walls and floors. The muted deep hues of a liver, exposed to air for the first time in its existence. What he does not reveal, decay takes upon itself, pulling away facade and persona alike to gracefully display what these rotting bags of viscera and skin take such great pains to keep hidden. But the corpse of Isobel Thorm is in no such condition. Skin pulled ever so slightly taut against the skeleton, the washed out tone of a body devoid of flowing blood. Hands folded gracefully over her center, eyes gently closed. Were he not so intimate with death, he could be forgiven for an initial assumption of ailing sleep. But no. There, in the background, hidden beneath the musty smell of rotting cloth and stagnant air that so filled the Thorm Mausoleum, was but a single note of sweet putrefaction. It was enough to spark a pang of hunger through his core. But this corpse was more than just a lump of rotting meat. This corpse was his harbinger of apocalypse. Once this corpse rose from its slumber, the Dead Three would be united in single purpose once more, and upon the throne of their triumph, he would personally raise the eclipse of slaughter upon this blighted earth himself. None of which could happen, of course, if this corpse did not get up. 

Ketheric took a breath to steady himself. His hand, steady save for the smallest of trembles, reached out overtop her body. He sucked in a gulp of air, and then carefully began to give voice to the foul incantation that would restore life-

A hand, fast as a whip with a grip like iron, fastened itself around Ketheric's wrist. The bhaalspawn’s voice carved through the air with an authority profound enough to cut the words out of Ketheric's mouth.

"What are you doing?"

Ketheric made a dismissive tone and made to yank his hand out of the bhaalspawn's grasp, but those fingers remained clasped around Ketheric's wrist.

"I am going to revive my daughter."

The disdain in his voice was liquid venom, dripped into the surrounding stagnant silence. The bhaalspawn's grip relaxed slightly, making a dismissive *tchk* sound as he rolled his eyes.

"I know why you are doing this, Ketheric. What I asked was what?"

"I... I am invoking my lord Myrkul to call upon his power to restore life to my daughter's flesh, and call her soul back to inhabit it once again."

"As she is?"

Ketheric pulled his hand free at last, and once again looked down at the body before him. When he didn't answer, the Chosen of Bhaal folded his arms across his chest, oozing irritation at some perceived slight both Ketheric and Gortash had yet to grasp. The bhaalspawn jabbed a single clawed finger towards the body of Isobel.

"What, exactly, do you think would happen, if life were restored to a century old corpse fresh from its coffin? Do you imagine it'd go over well?"

Ketheric answered only with his silence. The spawn paused only for a beat before continuing on in disdain.

"All you can tell upon looking at her, is merely that her skin has preserved itself fairly well. There is no telling what the state of her organs is. I can make some broad assumptions given the condition, but nothing I would stake something as important as this on. Not without confirming first, that is." 

He punctuated his usage of *this* with a sneer, lip curling to reveal just a hint of the canines Gortash had seen cleave through a man's arm. 

Ketheric's body language shifted to something noticeably more uncertain. The spawn quirked a scarred eyebrow in question, and when Ketheric refused to deign him with elaboration, he pressed the paladin again.

"You... do know how to disassemble a corpse, yes? In such a fashion as to allow *re*-assembly. Yes?"

Gortash folded his arms across his chest and rolled back slightly on his heels.

"Such a skillset isn't particularly useful in my line of work. And far too messy for my tastes anyways. Grease, ink, and oil are enough for my tolerances, I'm not too keen on adding "rotting viscera" to that list."

Ketheric shifted uneasily on his feet.

"...Necromancy was not an aspect of Shar's doctrine I was familiar with. My lord Myrkul's knowledge is great, but... My hands are not yet experienced to my satisfaction."

Gortash clicked his tongue. 

"Will we have to call in your pet zombie for the matter-"

"NO. No. Balthazar will not touch her." Ketheric's voice cracked with a single note of unexpected rage that took both Gortash and the spawn slightly aback. Gortash recovered from the interruption fast enough to retort.

"Then who, exactly, will prepare your daughter for resurrection?"

"....I will-"

"And risk reducing her insides to a paste? I'm sure necromancy will take perfectly well to animating that."

"Then you, Gortash? Certainly you can stitch together an intestinal tract as neatly as a gear train."

Gortash raised his hands in a motion of appeasement.

"I never offered. I'm well aware of my deficiencies."

"Then we are back where we started."

The two of them sat in silence for a long moment. The bhaalspawn carefully leaned forward so as to be in view of both of them, and flicked two fingers forward in a gesture of offering.

Ketheric's scowl could crack mountains. 

"No. Absolutely not. You will not touch her."

Gortash rolled his eyes as he spoke up.

"Oh and you have any better options. Let me remind you that every second we dilly dally, your daughter spends more and more time exposed to your lands curse laden miasma."

"I am NOT letting some misbegotten murderous freak-"

"That "misbegotten freak" is more intimately familiar with the insides of a living person than either of us."

"I refuse-"

"Refuse what? To allow an experienced hand to carefully attend to the flesh of your beloved daughter? Will you refuse her a doctor, next time she falls ill, as well?"

"..."

Ketheric's scowl settled into something the bhaalspawn could have almost sworn was sulking. 

"...Fine. But if you even think of defiling-"

The Chosen of Bhaal unfolded his arms to make a dismissive hand gesture towards Ketheric, cutting him off.

"Yes yes, no defilement or desecration of any sort, of course. Luckily for you I had the foresight we'd find ourselves in such a position and ensured my equipment made its way into our preparations. Now leave me to it."

"You brought your-? No, I most certainly will not be leaving you alone here with my daughter-"

Gortash chimed in while examining the nails on his un-gauntleted hand.

"You can tell how excited he is just from how much he's speaking. I think this is the most our murderous companion has graced us with his voice since we embarked from Moonrise."

"You aren’t any better. If either if you think I’ll be leaving you alone with my most cherished child-"

The Chosen of Bhaal levelled the full force of a gaze that had crumpled initiates to the floor. 

"If you wish to see Isobel's intestines stretched wormlike from her corpse to a table, please do not allow me to stop you."

Ketheric pursed his mouth into a thin line.

"Furthermore. I do not. Appreciate. An audience. While I work."

"..."

"This is holy work. Your daughter will realize the glorious ambitions of my Father. Rest assured I shall treat the task with the gravity such a thing is due."

Ketheric met his gaze head on, holding eye contact as the bhaalspawn finished speaking. 

"...Very well. At the very least, I can trust you won't bring any dishonor to your father's name. And if that is enough to stay your hand from anything...untoward, thennthat is enough for me. Alert me when the work is finished."

As he finished speaking, Ketheric turned sharp on his heel and began to walk out. Gortash waited a moment for Ketheric's back to face him, before pointing an exaggerated eye roll towards the Dark Urge, an amused smirk playing on his lips. Gortash gave a loose wave as he followed behind out of the mausoleum. The bhaalspawn spared a brief moment to wonder where, exactly, they'd be going that was both nearby and shielded from the curse, and then decided he didn't care. There was a matter he must attend to.

The corpse lay as still and silent as when he first gazed upon it minutes ago. Isobel. The syllables of her name seemed to float in the air, weightless. It had an airy feeling on his tongue, in his thoughts. It suited her perfectly. His gaze softened, staring down at her. What a blasphemous thing he was about to do. To pull this sweet, lifeless body back into the forsaken blighted land of the living. His Father had already graced his hands for the foul task at hand, so there was no question of heresy. Despite this, his mind remained disquieted. Even with his Father's blessing, how could he call himself the Scion of Bhaal if he did not have any misgivings? Or...perhaps this itself was another expression of the immutable flaws within him. After all, if his lord Father was assured in His purpose, what right did he have to doubt, even in service to His doctrine? He shook the train of thought from his head, although it did not clear the familiar lump of dread in his stomach. He reassured himself in the knowledge that she would only have to walk this world again for a scant few months, before the broken backs of an oath-sworn army performed their service to his Father and dragged all the world beneath a bloodied sky. And still. At least she didn't talk. That was always nice.

The Dark Urge rolled his shoulders to loosen them up, and then set about to gather an idea of what, exactly, he'd be working with here. He traced a gentle line against her cheek, the skin taut and dry against the pad of his finger. The flesh was firm, as it did not yield even as he began to place pressure upon it. A quick sniff confirmed his suspicions. Upon her death, her sealed coffin had retained enough humidity to allow the formation of corpse wax. At least partially. Clearly not everything had been preserved, for the sweet decay of rot still danced in the air, subtle but unmistakable. He was mostly grateful that at the very least her face had preserved. While he was well acquainted with the varied layouts of vital organs, he was much less confident in his ability to safely cut away any rotten portions of brain, without carving out something important. Wasn't even that enjoyable to look at anyways, at least not whole. Made a beautiful splatter when coming into contact with the blunt end of a blacksmith's hammer though. He shook his head. Not relevant, focus. He gently tested the exposed extremities, thankfully all similarly waxy. Ideally he might be able to get away with minimal clean up. His hopes were dashed though when, upon carefully moving her hands, a gentle press against the flat of her stomach made way for an unpleasant amount of give. The elements had preserved her face, her hands, but beneath her clothing, the rot had taken her organs. The source of the decay he had been smelling. Clearly it hadn't progressed overmuch, as the scent was incredibly faint. Typically, by this point, the scent should be unmistakable, overwhelming, enough to send his lessers stumbling and gagging away from the promise of spoilage that awaited all of them. Well. This is about as far as he'd get relying on his senses alone. Time for the work to begin. 

Ketheric had clearly spent a fair bit of time in preparation for his role as envoy of Myrkul, as the mausoleum already had a fair collection of tools littering the side rooms containing his ancestors. Clearly there was no love lost in the Thorm family. The Urge spent a moment wondering if Thorm would bother cleaning up his workstations when he was satisfied with his results, then decided again he didn't care. He wouldn't trust the tools of a hobbyist butcher anyways. And while it took a fair bit of convincing to make Sceleritas mind the temple, at least the butler had remembered his request for the well worn tools of his taxidermy, minus that which wasn't really portable. He drummed his fingers against the side of the sarcophagus, considering. There was no getting around it. The body was too deep below him. She'd have to be moved. His gaze landed on one of the varying tables left out as whoever had set about their foul work beforehand clearly wasn't of a mind to tidy up. Wide enough to hold a body, though not much else. It would suffice. Decision made, he carefully leaned down towards her still form.

Delicately taking the back of her neck in his hand, fingers brushing through the strands of her hair. Still soft, still fine. Her neck fit so perfectly in his hand. He briefly entertained the thought of closing his fingers up and around her throat, then decided against it. Windpipes were so fragile, and it'd be a pain if he got too enraptured and gripped with too much force. Instead he slid his hand down and out so as to support her weight by the shoulders, slipping his other arm underneath her knees. Taking a moment to get a good feel for her weight, he exhaled and then carefully pulled Isobel up and out of her sarcophagus and into his arms. Held close to his chest, her head limply lolled into his shoulder. Not nearly as stiff as she should be. That was odd. Thankfully Isobel was just as light as her name. Moving her would pose no problem at all. And yet, something in the small motion, gravity pulling her corpse against the warmth of his flesh, stirred some unnameable emotion in his chest. Pausing, without fully knowing why, the Dark Urge stared down at the young woman he held.

Gentle features, a delicate build, so light in his arms. Is this how Ketheric felt, carrying her dead weight to her (presumed) final resting place? What did it mean for a Father to mourn His Creation so deeply he would burn all he knew upon a pyre just for her sake? A sacrifice she could never ask for. Blissful ignorance of the atrocities bestowed upon the land in her name. The pit in his stomach intensified. How cruel, to steal her from this. To bring her back to a world where her father had rendered her home wholly unrecognizable. The Chosen of Bhaal harbored no illusions about his own nature. That he, and his kind, were alone in their holy calling. That most others felt an irresistible draw towards prolonging their own wretched sufferings. They clung to false promises of "home" and "family" and "camaraderie". The bonds they formed between each other weighed down by love and connection. No, he was not ignorant of such things at all. How often had he relied on such delusions to sow death in his wake? Taking a surgeon's knife to those bowstring-taut bonds such that another may be unknowingly gifted the holy all-consuming blood passion? The aftershocks were often too much for their unaccustomed minds and untrained bodies, falling into wreck and ruin, filtered through a lens of heartbreak and betrayal to distance themselves from the sacred truth they had glimpsed for but a moment. And here he was, holding the corpse of Ketheric's daughter, about to call her back from the slaughtersweet world beyond, to...what? That same ruin he inflicted to push them towards that final calling? Surely she would feel betrayed? Daughters loved their fathers, didn't they? Children craved protection and peace, didn't they? Stability, familiarity, a home just how they remembered it, illusions and lies and false promises. Someone had already done her the kindness of tearing them all away, and here he was about to thrust Isobel back into their midst. When the call of life beckoned her back with its siren song, could she ever forgive the man who ensnared her so? After glimpsing a truth now fading from memory? Why did such a thought stir him so? What point was there in asking forgiveness from the dead?

"Not dead." a voice in his mind whispered. "The not-yet living." 

How foul. His mouth curled into a sour snarl. Blasphemy indeed. He'd swallow it down, for Father. It was one thing to call the rotting sacks of meat and bone to walk and slaughter. A dark unlife, devoid of delusion. There was sense in that. But this was true life. If he did not kill her, she would... She would live, he supposed. Grow old, years and years from now. Grow sick, grow frail. How long until the void beyond beckoned her back? Sickening to imagine. His fingers tightened against her body. 

Endure it, Isobel, he silently pleaded. A higher calling beckons you towards a dark paradise. Endure this farce once again for but a brief time, and you shall be rewarded with death eternal. 

He stared down at her face, devoid of rot. Eyes gently shut in repose. 

You shall not suffer this taint for long.

A brief pause.

I promise.

Isobel lay flat upon a table stained with long dried blood. It didn't even retain a single hint of its savory metallic scent. Ugh. Myrkulites. Everything they do is so dry. Well. A blood slick surface would have made this harder anyways. He'll indulge his bloodlust on the way leaving the region. He grabbed the rim of one of those gaudy elaborate Sharran vases and pulled it to his side. A quick glance inside supported his idea. Trash can shaped. He hooked a foot around the leg of a nearby smaller table  holding his tools and dragged it over. A thought. Would he be able to strip the body without merely carving through the fabric? Such a thing rarely mattered but. This corpse would be getting back up after her autopsy. The Mausoleum was far from any settlement with unrotted cloth, and there was barely anything to be scavenged within it. Certainly Ketheric, at the very least, would be cross if he returned to his daughter to see a pile of shredded clothing beside her? Ugh. This burgeoning alliance grew more and more irritating by the day. Why, for fuck's sake, couldn't Myrkul have chosen a necromancer who knew what he was doing, instead of just learning as he went? That hypothetical chosen could do an autopsy his damn self. Or at least prepare for one in advance and bring a change of clothes for "his most cherished child." Irritation after irritation. The Dark Urge made a silent prayer to encounter a Dark Justiciar in an empty alley sometime in the near future. Bhaal knows hes earned it. Swearing quietly to himself, the bhaalspawn carefully, painstakingly, set about peeling the delicate layers of clothing off of Isobel's body. Whatever foul rites Ketheric had prepared should already cover the restoration of muscle tissue. Her legs will be fine, he's already putting more thought and effort into this than her father did. Pale blue fingers tipped in dark black claws against the backdrop of icy white flesh, carefully tugging against ancient fabric so as not to tear. A methodical process, time consuming. Immensely aggravating. If Ketheric got impatient and stormed back in, he could resurrect her by himself, putrefied organs and all. The shit he puts himself through. Satisfied both with his work disrobing the body and the plethora of curses hanging in the air, he allowed himself a moment of reprieve to collect his thoughts. Now for the fun part.

A Y-shaped incision pulling her flesh apart like a flower. Gloved hands skillfully maneuvering a scalpel with all the grace of a portrait painter. The mask he normally used in the midst of taxidermy, to help filter out the fumes of his collection of preserving chemicals, but here serving the function of blocking out the smell of liquified gore (it'd be hard to focus if he worked up an appetite after all). Rotted blood, clotted in the veins. A century spent moldering in the dark. And a plethora of oddities to puzzle through. Firstly, while the smell was intense, it wasn't nearly intense enough. It had the strength of a body shortly past the rigor mortis stage, when it still smelled sweet. Another thing. There simply just. Wasn't enough of it. Corpse wax hadn't managed to preserve nearly any of her organs, and yet despite that, it was as if he was watching them break down in slow motion. Her heart was almost entirely intact, in fact. The aorta would need to be remade, but the ventricles were fine. Lungs in near mint condition. If he wasn't focused on prepping a body for reanimation, he'd be tempted to take them back to the Temple. But on the other end, her liver was almost a puddle he had to carefully scoop out into his makeshift biohazardous waste vase. And he'd cut out a good several feet of intestine already, and might need to remove more. At least he'd be able to give Ketheric accurate diagnostics on what, exactly, he should focus on remaking through the power of Myrkul. Another pang of pity. He was rather certain he'd rather drag himself out of the grave, spilling organs and all, than let the hand of Myrkul touch his innards. Another silent apology. 

He paused for a brief break, looking down to the opened flesh upon his table. Falling again into a pool of thought without the work to occupy him, he absentmindedly traced a finger along the smooth curve of Isobel's ribcage. Skeleton in mint condition, as far as he could tell. Difficult structure to replace, more complex than most gave thought too. A dense exterior, and a spongy core. Upon making the first incisions and peeling the flesh back, a distinct aroma had hit his nostrils, a scent that called to mind the image of the moon shining through clouds, though he had no means to convey that.

[ivorydragoness44]

Ahkmenrah x Reader: Sarcophagus

Sarcophagus Part 2

Word Count: 1,276 Warnings/Notes: Jump scare via Ahkmenrah yelling and the Reader not expecting that at all. Summary: The Reader is cataloging in the museum past closing, they are surprised to see the sarcophagus of the pharaoh Ahmenrah shaking and someone yelling from within it. Will the Reader stay to figure things out, or will a night guard find them first before they can truly help Ahk?

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

  The echo of footsteps came and went. Some lingered with more interest than others. It was the usual sound of a museum. Quiet murmuring of the exhibits and the curiosities the guests held for anything unusual or a spark of amazement.   The Museum of Natural History held such wonder. Though the amount of visitors came in few as years went by, that statistic never curved your interest. Which was all the more reason why you found yourself there presently.   You had checked your watch again as it neared the time of closing. But with such interest and focus, it was easy to lose track of time. The object of your gaze for the past couple of hours resided in the Ancient Egyptian exhibit. Within it, the Pharaoh Ahkmenrah and a collection of his belongings, found in his tomb alongside him decades ago.   Sketching in the next hieroglyph into your notebook, you were determined to complete one more row before leaving for the night. It may not be the most exciting task to the others, especially to anyone who noticed, but you enjoyed it. Honestly, you would not be doing it if you dreaded it. Not everyone could say the same, you were thankful that you could.   As the hieroglyphs began to fill another line on the page, you muttered to yourself. It was a thought, that perhaps you should have left enough space on the page between the lines for your translations. At least it was merely a minor inconvenience.

  Unknowingly to you through your mutterings, the golden tablet displayed on the wall above began to glow.   The sun had set. The exhibits within the museum started to awaken for the night. Every night like the one before. You, however, were the only difference. Completely focused, and yet utterly oblivious.   Kneeling down, you inspected the last hieroglyph. Or, at least, the last one to draw for the day. “I can’t believe they took this out of a tomb,” you grumbled to yourself, “I guess it was easier for them to clear out and transport these magnificent archeological finds than create a replica. Display purposes and no doubt—”   “AHHHH!”   “AHH!” You spun onto the floor in fright. Looking for the ongoing source of your initial panic, you saw no one behind you. No one except the sarcophagus. The shaking sarcophagus.

  This was not a case of caffeine jitters or accidentally falling asleep during work. No, the confines of the sarcophagus were indeed yelling and the pins holding the lid on were rattling as fast as your heart.   Had you entered a scene in a horror movie, or was someone pulling an elaborate trick on you? If the latter, you were sure to exchange some professionally heated words with them. Tampering with a mummy that needed proper care to remain well preserved required the utmost respect.   Thinking more about a sneaky trick, you frowned. “Stop shouting.”   All sounds ceased.   Peering around, you expected at least one other person to come jogging into the Temple room to free their colleague. But silence remained.   Slowly, you stood to your feet and walked forward. “I’m crazy.” As you looked down upon the golden face, your breath caught. Could you have been imagining all of this? “Just…don’t scare me this time,” you requested in a small voice.   “My apologies,” a muffled voice spoke earnestly from within the sarcophagus.   “I am crazy,” you sighed. “I’m talking to an ancient mummy in a museum.”   “I am Ahkmenrah. Fourth King of the Fourth King, Ruler of the land of my fathers. Please, release me.”   “And you’re…alive? How?” You asked, absolutely dumbfounded.   “My tablet, it brings life to everything in this museum at night.”   Turning around, you tilted your head curiously. The tablet of Ahkmenrah. Made of solid gold, it was seen as the most prized possession within the entire collection. Even more than the pharaoh himself.   “Why are you trapped? Have you not told either of the night guards?”   Though muffled through his wrappings and his sarcophagus, you could clearly identify sorrow when you heard it.   “I do not truly know. I have called out each night for years, but to no prevail”   “Alright,” you took a steadying breath. Stepping over to your right, you aligned the palms of your hands with the side of the stone slab. It was the original lid to the rectangular coffin, but was placed in such a way to have the decorative face of the sarcophagus on display. “This goes against my better judgement…and my favorite 1999 film.”   Pushing against the heavy block, it hardly budged. With a shift of your feet, you got better footing. “Come on,” you strained, putting as much of your body weight into your effort as possible.   One more try, and your shoe slipped, squeaking beneath you as your chest hit the lid. “Ah,” you winced. Shaking your head slowly, winded. You stood back up/straighter. “I’m sorry—I…I’m not strong enough.”   Ahkmenrah was silent. Not a shake of his voice or embellished lid.   “Maybe I can get a friend of mine, a colleague, to help me tomorrow night,” you offered, making your way back over to his golden likeness. “Would that be all right?”   “Yes. That would be wonderful,” he replied. A lightness that was not in his voice before, shined.   “I don’t want you to feel alone otherwise.”   “Thank you.”

  Before you could add any more to the conversation, you stopped. Footsteps from the hall outside made its way into the room. And then a voice. Polite yet firm in acknowledging your presence.   “It’s past closing,” he announced, making your head snap up in his direction.   “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” you stood straighter, “I guess I just lost track of time.”   The light glinted off of his white hair as he stepped up to the small roped off barricade in front of the case. “Admiring history will do that to you,” he nodded.   “Yes.” Internally, you hesitated, but dared not show it. You were given permission to be there. It was a part of your profession.   His brows rose. “Getting acquainted with the pharaoh?”   “Yes, I just had to admire him for a little while longer—after cataloging the hieroglyphs, of course.”   “Yes, of course.”

  Remembering, you turned around to retrieve your notebook and pen. Hastily, you stashed them away into your bag. “I won’t keep you any longer, I know you gentlemen have a very important job to do.” Standing back up, you avoided taking a glance at Ahkmenrah’s tablet. You were not sure of the night guards’ reasons for keeping the pharaoh locked away, but you did not want to venture into such a conversation at the moment.   “Here, I’ll walk you out,” he offered when you turned back around/toward him.   “Thank you.”   “My pleasure.”   Holding your bag closer to yourself, you quietly walked between the two lines of the pillars. You kept to yourself all the more when eerie crackling sounds from the tall Anubis statues reached your ears. Chills ran over your skin.   Leaving the Temple of Ahkmenrah exhibit, you played the ignorance card hard. With your notebook back in your hand, you kept your eyes down. Trained to the paper in front of your face, you ignored every sound and movement. And as you reached the revolving doors at the front of the museum, you were certain that you could not ‘accidentally’ stay late again. Something was going on in that museum, but no one else knew. You could only hope to find a suitable reason to be near Ahkmenrah after hours again. Your curiosity and perhaps his sanity depended on it.

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[new-revenant]

During patrol Nightwing found a handmade doll that resembled his hero persona, this wouldn't be so weird if it weren't for the fact that he finds dolls resembling the other members of the batfam's hero personas scattered in odd spots throughout Gotham and Bludhaven. The weirdest thing happens when one night he finds a doll of someone he doesn't recognize. It's a pale teen with white hair and bright green button eyes wearing what looks like a black and white hazmat suit. Nightwing picks it up and the doll immediately bursts into Lazarus green flames. Nightwing finally decided to tell the fam about the dolls not knowing that Phantom, who was sealed in a sarcophagus by treacherous observents several years prior, was now awake. The problem is that the sarcophagus is in the batcave as a trophy, needless to say everyone was surprised when the lid suddenly blew off and out stepped a teenager. Danny is a mix of anger and confusion because this definitely isn't Amity Park

You know. This is almost the exact plot of another, non-dp-related-AU I’ve seen. It’s @/ovegakart doll AU, it’s an AU of Linked Universe, which is itself a LoZ AU where a bunch of Links have come together across time because reasons I won’t get into. In the second ever LoZ game, Adventure of Link, there are these dolls that are scattered across the map. They give you an extra life. So, in ovegakart’s AU, the Link from the first game and AoL(it the same link)finds dolls of himself and the other Links while in his own time. Then, in a well, he finds a doll of a Link none of them have ever seen before. He picks it up and it bursts into flames. I checked, that’s what happened, here is a link to the page. Oh, and Nightwing not telling his family about the dolls until he gets Danny’s? The same thing happened in this AU, where AoL Link doesn’t tell the other Links about the dolls until he comes across the mysterious Link doll. That mystery Link is the First Hero btw, he’s from the Skyward Sword manga.

I would’ve liked it if you, I dunno, credited the idea? Or at least make it not so obvious by changing the doll into something else? Or make it so that Nightwing only finds a Danny doll? Maybe have it melt into ectoplasm even? I have a couple posts already about how I’m a LU fan on here, and if you’ve seen that before, then did you think I didn’t follow ovegakart, one of the biggest LU/LoZ creators? Listen, I’m not mad at you, I’m just confused at your thought process here. This AU idea wasn’t made for dpxdc, it doesn’t even make much sense for it. Yeah yeah, people can do whatever they want, whatever, but at least credit it my god. Or change it up to suit dpxdc more, or both.

How many other people have just taken AU ideas from others and pawned it off as their own, thinking that no one would find out since they’re from another fandom? It makes me feel gross. Please, just credit the idea. If I just posted this with some writing adding onto this, not knowing about this idea coming from another fandom and another person. I think I might need to close my asks for a bit, I don’t feel great, sorry.