I am not a savage.

I soaked in the gore of the illithid for but a few moments.

A few minutes.

An elf stopped us on our way to clean the blood, claiming an intellect devourer had fled the wreckage. I followed his direction and found nothing but a boar.

Turning back, I found another bore. This one had taken a dagger, ready to slit a throat.

He blustered, but stopped as the worm within his head stunned his senses. He attempted an apology. I do not take well to threats.

But I am not a savage.

I understand the weak experience fear.

I would not reward his cowaradice with execution. Not yet. Not if he kept his knife to himself.

But I would not reward his paranoia with acceptance either. He had his own problems. Let him solve them.

Alone.

A huge structure lay a short distance away. The door was much too sturdy to break down with the small axe I had at my disposal.

I searched for another path. I was found wanting. I turned the way we had come. My mind turned toward the elf. I did not want to walk by him again. I did not want another confrontation.

Shadowheart smirked at my hesitation. She brandished a small pack of tools she scavanged from the wreckage. Within moments, the door was open.

We were welcomed by several sarcophagi.

Defiling the dead was fine. They no longer needed their tools. Or riches.

Shadowheart stopped me as I attemped to move into the room. She pointed out traps on the ground. The dead, or their relatives, did have issues with aiding the living. She bent down to work.

Perhaps I was too hasty to judge. Shadowheart may not have the brawn to hold her own in a fight. But she still had her own value.

Among the dead I found a halberd. It was good to hold a weapon that required both hands. I could put my weight behind the shaft. Revel in the resistance and give as flesh rent from bone.

Shadowheart broke the tools on the grave in the center of the room. It likely belonged to the most important of the dead. A king or leader. There was writing. It was inscrutable.

The tools had been scavenged. It was only a matter of time before the broke. I did not blame her.

There was a button on one of the pillars. It was likely a trap. It was not worth risking. Not now.

Shadowheart led the way through the darkness. She continued to open doors along the way. We reached another tomb. It felt holy. The name "Jergal" - an ancient, forgotten god of the dead - rose to mind.

Several bodies littered the ground. There did not appear to be any sign of struggle. We found a scroll to protect against the un- and supernatural. And a key.

Just outside was a cave and a ladder leading to the surface. An escape fashioned after the structure had fallen to ruin? Or perhaps an exposed secret?

We searched the crypt for more secrets. I asked Shadowheart of the trinket she kept hidden. She refused to speak of it. I attempted to learn more of her; more than a name and that she worshipped a god. Just as I did... probably.

She refused again. It would serve no purpose.

I thought of myself. My lack of memory. The ecstacy I felt as the life of the illid drained away. The ever-present flickers of death and blood that filled my mind. The urges that tempted my every action.

I did not press her further.

A button was hidden at the end of the corridor. Shadowheart felt it safe to press due to the lack of traps.

A hidden room appeared. The dead rose.

I pushed Shadowheart into the room behind me. I stood in the doorway as the skeletal scribes approached. As I wait, I cast the spell in the hopes it would protect from the dead.

A brute held my attention. The weaker cast spells, silencing and blinding both of us, and stymieing Shadowheart's ability to help.

The scroll bent their attacks from my body. My own divine castings turned their bones to dust. We triumphed.

I felt proud.

Any strength they may have had in life likely drained along with their blood.

I was disappointed.

A lot of effort was taken to protect this specific tomb. A plaque claimed it held the Guardian and that atonement came with knowledge.

Shadowheart stood back. I lifted the lid. A dessicated corpse - a lich - flew from its confines. I lifted the halberd.

Instead of attacking, he appeared civil. He asked the cost of a single mortal's life.

I owed him nothing, and said as much.

He accepted my defiance and claimed we would meet again. At the proper time. At the proper place.

I expected him to vanish.

Instead, he wandered off. Complaining about filth and mess.