TOMB RAIDER

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Testing the shovel against the ground, you finding something solid. As though there were something buried underfoot. *C'est bizarre.* “Do you wish to sleep with scorpions?” A shadow engulfs your head. Without even looking, you know who it is. The *Général.* Your assumptions are confirmed by a bayonet jab, mere centimeters away from slicing off your cheeks. “Non, monsieur.” “Then keep digging,” he spits. He harrasses the next soldier. > [[Do as you’re told.|Obey]] > [[Satiate your curiosity.|Curiosity]]

That metallic tang sings a song in your heart, a song of ancient people, a song of discovery. For, what else could this exposed stone be but the bricks of a tomb? You’ve spent a year on expedition, poring over your father’s maps for an unearthed tomb. Ever since the opening of King Tutankhamun’s chamber, the West has been seized by a ravenous bout of Egyptomania. Dozens of sanctioned and unsanctioned escapades into the exotic lands of Egypt have resulted in the discovery of countless tombs. Your interest in Egypt, however, existed long before Tut. > [[Study the stone.|Curiosity]] > [[Call over the workmen to finish the job.|Labor]]

The mythical *mastaba* your father always spoke of in his mumbled delusions was here all long, right in the middle of your backyard. He was *magnoon*, but he was right. No one ever believed him. Especially not his son. Now is not the time for guilt. Your father’s death left you with a pitiful apartment and a debt worth more than your household. The day of the debt collectors is arriving fast. > [[Better pray there’s gold in here.|Labor]] > [[Your people used to be kings.|Valley of Kings]]

[after 1 sec] You’ve been shoveling since dawn. [after 2 sec] It’s now late afternoon, and the sun melts your skin to sweat. You bend down for another heave of sand until... [after 3 sec] [align center] [[CLANG!|Sound]]

You squeeze out the last droplets from your bottle, rinsing parched lips with water. It's not enough. It's never enough. You think of your meager family. Three generations worth, all cramped up in an overpriced apartment with sporadic electricity. You are, since baba passed, the patriarch of the household. It's a responsibility you're incapable of fulfilling, whether it be your wife's high demands or your starving daughter. The revolution has made work harder to come by. > [[You shovel more sand.|What You Seek]]

You dig, because otherwise, the *Général* would have you guillotined. You don’t understand why you’re digging through rubble, why you’re rebuilding the fort, why you’re even here in the desert. Curse Bonaparte, that bastard of a man. He promised you parcels of land, but the only land you’ll receive are parcels of sand. ~~Clang!~~ There goes that damn sound again! > [[Ignore it.|Wall]] > {reveal link: "Surely there's somewhere you can dig.", text: "Except the shovel won't budge."}

Brushing off the sand from the stone, you find a long slab of stone. It’s the roof of an underground tomb. You beckon the photographer over, a university lad scarcely over twenty years of age. “John!” “Sir, it’s James.” The camera dangles on his neck, metallic parts catching glints of sun glare. You adjust your spectacles to avoid the blinding light. “Right, yes. Now. Please take a photograph for posterity. The British Museum would be delighted to receive donations.” Right as Jackson is about to take the picture of the slab, you realise… > {reveal link: "A slab of stone is hardly museum-worthy", text: "Then perhaps you should find an artifact that is."} > [[The workmen have uncovered something.|Discovery]]

You live in Luxor, the city built on the ruins of Thebes, the capital of the New Kingdom of Egypt. Across the Nile lies the Valley of the Kings where pharaohs were buried. Once upon a time, Egypt was a powerful empire. Now all that remains is a country full of rubble. To think that there was a point in time when it was eastward that the West looked to for answers concerning the universe. It brings you a grave shame. > [[Swallow your humiliation with another shovel of sand.|Wall]]

perspective: "Enter A" -- And there it looms. The darkness you have spent your whole life waiting to see: the rudimentary gates of a tomb, nothing but a sandstone frame of a door, waiting to be explored. Thankfully, you won’t have to stumble in the darkness alone. You’ll be aided by a torch. Flicking the switch, torchlight cuts lines through the shadow. You take your first step inside, but a hand pulls you back. “Dr. Bertram, we don’t know how safe it is to enter the tomb.” You scowl at the workman. You can hear the *American* twang in his voice. > [[“Unhand me.”|Enter]]

perspective: "Enter L" -- You dig until a shoveled hole gapes back at you, hollow and true, like an open mouth of a hungry beast. You’ve found the entrance. Somewhere inside the tomb, inside the beast’s grave belly, lies the {cycling link, choices: ['treasure', 'answer', 'truth', 'abscondment']} you seek. Armed with a flashlight, you flick the switch, shooting out a stream of light. You move forward, as though transfixed by a higher being. > [[Go in.|Enter]]

> [[Enter.|The Entrance]]

[after 1 sec] ~~Clang!~~ [after 2 sec] ~~Clang!~~ [after 3 sec] ~~Clan--~~ [after 4 sec] [align center] [[Dig.|Broken Shovel]]

perspective: "Enter S" -- [continue] ~~CRRRKKK!~~ The shovel snaps in two. You stare at the broken handle. Then you resort to your hands *comme un chien*, scooping up as many handfuls of sand as possible with such a vivacity and tenacity that not even *Dieu* could command you to stop. You *will* find what lies underneath you. And then you will rip it out and lay a new wall on top. You dig. And you dig. And you dig. > [[Until you fall into a man-sized hole of your own creation.|Enter]]

You feel as though you are being swallowed up. Like Jonas and his whale. At least Jonas had the luxury of being eaten by a warm-blooded creature. The crypt is cold. Bitingly frosty. Even your Frenchman's layers aren't enough. You have no {reveal link: 'oil lamp', text: 'oil lamp (it was left at camp)'}, you have no {reveal link: 'musket', text: 'musket (it was left at camp)'}, but what you do have are a {reveal link: 'whip', text: 'whip (for beating off the dust from your uniform because Bonaparte is a particular man)'}, a {reveal link: 'knife', text: 'knife (a gift from your beloved wife)'}, and a broken handle. None of these items could save you from crashing headfirst into the wall. Your head hurts. Your temples feel damp. > [[Crawl.|At the Bottom]] > [[Feel the walls.|Investigate]]

You walk down the steps of a long corridor, surrounded by walls of painted artwork representing the scenes of what must have been the tomb owner’s life. There is no depiction of a pharaoh’s crown, disappointingly enough, and parts of the paintings are scratched out and obscured, rendering bodies headless and heads bodyless. At the bottom of the steps is a dark splotch on the wall. You frown, unsure of what to make of the mysterious shape. It fills you with a terrible dread. You keep walking. [after 1 sec] ~~Crack!~~ [Continue] > [[What on Earth was that sound?|Investigate]] > [[Don’t tamper with the spirits on the walls.|They Who Watch]]

{embed passage: perspective}

You look down to your heels and realise that you just stepped on the skeletal remains of an outstretched hand poking out from a dark blue sleeve, clutching a small knife. Tracing your gaze along the ulna, you find a skull embedded in stone rubble, the crown crushed by a heavy weight. Its soulless eyes unsettle you. > [[What an antique knife.|The Knife]] > [[Past the skull is a light.|Beacon]]

The people depicted in the paintings are all dead, you remind yourself. They’ve been gone for two thousand years or more. So why, when you stare into their painted eyes, do you feel a dread, echoing in your soul like a rock tossed down a cavern? As though they were judging you. As though your ancestors were judging you. You grip your holstered pistol, a sense of relief washing over you. You almost forgot it was there. > [[They can’t hurt you if they’re dead.|The Dead]] > [[Press on.|A Door to Paradise]]

Your palms ache from the rough stone. How it cuts through your dry, hardened skin. But at the end of the passageway is the entrance to a tomb chamber, a golden light emanating from within. The light stands in contrast to the cold, swallowing darkness; the light pulls you in from your abyss, it taunts you with the promise of gold from nothing, of luxury from a crypt of death. > [[And you want it.|Fantasy]] > [[But what if it’s too good to be true?|Skepticism]]

You take each step carefully. The stairs are worn and sanded down, footprints laid down from long ago. You choose not to pay attention to those {reveal link: 'things.', text: 'things. Certainly not a crushed skull sticking out from a pile of stone rubble.'} You are here with one aim, and one aim only: to find the treasure at the bottom of the tomb. Still, you can’t shake the {reveal link: 'eyes.', text: 'eyes (how they watch you without blinking, without moving).'} > [[Look at them.|They Who Watch]] > [[Keep walking.|At the Bottom]]

perspective: "Chamber S" -- You pick up the knife, and the bones wither away, leaving only the skull behind. You pocket the knife in your trousers. It’s a plain knife with slight engravings on the hilt, though it looks rather old. Dated around the 18th-century is your best guess. You examine the paintings on the wall, and can imagine a portion of the tomb wall being excavated and put on display. Perhaps it would warrant its own exhibit room? A light pulsates at the end of the corridor. You turn off your torch; there’s no need for a light source now. > [[Follow the light.|Enter II]]

perspective: "Chamber S" -- Suddenly, your flashlight sputters out. But you are not completely unnerved; the tunnel is straight and the only path ahead is the path forward. You use the wall to guide you. And then you feel the first skull. Your fingers sink into one the holes where an eye should have been, and then trace your finger to {reveal link: 'the jagged protrusions at the bottom.’, text: ‘the teeth.’} The skull is missing a mandible. And then you feel the **bones** sticking out from the stone, like ridges inside a mouth. There’s an innumerable amount of them, so many that you wonder how many others have trespassed the tomb, and how many of them died here. A grave, not only for the pharaoh, but to all those who enter. > [[You are not one to speculate on the past.|Enter II]]

perspective: "Chamber A" -- You continue into the dark passageway, shivering from the cold, until you reach the light at the end. There it stands, like a gate to heaven, the door of the pharaoh’s chamber. From the outside, the room glitters with gold like a false sun. After being accustomed to the darkness or the dim, flickering light of your flashlight, the room nearly blinds you. Whispering sensations, not unlike the silky wisp of a spider’s web, brush past your ear. You cannot make out the words, if there are any words at all. They must be jinn. > [[You won’t let them deter you.|Enter II]]

perspective: "Chamber A" -- After months of a worthless campaign into Egypt, of traveling to dusty towns and crossing desolate desert, at last you have found the treasures Napoléon Bonaparte promised. Buried under the remains of a fort, but buried treasure nonetheless. You imagine what you will do when you return. Perhaps you’ll buy a new estate, live in the countryside. Make your wife into a proper lady, live a life of luxury not unlike the men of the *ancien regime*. Perhaps you’d travel the world, but never Egypt. No, never again. > [[The possibilities lay before you. Endless. Attainable.|Enter II]]

perspective: "Chamber L" -- Ahead the hall of dark, a beacon shines Enticing you, an anglerfish’s light Then lulling you away, like luring lines Beguiling moths, entranced, too blind to fight In sober’s wake, a golden man stands guard Above his master’s coffin, brave yet charred > [[Where are you?|Enter II]]

> [[Enter.|The Chamber]]

To be continued... [align center] {restart link, label: 'Play again.'}

perspective: "Chamber L" -- What if there is a lurking entity hiding in the chamber? What if the gold is a lure to ensnare and kill you? What if the gold is fake, what if the statue guarding the coffin is fake, what if the tomb is fake? What if you wake up and you realize you were merely in a dream? You know better than to trust empty promises. Better than to trust men like Bonaparte. > [[And yet, the golden light shines so bright it nearly blinds you.|Enter II]]