The Tomb 2

That’s the sound of metal striking **stone**. > [[What was that?|The Soldier]] > [[It's music to your ears.|The Academic]] > [[Ya salaam! It's real?|The Looter]]

You test the shovel against the ground, and finding something solid rather than soft and permissible. As though there were something buried underfoot. *C'est bizarre.* “Do you wish to sleep in the sand?” 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]]

config.body.transition.name: "crossfade" config.body.transition.duration: "500ms" config.footer.transition.name: "crossfade" comfig.header.transition.name: "crossfade" config.style.backdrop: "black" config.style.page.color: "gray-1 on gray-6" config.style.page.footer.link.active.color: "orange-4 on orange-1" config.style.page.footer.link.active.lineColor: "orange" config.style.page.footer.link.lineColor: "orange" config.style.page.fork.divider.size: 0.5 config.style.page.fork.divider.style: "none" config.style.page.header.link.active.lineColor: "orange-4" config.style.page.header.link.lineColor: "orange-4" config.style.page.link.active.color: "orange on gray-5" config.style.page.link.color: "orange" config.style.page.link.font: "" config.style.page.link.lineColor: "orange-4" config.style.page.theme.enableSwitching: false -- [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] {link to: 'Sound', label: '~~Clang!~~'}

You squeeze out the last droplets from your bottle, rinsing parched lips with water. It’s not enough to save you from the heat. You think about what it’d be like to live in the States. To see snowflakes, snowy mountains, and snowy trees. But then you’d also experience snowstorms. You also also 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.|Treasure]]

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 keep looking."} > [[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" -- 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 like a dog, scooping up as many handfuls of sand as possible with such a vivacity and tenacity that not even God 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. 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)'} and a {reveal link: 'knife', text: '(a gift from your beloved wife)'}. None of these things could save you from crashing headfirst into a stone wall. Blood drips down your temples. > [[Your head hurts.|Pain]] > [[Open your eyes.|Enlightenment]]

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. ~~Crack!~~ > [[What on Earth was that sound?|Investigate]] > [[Don’t tamper with the spirits on the walls.|Enlightenment]]

{embed passage: perspective}