A sickly-sweet smell—frankincense, by his account—assailed his nostrils and curdled the phlegm in his throat as he descended the staircase. This was not what Sextus expected when he returned to the catacombs. Though descending the long, narrow stairway into the depths of the burial site seemed familiar, the hairs on his neck and forearms, all covered by unkempt black robes, stood on end. Sextus’ fears were founded as his feet found purchase on the flagstone entryway of the catacomb’s offering room.
“Curses, this place has been purified,” he hissed under his breath.
The offering room, which he and Nonus had taken great lengths to desecrate, stood before Sextus in all its past and present warmth. The sconces glowed with a gentle light, the central urn—used to provide coin and trinkets to the deceased—appeared polished, and the burnt remnants of six incense sticks stood proudly in tiny sand-filled pots along the circumference of the urn. Ah, the perpetrator of this overwhelming smell!
His disgust swelling, Sextus knocked over the nearest pot and drifted out of the room through an open wooden door to the south. Immediately turning left in the new hallway, he found himself standing before a short staircase, nine or ten steps in length, and an immaculate arched steel door. Various glittering stones—impure chunks of rubies, sapphires, and amethyst by his estimate—lined the door along the top-most arch. In the center of the door, where one would expect handles to open the passage if these were double-doors, a thick disc of steel bore some deep gashes as if clawed by an impossibly strong human.
Holding a gaunt index finger over his mouth in contemplation, Sextus mused, “it appears Nonus underestimated the ingenuity of these simple rural folk.”
Though his goal rested somewhere beyond the steel door, Sextus wished to evaluate the rest of the catacomb for the full extent of the damage caused to his and Nonus’ plans. As he explored further into the catacombs, a miserable pool of bile, hatred, and disgust churned in Sextus’ stomach. Saliva sat hot in the base of his mouth and on several occassions, he was forced to pause and dry-heave.
“There is no way Nonus would let this happen while he still lived. Now, the question becomes: where to find him.”
Making his way south-then-west through the catacomb, Sextus finally came upon his answer. The flagstone before him was stained and scorched with varying hues of red, black, and brown. Blood and burn marks, too fresh to belong to the catacomb’s natural inhabitants.
Sextus cursed under his breath; he never should have left Nonus alone, not even after their bitter fight. When hot tears began to well beneath his eyes, he furiously struck himself across the face.
“Tears won’t avenge Nonus or complete our goals,” he said as he began moistening the dried blood on the ground with water from a small vial.
Using two fingers, Sextus swirled the water into the caked blood until they combined into a reddish-brown goo. A perfect paint. Your death shall not be in vain, brother.
Scoping the room one last time, Sextus saw nothing left of their prior work and sighs. He slowly, absentmindedly, began to use the bloody goo to paint symbols down his face.
“This is far from over. Soon, all shall awaken in the light of the Dark Sun.”
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