Stealing sarcophagi and submarines:
Having no other offers on the table, Oeam Overkill took up Mr. L’s job. Of course it didn’t go smoothly. Clive, mincing about with the backpack full of explosives and new water breathing augmentations, infiltrated the yakuza guarding the pier. Everything was going swimmingly for a moment until another team showed up evidently working for an organization called LOPTR. They were led by a cocky bastard named Bowman, who kept yelling “Lana!!!!!!!” and another clown who looked like an accountant and kept yelling “suppressing fire!”
The crew of the submarine attempted to defend itself from both attacks, but Lot’s sniper overwatch position on a crane 800 m across the water took the wind out of their sails, as did a trio of heavily armed drones run by Perses. Clive put on the finishing touches by detonating 2 pounds of plastic explosives and blowing himself into the water. The ensuing mess cracked the lid of the sarcophagus but the team was ultimately able to take possession of it and the submarine itself. Alabaster took over the running of the submarine, and was even able to wedge the Krupp Komet in the aft hold.
Meanwhile, the rest of the team peeked inside the broken lid of the ancient sarcophagus. Inside was a man holding three weapons in his crossed arms: hammer, trident and sword. All were covered in dust and cobwebs, still as the grave . . . Until the man sucked in a deep rasping breath.
The team quickly hustled the sarcophagus back to Mr. L’s lair. The man himself was not pleased by the damage to the sarcophagus and his goblin minions in their incongruous waistcoats shuffled about, muttering, while arranging to move the artifact inside. Lot loitered about conveying his curiosity to Mr. L who said not a word, turning on his heel, striding after his prize.
Leaving the door open.
Lot followed the procession in to the elevator that the master reserved for his exclusive use. The goblins seem the both agitated and subdued while the master stood without moving, looking down through the broken lid. Occasionally a rasping breath echoed from within.
The elevator stopped. The goblins quickly shuffled the sarcophagus into a large room. It looked like a cross between Mary Potter: the Fifth Generation at Hogwarts, and a very expensive hospital suite. As goblins moved the sarcophagus to the center of the room, others began turning on various machines, lighting candles and incense and sprinkling powders in various bowls.
Lughaidh remained on the elevator, his hands clasped behind his back looking at the sarcophagus… with trepidation? Finally he turned to Lot “would you care to assist me?”
Lot walked to the sarcophagus
Over the next several hours various high-tech sensors as well as arcane rituals and devices were used on the subject in the sarcophagus. It became clear to Lot that the weapons clutched by this individual were powerful magical artifacts and that the individual himself might be considered one as well. The subject was clearly still alive even though Lughaidh’s tests determined that the sarcophagus had been sealed for almost 10,000 years. Lot was unsure that he should accept the test’s veracity.
The subject was removed from his tomb and placed on a gurney. The weapons were moved to a bench on the far side of the room where they were examined and cleaned. “Triton work this,” Lughaidh concluded of the trident. “Possibly forged for Triton himself. The hammer is clearly Dvaegar forged, but this” he held the sword reverently, “this I think was made by Druthgar himself.”
“That name probably holds no meaning for you, does it child?” Lughaidh raised his hand bowing his head slightly, “I apologize. I never cared to be called a child, no matter my age. But in my homeland you would not be considered an adult until you had passed your first century, and you are well short of half a century I think?”
Lughaidh raised his head as if he could see through the ceiling. “Almost everyone in this world is a child to me now. And to him.”
Lughaidh looked back to the subject on the gurney. The raspy breath had been replaced by a regular but very slow, quiet rhythm. On first inspection the subject appeared to be entirely gray. Lot assumed that was due to the coating of dust and cobwebs. But when cleaned, the subject’s pallor hardly changed. Hair and flesh looked were a faded, almost translucent, grayish-white, like an old T-shirt washed too many times. The only deviation from that faint tone was his prosthetic left arm. Once cleaned, it was a gleaming silver simulacrum from shoulder to fingertips.
“His condition is not good. Even holding a Druthgari a blade infused with orichalc, the sensory deprivation has driven him deep into the fugue. It may be that he will not recover. In fact he has faded so far that I cannot recognize him by his face. But I still sense some part of the soul and kinship with it. That, and his silver arm lead me to believe that this is Kharis, a friend from my youth. He was Bosun on the first ship to run the channel and end the blockade on my homeland.
“It seems Kharis must’ve returned home at the end. He was on Atlantis when it drowned.”
Lughaidh notes the look on Lot’s face. “Do you believe in Atlantis? It is been much in the news recently. The Atlantean Foundation. The Draco Foundation. Many organizations are searching the Atlantic for evidence of it even now. Yet many people still believe it a myth.” Lughaidh smiles.
“Atlantis is real. I was born there.”
“Will you help me go home?”