Gordian Nought — Roleplayer Guild

Iota
"Really, must we go through this ghoulish ritual each time?"

Beneath the silvered snooze of a slumbering crown and slobbering crescent, a convocation of mirth-makers, jesters whose visages bore the sacred paint of ancestral smiles, convened within the shadow-draped alcoves of a royal mastaba. No ordinary conclave this, for each harlequin's palm was kissed by the vermilion testament of an oath writ in life's own ink. Their hearts, a carnival of clandestine intentions, pulsed with the thrill of impending larceny—a tapestry of intrigue soon to unfold.

"Not of any known society. No historical practices match, nor its composition."

"Doctor." After many bated waves of respiration, the Genasi implored the moniker of her fateful epitaph, as the Marid-borne ruminated upon gleaned pages, contemplating within her supratentorial lattice.

"Found it in Tomes of the Occult."

In their midst, the archeologist's parchments, antiquated and curling at the edges, spoke of an enigmatic allure, the Murkmire Stone, veiled by the sands of time and swathed in the riddles of ostracized pharaohs long turned to dust. This jewel, a gleam in the eye of countless coveters, lay ensconced now within a citadel of curiosities, a newly erected museum whose hallowed galleries sang with the echoes of Thebes and whispered the secrets of Amarna, set to open its doors after this exhumed samhain.

"Egg of Unknown Creature..."
"Dormant for generations, until unearthed."
"Will hatch and will be ravenous for raw meat."
"Grows exponentially as they feed."

These entertainers, caparisoned in garb as variegated as the coral serpents of the Nile, would need to plot with the precision of a pyramid’s architects, their necessary scheme as labyrinthine as the catacombs of Saqqara. Not for them the vulgar smash and grab of common crooks; no, their performance would be one of such finesse that Ptah himself, divine shaper of artifacts, would look on with artisanal approbation.

"Teach us how to neutralize the indestructible."

Amongst their numbers, a schismatic half-elf, Miss Light, her gestures painting silence halved into a tapestry of night and day, mimed the deceptive stillness of a duplicitous sarcophagi, her movements a hieroglyphic script scribing their stealthy ingress. Happy, his mountainous percussions ascending and descending like the Osiris in his eternal cycle, mimicked a Bozo's juggling of piped chronos until the gates of soot and exhibition would yawn wide.  A reborn author, his enslaved spectral fingers spinning a glomerular koan as twisted as the circuitous avenues of Minya's necropolis, embodied the twined flexibility required to bypass not only writers block but, hopefully, any hurdle, more intricate than the web of Neith. And the makeshift ringleader, Grimi, a soporific maestro of the grandest circus of subterfuge, orchestrating the operation with the sagacity of an Imhotep, promised riches beyond the gleam of a Tutankhamun's burial mask.

Iota delicately sampled her new family, wed by blood and bred by laughter.

"We don't have much time."

Their pact sealed, the fellowship would need to disperse into the ether of predawn, the stars themselves unknowing sentinels of the dramatic diaspora soon to grace the stage of twilight. The horizon would begin to blush, soon enough, with the faintest touch of Ra's first rays. These de novo siblings, wrights of illusion, would need to ready their looms, for the sands in the hourglass waned. No inverted promise of stellar ambiance could betray the silent ballet set to commence, where the only audience would be mute witnesses to a heist threaded with the elegance of Abydos' carvings. A symphony of shadows poised to pirouette through the sanctum of antiquity, to claim fortune before malevolence hatched — a legacy locked within the vault of ages, soon to feel the caress of thespians turned master thieves.
Mechanics: Iota asks the doctor about not only her notes but how we few... we, happy few, can come together outside of a blood bound contract to 'neutralize' a soon-to-be unstoppable ravaging being. She imagines a grandiose 'snatch the hatch'.
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