Commences… but meanwhile…

Amon Toth nudged the entrails, annoyed by the divination. An item of power was in play, of that he was certain. But… nothing more would the entrails tell him. He exhaled and looked into the lifeless eyes of the recent ritual sacrifice. A waste, he thought.

The Stygian wizard was tall and emaciatedly spare, his frame elongated, stretched unwholesomely. His skin was the dark bronze of old Stygian nobility, polished smooth by oils and ritual unguents. His face was narrow and severe, cheekbones like knife cuts, sharp enough to cast shadows. His lips were mercilessly thin and rarely move except to speak mirthless commands or ancient utterances never meant for common throats or ears. His eyes were his most unsettling feature, heavy-lidded, kohl-lined, and yellowed like aged ivory. When he was relaxed, they appeared half-asleep, bored. Right now they focused, fixated upon the upward steaming entrails with predatory stillness—no blinking—as though the very flesh would be flayed with the sharpness of his gaze.

His hair was jet black, worn long and bound in gold rings engraved with hieroglyphs of Set and older, unnamed gods. His beard was thin, squared, ritual-trimmed, a mark of priestly rank rather than vanity.

His garb radiated authority, layered linen robes dyed deep indigo and blood-red, embroidered with serpent-thread and sigils that crawl when viewed too long. Around his neck hangs a collar of lapis and electrum, heavy enough to ache the spine of a lesser man. His hands were long-fingered, stained permanently dark from inks, blood, resins, and ash. He smelled faintly of cloves, almonds and rust.

Toth’s sanctum lay deep beneath Set’s temple complex—cool, cavernous chambers carved into living rock, older than Stygia’s current dynasties. The walls were etched with reliefs depicting incomprehensible gods devouring stars, nightmare symbols, and sorcerer godlings crowned with flames.

He considered the entrails and the lines of power that shimmered from them. “It will possibly come to me here… but most likely not. No, I must venture out to find it and make its power mine!” He decided after pondering the matter in full.

If he waited here the arch priest Kharim Atar, always nipping at his heals, and his order of Setite Priests might interfere. That he would not allow.

Thoth-Amon clapped his hands and a palinquin born by oiled eunuchs was made ready. Soon he was headed out into the winding cobbled streets of Luxor. They lines of fate still glimmered. He was bound for the poor quarter it seemed.