The Atlantis of the Sands [Archive]

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Hector Hall

Jan 7th, 2013, 03:20:50 AM

They said it was mythical.

History was filled with lost cities, and this was one of the more successfully so. Only one overt reference had survived into the modern day: a passing reference in the Quran to Iram, a city of lofty pillars; and in the Tales of Arabian Nights to it's king, Shaddad, whose city was destroyed for worshipping occult idols in defiance of the will of God, swallowed by the very sands upon which it was built. A mixture of inference and guesswork placed it somewhere in the Rub' al Khali - the Empty Quarter, the largest sand desert in the world, dominating almost a third of the Arabian peninsula. A needle in a haystack. A needle that might not even exist.

They said it was mythical.

Normally, an archaeologist like Hector Hall would never have put stock in such things. His father had trained him far better than that; and while he didn't have the benefit of quite such an obscene amount of years of experience, he liked to think he was as shrewd and level-headed as Carter Hall. Perhaps more so. But then the book had arrived: delivered to the university by courier from an anonymous donor, donated from a private collection that, if the brief included note was to be believed, had not seen the light of day in generations. In it were references - obscure references yes, but references none the less - to the kingdom of Shaddad, his Adite tribes, and their great city of towering spires.

They said it was mythical.

The evidence was vague, and many thought it was circumstantial; but Hector believed. Finding funding for such a frivolous expedition was normally impossible, but once again the anonymous donor came to the rescue. Hector had a small team; he had Hippolyta; he had the approximate makings of a map; and he had hope.

It had taken three years to scour the world, travelling across the ruins of Egypt, Arabia, Persia, and Greece, and the museums of Europe and America where so many plundered treasures had made their way, piecing together the scattering of clues that a mere handful of survivors had left behind them. Each clue hinted at the location of the one left before, marking a trail back to their lost home should any of them be foolish enough to return.

The excavations alone had taken a year. The stress, frustration, and endless apparent failure had strained his resolve, his budget, and his love: but by some miracle all had endured. Two months ago, they had uncovered the first stone.

They said it was mythical.

Unburying a city was even harder than Hector could have imagined. Iram was not merely a city of pillars: there were roads, temples, homesteads, and all manner of other structures that needed to be uncovered, deciphered, catalogued, and explored. It was fascinating unearthing the artefacts that had been so perfectly preserved by the sands; finding the corpses of the slaughtered residents, mummified by the sands, was something else entirely.

Eventually they'd found it: a structure too large for a homestead or granary; too ornate for a place of learning; too opulent for a temple, no matter how much it's deity was venerated. It could only be the palace: a stone fortress that - according to the journal - contained countless untold treasures. After all this time, Hector Hall finally stood before the grand entrance to Shaddad's throne room, sealed millennia ago as a last resort to spare it's precious contents from the oncoming sand. And he wasn't alone.

They said it was mythical.

Hector's eyes turned to Lyta; his hand gently reached for hers, fingers weaving their way into her grip. A smile formed on his lips as he beheld the most precious treasure he had ever discovered. "I couldn't have done it without you," he uttered softly; it seemed wrong to speak any louder.

Lyta Trevor

Jan 10th, 2013, 12:39:27 AM

She was lost, again…

The ancient city shimmered under a veil of heat, the waves undulating upward through the air. Workers on the massively scaled excavation ambled to and fro beneath layers of gauze-like fabric to ward off the worst of the sun and heat. Both, granted, were inescapable in the desert, but tolerable given the work they were doing.

And what they had discovered not two months before.

Lyta remembered too well the years before this discovery. The trials and tribulations that had flung them apart had also threatened to put more than just their work asunder. They could have each found other teams and archaeologists to work with on dig sites across the world. But what they shared and what they’d discovered along the way was as much to be treasured as the artifacts they unearthed.

No…it was definitely more.

Her breath caught in her throat as she tilted her head, catching his gaze as his soft words filtered through the air. Hector had had that effect on her for far longer than she’d ever admit. Their fingers twined together as if they’d always been meant for such intimacy, drawing a breathless smile to her delicate features. By the stars, how she loved him.

“I know…someone had to be able to read the hieratic inscriptions at Petra.” Mischief sparkled in her bright blue eyes, her voice a whisper to match his. She lifted their joined hands and placed a kiss on his knuckles before turning back towards the door.

A gasp escaped her lips as she finally took a good long look at the four clay seals strung on still-bright crimson rope. Each one inscribed in a different tongue long missing from the world at large. “Do you…see this? This one is in Hieratic…this one is Sumerian…I think this third one is a proto-Phoenician…and…Enochian?” Lyta’s voice was still a fiercely warm whisper as if she dared not disturb the air with sound even though she gently touched the seals.

Reverent fingertips documented each seal with deft strokes of a pencil in the small leather-bound notebook that practically lived in her back pocket. Deciphering the etchings was little problem – archaic and dead languages no one had heard in thousands of years were her area of expertise after all. Her brow knit in concentration as she spoke, puzzling through the phrasing aloud.

“Curse by God…enter not unless the curse you join? That doesn’t make any sense…I’ve never seen it phrased-“ her words trailed off abruptly as the seals grew warm to the touch, sending her scrambling back towards where Hector still stood. One by one, they shattered apart in a shower of clay shards and crimson threads, making Lyta intensely glad she’d recorded the etchings that had been on them.

Blue eyes looked up to Hector, glittering brightly with anticipation as she tucked her notebook back in her pocket. A gentle pull at the ornately carved handles proved that the doors were not going to open easily. She frowned, running her hand along each of them before she planted her feet on the paved pathway and pulled. The tall, single slab stone doors slid open with a sand-filled whoosh as fresh air rushed into a chamber it hadn’t visited in thousands of years.

Hector Hall

Jan 12th, 2013, 03:29:48 PM

Hector's stomach twisted in a knot. It was hardly the first time he'd seen Lyta demonstrate her super strength. They'd grown up together, and he'd known it all along. That didn't make it any less impressive, or any less worrying. His love, his Lyta, was different. It made her special, and while that didn't make Hector love her any more or less than if she hadn't possessed those abilities, it did make him worry.

People - governments especially - didn't trust things that were different. All it would take was one candid photo, one misplaced witness; Hector didn't want to even imagine what might happen to her if that came to pass. His subconscious obliged anyway; yet another nightmarish flash of science labs, of prison cells, and of his beloved behind bars.

"I could have done that," he grunted. Sarcasm was always his best defense in these situations. Besides, she'd have been suspicious if he said nothing. "I just chose not to."

While part of his mind was firmly - constantly - dedicated to worrying, another part specialised in curiosity. That part too was also afire, tossing competing thoughts across his conscious mind that eventually battered his reservations to the sidelines. Hieratic was one thing: a predecessor to the more hieroglyphic form of Ancient Egyptian that everyone was familiar with, and a language not particularly out of place on the Arabian peninsula, so close to Egypt. Phoenician and Sumerian were ancient languages from Mesopotamia, the cradle of civilization: again, not a surprising sight in the middle east. But Enochian?

Hector knew far less about languages than Lyta, but he knew enough for mention of that language to raise an eyebrow. According to apocryphal texts from Judaism and Christianity, Enochian was the language of heaven, of angels, of Adam, so named for the Book of Enoch in which it was described. Modern occultists ascribed it magical properties; and had Hector not unburied the city from the sands himself, he would have been convinced it's presence here was a hoax.

"If you see anything that looks like the Ark of the Covenant," he muttered, glancing back in Lyta's direction. "It would probably be best to leave it closed."

Lyta Trevor

Jan 13th, 2013, 10:05:57 PM

A warm smile curled her lips as she approached him and gently kissed his cheek. Hector was at his most...adorable, for lack of a better work when he was muttering gruffly under his breath. It generally meant he was covering for his innermost thoughts, but reading those was not an ability she possessed.

Melodic laughter emerged as she opened her notebook to a fresh page and began making a rough sketch of the space and the artifacts scattered around it. "I promise to behave myself if you'll do the same...or do I need to remind you about Crete?" Her voice light, she neglected to mention her own part in that particular escapade. Bright blue eyes endeavored to look wide and innocent as she moved forward, frowning at the dim light.

There were windows built high into the sandstone walls, but none of the polished metal reflectors they'd expect to find in a similarly built and aged structure. Ornate metal sconces and carved glass vessels instead occupied their places, lining walls and carved pillars alike. An inspection of one of them proved that the glass vessels were filled with scented oil and simply waiting for a flame.

"Hector, do you still have matches in your pocket?" Lyta called out, turning to see where he was. She grinned and caught the tossed matches as he came around a pillar, putting her notebook down to begin lighting the sconces.

Hector Hall

Jan 14th, 2013, 01:21:33 AM

Hector meanwhile was studying the writings - or rather, studying the pictographs. While there was text and hieroglyphics woven into the depiction that adorned the walls, the images seemed to tell a greater story. It was like some ancient inspiration for the Bayeux Tapestry, depicting historic battles and exploits spanning hundreds of years.

Except, the things being shown didn't make sense; the artwork consistently depicted the same man at the heart of each story. At first Hector merely attested it to a lack of imagination on the part of the artist, but the words and symbols woven into the display cemented the consistency of character. There he was, stood triumphant above a great pyramid, adorned in the regalia of an Egyptian pharaoh, symbols associated with Khufu at his feet; beyond it, another pharaoh towering above a sphinx bore the hieroglyphics of his grandson, Khafra; and yet beside them both, the same proto-Phoenician lettering spelled out the same name. "Vandar," Hector muttered quietly to himself; the word was utterly unfamiliar.

He swept left, the piercingly bright beam of his maglite skipping across the painted stone. Earlier in time it seemed, Vandar was surrounded by iconography associated with seafaring and civilization; depictions that might have seemed Greek, had the script and chronology not heavily implied otherwise. Vandar seemed to be locked in battle, his sword clashing with the trident of the ever-present mythical man of the sea: perhaps Netun, an ancient predecessor of Poseidon and Neptune. Earlier still the pictographs took a different turn, the script melting into the same Enochian that had adorned the entrance. Hector recognised a few snatches of what might even have been Biblical lore: a broken tower; an ark; a flood; Vandar stood triumphant over a defeated foe that appeared almost identical. A brother? A defeated part of one's self?

Hector's eyes fell away, a heavy frown settling in on his brow. What did it all mean? Was Vandar a deity worshipped by the people of Iram? A would-be god king who had cast himself as every great king from history who had come before him?

Lyta Trevor

Jan 16th, 2013, 05:39:41 PM

The effect was magnificent.

The faceted glass glittered and cast tiny rainbows of light in every direction, picked up by the still-bright paint that graced every surface. Each pillar told a story, showed a scene, the text beneath arrayed in layers of language. Like the seals on the great doors, there was an intricate band of Hieratic, one of proto-Phoenician, another of Sumerian, and the most puzzling, Enochian.

There could be cases made for the presence of the others, the strongest based on geography alone. But the Enochian...here...on the Arabian peninsula in a lost city that wasn't even supposed to be real.

Well. It was the stuff of legends and fables, not archaeological reality. But there it was. Lyta gently shook her head, turning away from the pillars to take a good look at the dais that stood as the focal point of the entire vast space. Seven steps, broad enough to be sat upon comfortably, as evidenced by the cushions scattered across each of the levels. The top was stark in contrast to the barely faded colors in the rest of the space.

An imposing black throne (http://i46.tinypic.com/3eih4.jpg), wrought in metal stood in the absolute center. It was majestic, ornately decorated with symbols from half a dozen cultures that should never have met in one single piece of furniture. Lyta blinked, tilting her head as she looked at it, paying little attention to the slightly smaller scale throne that sat behind and to its right, even though it was still...occupied.

What captured her attention was the plinth of pure black stone that stood to the left side of the throne. Perfectly smooth...no, almost perfectly smooth, Lyta noted as she approached, careful to avoid stepping where she shouldn't. Three rows of Enochian etchings ringed the top, upon which stood something covered in a black silk cloth that seemed to absorb every ounce of light even in its dust-covered state.

She couldn't sketch and translate fast enough to satisfy the curiosity that threatened to consume her. Still so old fashioned, Hector had called her, preferring to document a site through pen and pencil as opposed to digital wizardry. This once, Lyta mused, she wished she'd brought the camera he'd bought her as an enticement. She gently traced the characters with a fingertip as she read them, puzzling through the translation.

"...it fell from the sky...cast...in fire...burning bright...a meteorite perhaps?" she mused softly, moving along to the next line.

"...the reach...the gift...the pleasure of the gods...wait...the reach? That's not right...its as if they're using it as a proper...noun...hmm."

Blue eyes narrowed in thought, her brow knitting together as she read the third line. "...man and beast were one...two halves of one whole...but defeated...fallen at the hands of the savage..."

Fingers reached up and plucked the fabric away, eyes growing wide. "Uhh...Hector? Now...now would be a spectacular time for you to get your ass over here..."

Hector Hall

Jan 21st, 2013, 02:19:52 AM

Hector's ass was somewhat occupied, helping to hold the archaeologist in the sort of crouch-squat that was necessary to properly view more of the narrative wall paintings. Not only did the strange blend of languages and pictographs make outlandish claims about this Vandar god-king's longevity, they also boasted about seemingly fantastical deeds. They showed him in battle countless times: not just against anachronistic depictions of Poseidon. They showed Vandar at the head of an army, marching towards what the writings described as the Hawk-Prince: the younger Horus, perhaps? In single combat he battled some sort of warrior woman: some odd blend of Xena and a cowgirl, if the lasso was anything to go by.

One of the grandest however seemed to be a duel against some sort of monster or demon: a towering bestial man, with skin of silver and eyes of blood red, it's clawed hands wreathed in cyan fire. Somehow Vandar had slain the creature: the next picture showed him standing triumphant over it, the beast's heart in his hands. Only, the heart itself seemed wrong; squinting, Hector could have sworn it looked like a scarab. Closer inspection uncovered runes and familiar hieroglyphs; another scarab, and a blue lotus, both common symbols of Khepri, the dung beetle that Egyptians had believed was responsible for rolling the sun across the sky.

The depiction puzzled him deeply. Egyptology was something of a specialist subject: by virtue of his father's obsession with it, rather than through actual choice. The heart was of paramount importance in their belief system, considered to be the seat of the soul. It was weighed in the afterlife to judge a man's guilt and worthiness; and while the mummification process plucked just about every other vital organ from the human body, the heart remained because of how fundamental and essential it was. To deprive a fallen foe of their heart was to deny them passage into the afterlife; and while that was a powerful statement for a victorious warrior to make, the association with Khepri was a continued enigma. Here was a divinity associated with the sun, and with rebirth; Hector had never heard of him being associated with death or the afterlife in any way.

Finally he tore himself away; responded to Lyta's summons. "You should really look at that," he muttered as he ascended the stairs towards the throne, pinching at the bridge of his nose, and wondering if maybe he should succumb to Lyta's nagging and get himself checked out for glasses after all, to see if that would assuage the aches of protest in his eyes. "There's some pretty weird stuff written on that -"

As his vision finally focused again and settled on the plinth, his words failed, swallowed by an intensification of the feelings of confusion and bafflement that had plagued him since they'd entered Iram's great hall. He crouched down beside Lyta, eyes sweeping the same text that she had already scrutinised. His understanding was far less keen, but that didn't matter; he recognised enough of the symbol patterns and pictographs to understand the pillar's significance.

"Khepri," he said softly to himself, fingertips tracing across another scarab symbol. "On the wall," he added for Lyta's benefit. "There's some fairytale about the king of this place defeating some sort of demon. The writing implied that the demon was sent by Khepri, and that a guy called Vandar defeated it and tore out it's heart."

His frown deepened. "The writings on that wall talk about the ruler of this place as if he's some supernatural creature who lived dozens of lives spread across hundreds of years. I'd dismiss it all as impossible -" He mustered an awkward smile. "- if we didn't already know otherwise."

He sighed, and heaved himself back to his feet, suddenly overcome with tiredness. "My father is going to want to see this. We should probably call him." He grunted out a weak laugh. "Assuming that he's not still refusing to talk to me."

Lyta Trevor

Jan 21st, 2013, 01:23:27 PM

"I love you, you know. Why don't you take a break and call your father? You look exhausted." Lyta rose, the silk cloth still clasped in her fingers, swirling motes of sparkling dust trailing from it as she moved. Leaning over, she kissed him lightly and turned back to examine the scarab, tucking the cloth in her back pocket.

Fingers drew out her notebook once more, her steps carrying her around the plinth to get a look from each angle. It was a stunning example of a scarab, more intricately detailed than most carvings that size tended to be. It 'stood' on its outstretched legs, joints poised as if it were ready to spring into action at any moment. Perhaps it was a sacred object from a temple dedicated to Khepri.

"I think you're on to something with the Khepri connection. The carving on the back of this scarab indicates power associated with the sun. Or that could be sky...I'll have to look at it in better light to be sure." Lyta rambled quietly, her attention flicking between the plinth and her sketchbook as she recorded the Enochian characters.

Wrinkling her nose, she paused when she'd finished, pacing slightly as she made notes about the translation beneath each. The phrasing was so radically unusual, putting emphasis on certain words that would normally have none. As if they were important descriptors and names.

Savage. That tickled uncomfortably at the back of her mind, leading her to chew on the end of her pencil as she lost herself in thought.

Hector Hall

Feb 16th, 2013, 06:06:11 PM

Take a break and call my father. Oh yeah, that's a fantastic way to relax.

He sighed and shoved the satellite phone into his satchel. It was hardly the most modern of conveyances for his notes and equipment, but there was a certain sentimental significance to it. There had been a time years ago when his father had been proud to know that Hector would follow in his footsteps. Hector could still vividly remember that conversation, sitting opposite each other in the university canteen with it's sticky tables and suspiciously stained booth seats. He could remember the conflicted look in his eyes: that paternal pride clashing with Carter's intense desire to stop his son from dwelling on the past. After Don, after mom, after Uncle Larry and Aunt Dinah; after everything that had befallen the Hall family and everyone close to them, no one could blame Carter for wanting his son to leave the past in the past.

But Carter was no fool. He had given his son more than just knowledge and inspiration: he'd given him the same bull-headed stubbornness that Carter had cultivated over every one of his past lives. He knew that Hector would follow the path that he had chosen with or without his father's blessing; so Carter had given him something else entirely. Hector's fingertips traced the C.H monogram, stamped into the leather of the satchel that his mother had once given to his father as a gift.

He sighed and flipped the satchel closed. "I'll call later," he decided, stepping back to the podium where Lyta eagerly sketched. "The last thing I need when I'm tired is one of my father's lectures boring me to sleep."

His arms fell into a comfortable fold across his chest as he scrutinised the odd construction. The dais that was the focus of the throne room was hardly atypical: two thrones, the larger and more ornate for the regent king and a simpler one at his right hand for his queen. The side on which the queen sat might have been significant in some cultures: sitting at the king's right hand suggested that the queen held considerable authority beyond merely being a consort; but other traditions placed equal significance on the reverse, as was the orientation of a chess board.

This is exactly the sort of thing my dad would lecture me on, Hector thought with another sigh, a hand escaping from it's fold briefly to massage at the bridge of his nose. Bleary eyes blinked as they tried to drive back the fatigue and clear his vision. The flashlight, still gripped in his other hand, swung lazily around the throne room. A beam of light swept across the plinth. For a brief second, it glinted off the silvery surface of the scarab.

Hector blinked. Did that thing just move?

Cautiously, Hector stepped closer, peering at the apparent idol. His head tilted as he studied it, searching for points of articulation; but to his eyes it appeared to have been carved from a single peace of metal. Idly, he wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him; perhaps he did need a break after all; sleep, or at the very least a few strong shots of coffee. He shone the beam on it again, eyes searching closely for the tell-tale shadows of concealed joints, or separations in the casing. Again, the scarab twitched; shivered, almost.

A hint of wonder crept into his voice. "Lyta, take a look at this."