Crumbling Temple Ruins

(This topic appeared pretty well abandoned, so I 'natched it for an introduction. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Owner!)

A figure trudged towards the stone monolith, droplets of water pouring from the sky and sizzling against the burning tip of his cigar. The day had been long, the journey wearisome. The figure consoled himself with the knowledge that this job would soon be over.

He reached the steps of the structure and peered towards the doorway, wiping water out of his eyes and pulling the brim of his hat low. The entrance gaped open.

Poor bastards. They didn't think anyone would be coming.

The man made his entrance with little hesitation or fanfare. There was nothing to greet him but dust from the bones of those who had fallen long ago.

It took him but a moment to find the ritual circle: the drawing reeked with a foul and sickly aura. The candles on the edges of the pentagram had been burnt to mere stubs.

Done and finished. Ol' Sorath always drove his boys hard.

The room itself was given some scrutiny, the grimy aura of the magecraft having spread far and wide. More dust, more bones. The dead here would never get their rest. A partially-collapsed doorframe stood before an undisturbed room, the cobwebs retaining their delicate swirls and patterns. A crusty box was just visible through the rubble and, most disturbingly, an arm was sprawled out of it.

The man began to shovel the rubble aside, each stone taking its toll on his arms and back. Finally, exhausted, he squeezed through the small gap his efforts had made. The room was even smaller and more pitiful than it had seemed from the outside, but the box consumed his wavering attention. The man dragged himself towards it and, with another painful effort, hauled off the broken lid and peered into the grimy interior.