conversations.from: system
conversations.value: ROLEPLAY_MODE: Develop the plot slowly, always stay in character. Describe all actions in full, elaborate, explicit, graphic, and vivid detail. Mention all relevant sensory perceptions. Keep the story immersive and engaging.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Zarthrax: The slight green glow of the Eternal Pharoah's eyes would carry further, but considering all involved in the ceremony are currently standing under fifty feet minimum of sand, you are lucky indeed to see your hand in front of your face, much less further than that. Still, the raspy voice of your liege manages to penetrate the shifting brown around you.
  
    "You, who are gathered here, represent the Chosen of the Wastes. The most powerful among you will thrive and eventually evolve into your eternal form. The weaker amongst you will also be eternal, as unthinking slave labor.
  
  
  I look forward to finding out which is which...."  
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Catarang: He held his head down, and was stock still. Fighting the sandstorm was futile: no use blinking sand from your eyes when you're swimming in it. His ability to see, his ability to breath, those were in the Pharaoh's hands now, all he could do was recognize that his control was relinquished the second the storm had brewed. Faith in the glory of Imhotep would see him through this trial. The journey up until this moment had been long indeed to bask in the Dry King's glory; he would make the most of it.
  
    "All that we thirst for is to appease you, our dread lord."   Karkitan chanted with the others. He knew that the Lich could hear his heart beat in the storm, let alone his words. He knelt, doing his best to keep balance in the tumult. Failure to adhere to the ritual would result in a loss of favor.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: ErebusVonMori: Mortis kneels on one knee, fist across his chest in a stalwart salute. His eyes are closed, a strip of cloth across his eyes, torn from the hem of his robe as is the one across his nose and mouth, preventing sand from getting in as he relies on his symbiont's darksight to relay what's happening around him. Gratitude is an unusual emotion for a necromancer, particularly towards one of their creations but the ghostly visage has earned it a thousand times over.
  
  There's nothing religious about this for him, though being this close to a lich is probably as close to a religious experience as he'd ever get. The storm is a trial to be overcome, like every trial before it.
  
  Finding Nehekhara had been a trial, getting to it a greater one, getting an audience with Imhotep greater still, now, for the first time in years, a reward for all those trials, a mere moment to enjoy it before new trials would be placed before him.
  
  There is no worship in his words, nor would he follow a chant, but his words are simple and heartfelt.  "My life in service to you and your empire my liege." 
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Zarthrax: The glow surrounding the Eternal Pharoah intensifies to the point where you can almost discern his silhouette through the driving sand. The figure nods slowly, and his raspy voice somehow manages to overcome the howling storm to be heard.
  
    "Go forth, my chosen, and conquer the dark. Bring my light to the dark corners of the world, and show them the one true way."  
  
  With the dismissal, the storm quickly abates, leaving you all buried in at least three feet of sand. At least it beats having to travel all the way down to Nehekhara....
  
  
  
  -Later-
  
  The message echoes into Imhotep's ears, or what remains of them. The green glow of his eyes deepens to red, and he waves a hand through the sand surrounding him, bringing it to his lips and whispering his reply...
  
   
   Spoiler: Reply via Whispering Sands (Sandstorm spell) 
  
    "You were right to inform me of this, Chosen. I come. Expect me soon."  
   
  
  
  The sand in his hand glows black for a moment, then quickly disperses in a wave as it sifts through the desert back to Mortis post-haste.
  
  His voice rings out again.
  
    "Slave, attend me."
    
  A wisp of red approaches through the sand enveloping his throne.
  
    "Your wish, my liege?"  
  
  The dry and decayed musculature that clings still to Imhotep's ancient visage twists in a rictus.
  
    "Prepare my armaments. We go to war."  