This was a tightly sealed underground hall. The large hole in the corner, still giving off smoke and dust, proved that the Undead had made their violent, very unwelcome entrance.
Standing together with the Undead, looking down at the obsidian coffin in the very center of the hall—one inlaid with countless jewels and engraved with an intricate magic array—Miirym wore a solemn, hateful expression on her transparent draconic face.
"Miirym." 'Xue Yunfeng,' standing to one side, asked cheerfully, "Do you still want to mourn your own life? Or are you reminiscing about Archmage Tors, who died in such a creative way?
"But the ceiling has already started collapsing! I'm afraid we won't have enough time. Shall we start?"
The Ghost Dragon stiffened all over, her tone even more awkwardly rigid. "Don't talk nonsense! I... I was just... taking a look. Hurry up and start!"
The Ghost Dragon reluctantly left the coffin. Staying with the Undead, indulging in sentimental sorrow was truly the most useless of emotions. It could always be replaced by laughter or tears.
While she was spacing out, the Undead had already finished preparing. Miirym turned and looked around the hall, then asked hesitantly, "Is there anything you want me to do?"
"You've packed all your belongings, right?" 'Old School Striking King' asked seriously. "I don't think there'll be much space left for you to come back and dig through later."
Miirym shook her head. "I have a small dimensional space, though when I was in Candlekeep, I could only put things in and couldn't take them out.
"But for me, that was just right... There's no way I'd let those Candlekeep people use any of my things!"
"A dragon's hoard... I understand." 'Old School Striking King' sighed. "Isn't that always a place where things only go in