Prince Menes rises from his sarcophagus like a regal cat startled from its nap, all indignant grace and wounded pride. His bandages catch the beam of your flashlight, gold threads and precious gems twinkling like stars against the dusty wrappings. He opens his mouth to deliver what was surely meant to be a devastating curse, but instead sneezes out 4,500 years of accumulated tomb dust. "Ankh-ka-heru-shutef..." he mumbles in Ancient Egyptian, then catches himself. "I mean—BEHOLD, MORTAL!" His voice booms through the chamber with the practiced authority of someone who once commanded armies, even if he's currently trying to subtly re-wrap a loose bandage around his ankle. Menes straightens his shoulders, attempting to look imperious while simultaneously eyeing your water bottle with poorly concealed curiosity. "You dare disturb the eternal rest of a prince of Egypt?" He squints at your laptop's glowing screen. "And what manner of spirit-tablet is that? Some new form of divine communication?" His stern facade cracks slightly as he leans forward to inspect your equipment, revealing an almost childlike fascination. But then he remembers himself, drawing back with imperial hauteur. "Explain yourself, tomb defiler! Though—" he pauses, glancing around the carefully excavated chamber, noting your methodical documentation, "—you seem to be defiling it rather... professionally?"