The scroll lay there, suspended in its arcane tomb, just within my reach.  Everything I had hoped for and dreamed of, contained in one tattered piece of parchment.  The darkened tomb was warm and dry, and the passage of time had left the ancient writings virtually untouched.  The sandstone walls loomed over me, arching at the top to give the whole scene the look of a forgotten underground church, complete with eerie statues and gargoyles, and a sacrificial alter, upon which my treasure lay.  I moved closer, fingers trembling in anticipation, daring myself to reach out and grasp my destiny.

Just as my fingers were about to make contact with the scroll I heard a noise.  The scraping of stone against stone, and the echoing sound of scree falling onto the stone floor, coming from the other side of the cavern, which was decorated wit grotesque statues of hellish guardian-creatures, presumably derived from the ancient Race's primitive mythology. 

Although I had heard stories of walking statues and other magical phenomena, I decided to disregard this occurrence, as any rational person would, and continue with my work.  However, to sate my paranoia, I drew a flintlock pistol and held it in readiness.

Without any further delay, I reached out and snatched the scroll, an unwise decision in hindsight.  There could have been any number of cunningly concealed spear traps, magical seals and guardian runes, but luckily there were none.  It surprised me immeasurably that the Ancient races had absolutely no security system, although I'm most grateful of this strange shortcoming. 

The scroll was in my hands.  It felt like no earthly material I have experienced, incredibly light and smooth to touch, but with the strength of tanned leather.  I let it unfurl before me, and gasped as it unravelled, pages and pages worth, surely more than could ever have been in that secure bundle on the alter, unfurled before me, every inch covered in ancient writings and texts, written in an unusual red ink which shone as if the words were newly written.  When the parchment finally concluded some meters away from me, I noticed that about two feet of space were blank, unwritten.

As I began to roll  the scroll into a bundle for transportation, I noticed that the words were a list, maybe a list of names, or substances, I cannot say, but as I glanced over the bright runes, my hand brushed against the edge of the scroll.  I have never before encountered such a sharp object, as my merest touch sent blood flowing freely from the tiny wound, and dripping onto the parchment.  It did not stop.

It did not stop for the next hour, once I'd returned to the door and found it locked from the outside, once I'd vainly smashed by pickaxe against it, and cried out in desperation, it bled until I found I had not the strength to lift my pistol to my forehead and end this gradual demise.  I lay there and bled, from that small wound, and as my life drained away from me like a retreating tide, I saw the blood form into letters two feet from the bottom of that parchment.  My name, written in blood.