Ashes To Ashes Document Ac Odyssey

[Elia Khensamphanh]

Here on this page then we'll run you through both where to find the Melissani Cave and Markos's Vineyard tablets, as well as the Bottomless Lake and Ashes to Ashes riddle solutions.

If you're looking for more like these, meanwhile, you can of course cycle back to our main Assassin's Creed Odyssey Ainigmata Ostraka locations and puzzles hub, or browse our big list of all Assassin's Creed Odyssey tomb solutions and locations, too.

This stone tablet can be found in the Melissani Cave in Kephallonia. You'll find this location in the north of the island, as shown in the screenshot. Swan dive from the top and you'll find this particular Ainigmata Ostraka at the bottom of the lake.

Riddle clue: Taking the plunge? Everyone on the island thinks this is the deepest dive, but there is a lake in the Coast of Koliadai that is rumoured to be bottomless. If you are able to dive as far as the woman in marble, you will be able to claim me.

There's only one lake in Kephallonia and it's in the middle of the island. When you reach the lake, position yourself so the pillar sticking out of the water is on your left. Now dive down. The statue is not at the bottom of the lake, but part way down. Look for a small outcropping of stone pointing down - the statue is beneath it. Interact with it to claim you reward: boosted Crit Damage when Full Health.

Looking for more help? Our main Assassin's Creed Odyssey guide and tips hub gives you an overview of our pages, while we also have all fifty-plus Ainigmata Ostraka puzzle locations and solutions, plus more on how to get the Assassin's Creed Odyssey best ending, a list of all Assassin's Creed Odyssey tomb solutions, the best weapons, armour, engravings, and legendary armour and weapons listed, the Kalydonian Boar strategy and location, Orichalcum locations and even help with Assassin's Creed Odyssey romance options. Elsewhere we can help with how to earn money and Drachmae fast in Assassin's Creed Odyssey, how to earn XP and level up fast in Assassin's Creed Odyssey, and our picks for the best side quests in Assassin's Creed Odyssey.

This stone tablet can be found in Markos' Vineyard in Kephallonia. It's easy to find, you just need to look for the big building by the stables (it has two large trees outside). Climb to the first floor and you'll find the stone tablet on the floor by the opening.

Riddle clue: When times are bad, it can be easy to turn away from the gods. Go to the burned temple in Kausos Village, in the Cursed Valley of Pali. I can be found in a pile of burning ashes, where a worshipping man left his post to begin his new life as a pirate.

Head to the village of Kausos (located east of Markos' Vineyard). You can't miss it, mainly because there's a thick, eerie smog around it. Look for the small, ruined temple in the middle of the village and interact with the smoking rubble to claim your reward: boosted Adrenaline per Hit.

At 9 p.m. on a warm October night, the air in the darkened city below was muggy and stale. But on the George Washington Bridge, a gale was roaring straight up the Hudson River. It wasn't much of an issue for the bikers and joggers shuttling between New York and New Jersey under a pumpkin moon, much less for the 12 lanes of angry stop-and-go traffic. But it was for anyone hoping to scatter mortal remains into the river. I had my great-uncle Allan in two plastic Red Apple Grocery bags and was a little unsure how to pitch his ashes overboard one moment without inhaling him the next.

I was probably 10 when I found the letter. On a rainy, boring Saturday, circa 1965, I'd settled on rooting through my father's dresser drawers as the morning's entertainment. I kept a sensible ear cocked for my mother's approach. Some drawers take time to rearrange and put back. But I was well-schooled in the sneaky arts, and knew I was safe for the moment. Downstairs, I could hear Mother, for whom cleanliness beat godliness every time, vacuuming the living room.

I'd just pulled open one of the top drawers, an immensely satisfying little slot a bit bigger than a cigar box. It slid open as if greased. Inside was a hardball signed by Detroit Tigers legend Ty Cobb, which as a youngster my father had unaccountably played with till the signature all but wore off; several white hankies, no monogram; two ancient-history silver dollars; and Uncle Allan's suicide note.

Addressed to my parents and dated 1946, it read, "Dear Phoebe & Wally: By the time you receive the enclosed, I will have stepped out into the great unknown. I wish it might have been more, but such as it is, I hope it comes in handy. My love to you all. Uncle Allan."

Suddenly the room was echoing like a reverb chamber. I knew without question the letter touched on something vast, even monstrous, but what it was exactly remained dim and confused. I also knew it was a discovery that would be bad, very bad, to be caught with. I was working this through when things suddenly went quiet. The vacuum had stopped, replaced with Mother's staccato steps clicking up the stairs.

Much had transpired since that rainy Saturday. I'd moved to Boston, my mother had died, and my dad had remarried a lovely woman named Trace. The three of us were at the kitchen table, part-way through one of her great pot roasts, when Uncle Allan flickered up in the conversation. Dad remarked in an offhanded way, his voice going a little basso-profundo as it usually did on entering sensitive territory, "Of course, Uncle Allan was the black sheep of the family."

I know Uncle Allan ditched Detroit for Manhattan lights as soon as he was able, sometime around 1912, but other than that, for all intents and purposes, I know almost nothing about him. When you're the notorious family homosexual, poor at the end to boot, nobody collects and preserves your papers and treasures. They're scattered, auctioned off, left in boxes on the porch for the Goodwill. Unknowing fingers pop photos out of frames for resale, smudging black and white portraits on their way to the trash. My parents, as it happened, played a small but significant role in this obliteration.

The biggest mistake he ever made, he said, watery blue eyes amused, was turning down director Mack Sennett when he begged Uncle Allan to come out to that little California backwater they were setting up. "What do they call it?" he'd ask to rising laughter from his audience. "Hollywood?" Uncle Allan smiled. "But no. It wasn't Art, you see."

One August afternoon, my mother, ever the striving farmwife, had the wives of the local gentry, married to doctors, lawyers and auto execs, over for a luncheon. The white linen tablecloth was on the big picnic table beneath the pear trees, crowned with dainty refreshments and a homemade fruit punch.

Exactly what followed has never been properly archived. But family legend has it that in the throes of a festive moment, Gertrude Zacharias, declaring herself "hot," crossed the driveway to the edge of the corn field and plunged head and shoulders into the horses' water tank. Late that evening, Uncle Allan was sleeping it off, but Mother was still grieving the unfortunate turn of events. "I don't know, Phoebe," Dad said. "Never did see those ladies have a better time."

My father always maintained Uncle Allan died a couple hours before a routine gall-bladder operation, that he never even made it to the table. The nurse checked at one and he was fine. By three he was cooling. At 64, the would-be Broadway star was working nights at the Whiting Hotel in Traverse City, Michigan. His health was failing. He'd run through the last of his inheritance from his mother. He wrote the note to my parents, licked the three-cent stamp and dropped it through the slot. The letter arrived first, the hospital's wire second.

Mother handed the hospital telegram to Dad that night at 10, the first time he'd been off the tractor since morning. Dad smacked his head and groaned. In those days, Traverse City was a 10-hour drive from our farm. "The corn, the corn," he said. "When the hell am I going to get in the corn?"

"Listen to me," Mother said, twisting her ring. "We've got to go. There's no one else. He's your uncle, for Chrissake. He left us some money." She was standing in bra and panties, bed already turned down, watching lightning from a spring storm recede in the east. "Poor old fool," she said, and closed the window.

I have just one picture of Uncle Allan, a sepia-toned headshot taken, I'm guessing, in his 50s at some photo studio on Tremont Street in Boston. For years I'd stashed it in an envelope in my desk, but finally bought a frame and hung him in my bedroom. He's on the wall just beyond the foot of my four-poster bed. And that's the problem. No matter what I do, he's always peering out at me with those deer-in-the-headlights eyes. They beseech, but I'll be damned if I know what they're asking for. I realize that for months now, without thinking, I've been angling myself so that one of the bed's posters blocks his gaze.

Years ago, I spent several days in Manhattan trying to nail down evidence of Uncle Allan's alleged Broadway career. It was, in a way, I suppose, an attempt to redeem him against the family's tut-tutting summary of his life: "Homosexual. Alcoholic. And a suicide." Here the head invariably shook. "Such a waste."

If Uncle Allan did have a stage career, however, it must have been under a different name, inasmuch as research in the Actors Equity archives, the Library of the Performing Arts, and the library of the celebrated Players Club in Gramercy Park turned up nothing. I still have more digging to do. It's always possible he was mostly an extra, had a stage name I don't know, or even, I suppose, that he performed in drag. (Now that would be great.)

Happily, my take on Uncle Allan softened with age as I got more and more comfortable with being what newspapers used to term an "avowed homosexual." Far from being all that I dread, I now refer to him, affectionately as "my brave fool." He seems to have been one of those hapless innocents incapable of faking it, of being anything other than what he was, even if coming out in the 1920s meant social ruin and family exile. I do not know where he found the courage; I'm quite sure I couldn't have.