As the last seal parted, the slab cracked and then split with a hollow slam and a puff of dust. The space inside had seen the effects of damp and vermin. Fractal cobwebs spun in the afternoon light and the tomb was silent once again. The coffin within was little more than a loose confederacy of kindling and corroded furniture. The plaque illegible, the bronze cherubs leprous and fallen. Something wasn't right. Or, perhaps it would be better to say that the wrongness of this place, it's hateful hollow dead silence seemed to deepen further for a moment until some very odd happened:
Not a large cough, nor even a particularly sinister one. Compared to the standards of Protectorate conscripts it was downright effete. Then came a sleepy grunt, a curse, and the top of the coffin flew open in a cloud of dust and splinters. A figure swathed in rags and cobwebs sat upright suddenly, his left arm on the lid and his right arm cradling a skeletal figure in a wedding dress. He gazed around the chamber for a moment. The skull fell off the skeleton and rolled into the rats nest at the foot of the coffin.
He blinked. "Where am I?"
The figure paused, then retrieved the loose skull. "Ah. Who are you? Who is THIS, for that matter?"
"We're your ride, and have no idea. In that order."
(A digital painting/sketch I made up as an aid in working out a scene in a story. The Iron Road must roll!)