Diablo Immortal Histories, Letters & Notes

Our ancestors recorded so little of the powers of the Heavens and Hells. Fools. But even crumbs of knowledge have their uses.

What scattered tales remain suggest that demons and angels wage war against one another with claws and wings, but also with more familiar materials: exalted weapons forged in the realms beyond. Weapons not unlike--in form, at least--those held by knights and brigands. I have seen one of the greatest with my own eyes.

The Archangel Tyrael's sword of Justice, El'druin, is never apart from him as he speaks to the Horadrim--and it is durable enough to withstand centuries of war. Even the least of these weapons would be suffused with the tremendous power of the ideals they represent.

Imagine a blade of valor in the hands of a duelist. Might she challenge the entire world? A cursed spear of envy, borne by a commander of armies, could spark new war all its own.

Risks are to be expected, as ever.

Yet we must consider the benefit to humanity were we to claim any of these artifacts for ourselves.

A weapon of the Heavens could be put to great effect against their foes from the Burning Hells, and likewise a demon's lash hobble a proud angel. Those items they have made to slay one another may still function in mortal hands.

I suspect those of low resolve, weak of will and of heart, were not "meant" to hold such weapons. For anyone other than the "intended" owner, an offered blade might simply fall from their grip--or smite those that do not align with their creator's vision.

But can a weapon truly know the human heart? And do we not shape our own thoughts? With research, we might uncover a means for those of the greatest mettle and spirit to claim these weapons without angelic or demonic guidance. I doubt their necessity will ever leave us.

X-Zoltun Kulle

The Dark Exile was hardly the beginning of the Prime Evils' machinations for mankind.

When the three brothers were banished to Sanctuary following a violent coup from the Lesser Evils, their capacity to wreak havoc upon our world only amplified. This turn of events did, however, present an unprecedented opportunity to hunt down the Primes, and imprison their souls for eternity.

Thus, the Archangel Tyrael formed the Horadrim, and entrusted us with the three soulstones, hewn from the Heart of Creation itself.

Our hunt for the Three has been long and arduous, yet it has afforded me extensive opportunity to study the crystals.

Just as we were told, each stone is attuned to the essence of a different Prime.

If we are able to succeed in our hunt, the invocation of an attuned Soulstone to the appropriate Prime Evil will assuredly draw their soul into the recesses of the crystal, trapping them therein forever.

However, I see no reason to believe these stones could not be re-attuned to contain the essence of any non-corporeal being, whether angel or demon.

I dare not manipulate the stones' nature directly--their work is too vital. But there is much I can still discover through experimentation.

I cannot help but wonder if we could create new soulstones of our own, without the aid of Tyrael, and what we might use them to achieve.

As work of the Horadrim has taught me, again and again... we so often fail to achieve our potential.

Certainly more than we succeed.

Perhaps through soulstones empowered with the essence of both angels and demons, we could transcend the bounds of our pitiful flesh.

This is, of course, merely conjecture... for which time has no end of punishments.

At present, the hunt eclipses all else.

Let the others imagine we do this for power, or vanity, or long life. Let them hang their petty motivations upon the Immortals' heads.

The Builder earned her name as she brought balance to Corvus. She offered power with which to protect Sanctuary from the Burning Hells... and a failsafe for when that power began to corrupt.

Today, her designs have spread to all the known world. They are with us still.

When an unworthy Immortal gives into temptation, and is removed from the Cycle, this is her design.

When a stronger Shadow overthrows our comrades, and creates a moment of chaos followed by a greater one of stability, this is her design.

When Immortal might saves others from the predation of Heavens and Hells, this is her design. And when we fail to save our fellows, and resolve to never again see such horrors, and change our ways to endure them better, this too is her design.

Do not fear your injury or that of your brothers. Do not fear your death or that of your sisters. Our deeds are immortal; the Cycle outlasts us and carries our spirit with it as it turns.

A broken bone may heal stronger. A rock may grow smoother in rain. Consequently will the Cycle of Strife hone all humanity, that in the days to come our enemies will find their claws and teeth and flames have no purchase on our skin, and we will cast them low for the final time, and stand in the quiet peace to follow.

X-Jorani of the Cycle-Bound, Guide to the Ordeal

The royal mages may have discovered how to open and activate the rift statues at the palace courtyard, but I find it troubling how little they know of them, or the rifts themselves. I delved into my tomes and scrolls for answers, but that has only led to frustration.

What is known about the rift statues is that they are ancient, far older than Westmarch.

Which ancient civilization constructed them is unwritten and unknown, but given Westmarch's proximity to the ruins of Corvus and the overall design of the statues, I find myself wondering if these are works of the great builder, Daedessa.

I have interviewed some adventurers that return from the rifts, and they describe seeing creatures and terrain that appear native to Sanctuary, but the combinations of the two often sound discordant, with creatures in lands they do not inhabit.

This supports the theory that where the rift portals lead is not on Sanctuary.

These adventurers also told me about the abrupt end to their journey in the rift once they overcame a powerful entity, a kind of simulacrum of some known horror from our lands. When combined with the hostile creatures on the path to this entity, the rift begins to sound much like a combat trial.

I have had the privilege to see some of these gems that come from the rift, thanks to willing adventurers and Vic the master jeweler. They are best described as crystallized power. That power manifests in different ways, many of which seem familiar, but also some that seem otherworldly. That is not to say the Heavens or Hells, but somewhere else.

In conclusion, I believe these rifts to be the creation of ancient society, used to test the combat prowess of their warriors. The combatants never leave Sanctuary, and yet travel to an entirely new realm. The gems of power they find within suggest this other realm may be connected to worlds beyond our knowledge.

It troubles me that I have not been able to discover a single word about these rifts in any library. Did the ancestors hide these rifts from angels and demons? Did something happen that forced them to seal the rifts? I wish those royal mages had learned more before opening them.

"And 'lo, the strength of his Light did uplift the stricken, and the cursed, bringing them to embrace the Light."

X--Annals of Zakara

"I prostrate myself before thee. I accept the food and water thou hast provided, blessed be thy holy Light, and the bounty of this land made flesh."

X--Annals of Zakara

"He touched the possessed man upon the brow, and the creature did scream curses and threats; slowly did its utterances quiet, and it took its station at his feet."

X--Tribulations

"The starved, the unclean, the cursed; all did call out to the Light and found themselves purged of their sin. Their skin anointed in oil, their bellies sated, and their afflictions salved."

X--Annals of Zakara

"Darkness despairs in the Light of a pure heart."

X--Annals of Zakara

"Sacrifice of the self, emboldens the Light in the eyes of

Akarat."

X--Annals of Zakara

"When the faithful give of their Light, even the most wretched and unclean are worthy of redemption."

X--Annals of Zakara

Be forever vigilant for their naivete.

The Immortal Cadmus dreamed of the Builder Daedessa, and abandoned his guardianship of Westmarch's sewers to sail for Caldeum. All that he believed he saw was an illusion conjured up by our Mockingtongues.

If Cadmus is so vulnerable to a base appeal, what of whispers from Heaven or Hell? How long before he opens the doors of his home to the Outsiders, and falls gladly into their thrall?

Be forever vigilant for their selfishness.

The north crumbles beneath the stamping feet of destruction-spawn, and yet Immortals like Laelian and Shantrea attend celebrations, as they did this Lunasadh the tenth, and grant themselves honors among the Knights of Westmarch.

While they fritter about, the hordes of darkness look upon our lands and salivate. Common folk who should be soldiers cower, generation after generation. Only the Cycle can change that. The demons will not wait until the Immortals are ready to act.

Be forever vigilant for their weakness.

In the blind alleys of Kingsport, our hounds set upon the Immortal Sovannah with clubs and knives after she exited a tavern, swaying with the weight of drink. In their account, before she could call upon the Eternal Crown's might, she fell, and her brains leaked out upon the uneven cobbles.

Who is responsible for her training, and who for her assignments? Immortals like Sovannah purport to defend us all, and they cannot even keep themselves clear-eyed and alive.

Be forever vigilant for their blindness.

In naked violation of the terms of the Cycle, the Immortal Himerius approached our Patron in the tavern, demanding to speak to the Court. He claimed his commanding officer heard dark whispers, and presided over the maiming of his subordinates as a Knight of Westmarch, and drew the blood rood upon their wrists with a dull knife.

We Shadows are the vessels of Akeba's judgment, and through our trials do we show the Immortals' guilt. Not through rumormongering, and never outside the Cycle.

Why, if his commander was so tainted, had Himerius not slain him and taken up his rank?

His gossip was near to apostasy. Collusion between Immortal and Shadow is disloyalty to the Cycle, and against all humanity there is no greater crime than that which demands the Cycle falter.

The Patron turned Himerius away, and I have sent word to the Herald. I do not expect we will see Himerius at the Rite, or ever again.

Speak the Immortals' crimes to yourself as you test them.

Speak the Immortals' crimes to the Shadows as you judge them.

Speak the Immortals' crimes to all as you exile them.

Thus the Cycle turns.

X-Sampha, Exile's Architect

Death is a deeply complex topic for the Shadow Wolf Barbarian tribe. At the simplest level, death and burial rights are tied to honor, and station within the tribe. It’s important to note here that the Shadow Wolf Barbarians believe that their weapons bear a part of their soul, and as such to lose your weapon is to lose a piece of yourself.

Those that have high stations may be buried in a barrow within Shadow Wolf territory, their weapons and trophies of their feats in battle, adorning their graves. Those of lower stations are most often buried where they fell, with their weapons placed into the ground near the burial site never to be removed. Unless they died a death seen as glorious enough to warrant bringing their body back for internment in a barrow.

The boundary between life and death, based on personal experience, is paper thin for the members of the tribe. Visitations and hauntings are common in areas of great tragedy, or where the barrier between life and the hereafter is particularly thin. Disturbing a fallen warrior’s weapon is a grave mark of dishonor. The result of which can be death either by a vengeful spirit, or vengeful family members.

-Observations on Death in the Barbarian Tribes of Mt. Arreat, C. D., pg. 23

I've been studying demonic manifestations through the Helliquary. My adventurer friend, the one that keeps taking it out and collecting more demon parts? Very helpful. The demon… bits they keep coming back with, they're unlike the other demons that normally make it to Sanctuary.

I'm working on a theory that maybe, just maybe, there's more organization to the Burning Hells than we've previously given thought to.

Cain's books are full of information, but his categorization, and their contents, can be difficult to parse. I've tried asking Karshun, but he just looks at me and scowls. I'm never quite sure what I did to make him mad. Perhaps he just came into the world that way.

Back to the demons, right, so we had Izilech, with his "I'm going to end the world," speeches. But we stopped him. Then we started encountering monsters stronger than Izilech. I wonder why we haven't heard of most of them before... If we're working our way up some sort of pecking order... how many more can there be?

I don't know who's next, or when we'll hit something we can't overcome. But I know we'll be ready for them.

We have to be.

To tell of the origin of Sanctuary we must start with the folly of gods.

The being Anu questioned its purity and cast all evil from itself. This formed the being Tathamet. The two fought a war of light and shadow, and the energies unleashed created the High Heavens and the Burning Hells. In the end, Anu found the purity it sought, but it was flawed without the darkness to temper it.

The Heavens and Hells then engaged in a mind-numbing war over the Worldstone and their own natures: who is purer, who is stronger. This became the Eternal Conflict, a foray into mimicking two aspects of a less than perfect being and making the same mistakes. Both sides would like to think they are the inheritors of Anu.

I disagree.

Wars of any kind are long, tedious, and rarely come to a good end. Both sides simply entrench in their position. In the Eternal Conflict, one combatant--the angel Inarius--tired of the war and made to escape, only to find himself captured by the demon Lilith. While tormenting Inarius, Lilith learned of his desire to leave the war behind. Feigning compassion for the insufferable angel, she manipulated him to find her own way out.

Inarius trusted Lilith, and the two recruited like-minded angels and demons to build a new life for themselves. To do this Inarius stole the Worldstone and used its power to create a pocket dimension, a Sanctuary--invisible to the High Heavens and the Burning Hells--in which he, Lilith, and their fellow dissidents could live in peace.

A curious proposition, considering their opposite views on all existence.

Inarius and Lilith became lovers, and their offspring, the Firstborn of the nephalem, displayed great acumen with the powers of their unusual lineage. They quickly began to explore the world around them, seeking answers and effecting sweeping change to Sanctuary as their civilizations spread.

The changes caught the attention of the angels and demons who had taken refuge on Sanctuary.

Fearful their presence would be discovered, they demanded that Inarius destroy the nephalem.

Inarius did contemplate killing the nephalem for a time, but ultimately insisted on a period of reflection to consider the matter.

While Inarius contemplated, Lilith learned of the calls to destroy her children, and was driven to frenzy.

She turned on those that would destroy the nephalem, and slaughtered angel and demon alike. Inarius pursued Lilith, following a trail of slaughtered angels. After a bloody fight in which Lilith destroyed the remaining angels on Sanctuary, Inarius finally brought Lilith to heel. Unwilling to destroy Lilith, Inarius instead banished her into the Void, an act of supreme sentimentality.

Then, Inarius disappeared.

Over time, the nephalem that chose to pair off were responsible for the creation of humanity. Their idiot children repeat the same mistakes as our forebears in a never-ending cycle of wars. However far from their origins, they still serve as tools of the Eternal Conflict so imbued into their being.

Humanity, the true inheritors of Anu, are capable of more than angels or demons--but we must choose: transcend our station or live as a puppet to those who seek power.

Since the dawn of time, this interminable battle has trudged along in spurts, with angels and demons alike spilling entrails and essence in rousing battle--risking all for the ultimate conquest of their sworn foes. And so, I expect, will the war continue, until one side sees the annihilation or domination of the other.

I am under no illusion that either outcome is possible.

I have lived long enough to see the Gates of Hell tremble under the siege of angelic forces, and I have fought in the shadow of the Lords of Hell at the foot of the Diamond Gates, savoring the taste of a victory that seemed assured. Yet here we stand, unsuccessful, and the war rages on.

Why, you might ask, do we fight? The angels fight to exterminate us, to seize the Heart of Creation away for their own purposes. They would "cleanse the stain of our existence" from creation.

We fight because their way of life is an affront to ours, and their aims threaten our survival. They seek to regiment and control, to bring everything under the heel of their perverted "order". They simply cannot comprehend that existence is by nature, chaos.

If the fools had their way, they would never see it.

Unlike some among the legions of Hell, I do not desire a permanent end to the conflict. I would not deny myself the ecstasy of gnashing an angel in one's jaws, of feeling the acrid, searing light of their very being oozing down one's tongues, and shuddering in rapturous agony as the enemy feebly drives their holy blades into your sinew as the last of their essence flows from them.

I seek instead, the ultimate pleasure: to despoil and corrupt the angels in every manner, to twist them, until they would by nature inflict the same treatment upon their kin. I would watch the light fade from their wings, and gaze into their being, relishing the moment in which they realize they have become the very thing they despise.

And then, I would lavish my new brethren with all the excruciating delights the Burning Hells have to offer. For, as any demon in my service would tell you, I am a humble, compassionate overseer, second in vision only to the Great Evils themselves. Perhaps they do not see it yet, but no matter.

I have lived for eons. I will bide my time patiently, endearing myself to those above me--ripping out spines when necessary. I will help guide the Burning Hells to victory, and in so doing secure my deserved throne.

Too many mongrels have yet to feel the lash. They are lost without you, Lord. They unknowingly seek your gifts: to have weakness flensed from them, deliverance drilled into the split hollows of their bones. Those who still call to us are sorry and meager children; shells of mortals who rarely speak and poorly serve.

When our kin drag them to the forest, stumbling and fearful, I will find each of them and lead them free. I will take them by the hand, one at a time, bring them to the gates, and show them the face of rule in the Hells.

I will watch them marvel at the black palace of chains and bone, raised by your will. And there I will strike them down and carve your glory into their weak flesh. I will seal them within the four corners of your halls, and let them endure in shackles, even less alive than before. Yet I will save their screams for your arrival. For I know it is nigh. Damnation merely begins with death.

The loyal call you home. The damned cannot waver. Our eternal path is fixed.

Return to us, O Lord of Damnation! The right of punishment is Skarn's alone.

I no longer feel its warmth in the Husk of Creation, no longer see it dance and flit in the night, and yet I know the Fire of Life still burns on the island. It still warms our homes, but it is imbalanced. A brave outsider's actions brought us a brief respite by removing the manipulators of the Fire of Life, but Baal tainted it beyond our power to salvage.

The Lord of Destruction stole the warmth of our home to gain form, and when that form was vanquished, the Fire of Life dissipated out of sight and touch. I believe it has bonded with the land more than ever, and I know this because our affliction has not ended. The plague continues to spread, kill, and corrupt, and now it is joined by something else, harmonizing as if in some vile song.

It started like a whisper, a breeze, or a receding shore before a great calamity strikes. Then there was a surge that brought an irresistible urge to tear down and unmake its surroundings. The monstrosities of this island crawl forth to batter and break what little sanctity remains here. Afterwards, the sensation recedes again in preparation for its next surge--it's next chorus. We have come to name it Destruction's Call.

Shurrif has found a way to utilize travelling adventurers to aid in suppressing these surges of destruction, but there is no denying that each one wears away at us, and everything about our people and our home is changing into something neither Mother nor Father could have foreseen. I would invoke the Father's name in hopes that he might smite this wicked affliction, but I cannot help but feel he is as responsible for it as my people claim the Lilin and Mother to be.

Besides, I know not where to call his name, and I don't believe he would answer.

- Elder Geherit

The Sightless Eye is more than just the namesake of our order and its most carefully guarded treasure--it is an artifact whose history is steeped in legend. I have already recounted for the records of the scholar Deckard Cain the fantastic tale of the origin of our order. But the artifact's secrets and our Sisterhood's purpose are a topic I reserve for you alone.

The Eye is, among other things, a window into the future. The very first Sisters knew this when they traveled to Khanduras and settled the abandoned keep. They worked to re-weave the threads of fate and prevent tragedies from ever coming to pass--but control of any artifact is a fickle thing. We have not always been successful in understanding its wisdom, but we have always sought to protect this world from calamity.

And so, for generations, we guarded the gate to the East against the return of evil. But the visions of the Eye are not always clear. I see now that perhaps our part was merely to set Sanctuary's true heroes on evil's trail.

But that is the past. We must speak of our future. It is time I informed you of something you probably already suspect, and something I must ask you to keep quiet. The Sightless Eye is no longer in our possession. Your first instinct might be to despair. Do not. Intuition tells me the Eye's theft is a necessary part of its journey. I have long believed it will play a role in shaping the destiny of our world.

I regret that you did not all have more opportunity to gaze into the Eye, for its wisdom lingers and grows with each viewing. It is wisdom that will guide us now in the uncertain days ahead. I do not fear for our future. Without the Eye, our duty remains. To protect this world from evil, and even without the gift of Sight, to always see the path forward.

X--High Priestess Akara

Restoring Eastgate Monastery to something resembling its prior glory has been an ordeal. For the most part, structural repairs were a simple matter--especially with Charsi's help. There was even a dark glee in gathering up the corpses of the many demons that had befouled our citadel and casting them into a bonfire that burned for days on end.

Laying our fallen sisters to rest, however, was a much more painful affair. In the face of so much death, there is an impulse to make more of one's life. So when Charsi came to me to tell me she sought to forge her own path, she left with my blessing. It is difficult to say goodbye to old friends. Still, I have to admit that despite all that happened it felt good to be home, secure in the knowledge that one day a new generation of our Sisters will train there.

Sadly, duty calls me away once more. We have received unsettling reports from the Dark Wood. Akara has tasked me with setting up a camp on the outskirts of Blackstone Village to use as a base of operations as we investigate a group of potentially wayward sisters. I pray it is nothing; I do not think the Sisterhood can endure more treachery.

I was unsure what to make of Tabri when first she welcomed me to her camp. Stern, certainly. Unforgiving, yes. No one holds a grudge as she does.

But the people she had assembled were not like her at all. Nor like me. They were castoffs--Vataos would have called them beaten, dumb, lazy, crooked. Hungry for whatever scraps they could find. Yet Tabri saw more. She indulged them in all but their worst habits. And yet… over time I saw them change. Most for the better.

A man like Zov would have had a short life had he continued serving the Sand Scorpions. And I would never have been permitted to catalog ruined Fahira as I do. Vataos would have made me chip down artifacts, turn our history to stone.

Some of the men say Tabri was more vicious in her youth. That at one time Vataos saw her as his wild daughter. Then a successor. Then a threat, as she became better-liked than he. Any imbecile could have predicted that.

I heard that Tabri and Vataos fell out over a raid on Bratisah's oasis. Vataos wanted their captives flayed alive, trussed up to convince the other oases to pay him tribute. In front of the men, Tabri swore it would lead to retribution. Then she stabbed her sword into the ground and walked away, leaving it to burnish in the amber sands. That night, before Vataos could have her flayed beside the others, she fled his camp. A few went with her--some out of conscience, some, like Zov, out of fear.

In a way, we owe our lives to Vataos and his cruelty. We raid rarely, and build frequently. We do not quarrel among ourselves--it seems foolish with such a deadly foe. He gave the Amber Blades the chance to be something more than bandits. I hope we will see it fulfilled.

X-Peth

We left the Ked Bardu encampment with the sun overhead and the wind at our backs, ideal conditions to start a caravan's journey to Caldeum. How quickly the skies can turn sour and drive the sand into one's face like stinging insects. We are no longer on the road to Caldeum. I will use this next day to take stock of what was lost and pray our guide is not buried, so we may learn where we are.

The guide is gone, but I found some of his maps and equipment. It appears we have been driven far south, into the Shassar Sea--a name that made the others recoil. This place has a reputation for death by exposure, bandits, or worse. I have convinced them to muster their courage and travel west with me. Much of our supplies and cargo remain, and I will not allow this journey to amount to nothing.

We found a man stranded on the dunes, although he seemed well equipped and supplied. He said he was an adventurer looking for lost Fahiran cities. The desert had taken his companions and he now only wished to head back to the comforts of Caldeum. He claimed to know the Shassar Sea well and offered to guide us if we shared food and water. We agreed.

Our new guide knows the region well, more than I would expect for a treasure hunter from Caldeum. Today we were approached by armed men and women claiming to be members of the Amber Blades. They offered to escort us for payment. Our guide convinced us to chase them off, that they were bloodthirsty bandits that would kill us in our sleep. I hope he was right.

We are betrayed. I write this from inside a cage. Our guide was a member of the Sand Scorpions. He led us straight to their camp. Those they spared are to be ransomed. We do not come from wealthy families, but I have not told them this. Maybe there will be a chance to escape. The one kindness they have shown is leaving me my journal so I may write.

These Sand Scorpions are on edge. I hear murmurs of patrols missing and today they carried a man past my cage who dripped blood from countless deep gashes. This night I saw catlike eyes in the dark, watching and waiting. I had consigned myself to death at the hands of bandits, but I fear it will be far worse than that. Light preserve me.

Don't have any use for the monks? I see your point.

For one, I don't much like their gods. Too many gods. I can hear 'em bickering, and I don't even believe in 'em. "I'm the rain god." "No, I'm the rain god!" Seems a sight better to have no gods than baby gods.

Don't much like the way they dress. Reminds me of the warranters back home, living in their uniforms all the time, even at chapel. Might as well be sleeping in them. Can't hardly relax around all those very important people.

Don't much like their food, either. It just stinks. Everything tastes like burnt oil. Not enough meat.

They fight good, though. That's what I keep saying, boys and girls. Don't like being out on patrol six days at a run? You'd be out twelve if not for the monks.

Last week I saw an Ivo girl split a tree down the middle with a kick. It sounded like thunder. This was a snap kick, mind, a little flick of the foot you'd use to send a horse off. She barely turned to deliver it. The girl had her head full shorn and the marks on her forehead. She was probably no older than twelve.

That's who I expect you to tolerate. A soldier who's twice any of you at half your age.

You don't have to trust them. You don't even have to like them.

But if you make one of them angry, and they break every bone in your body, don't whine to me. I told you how to behave. I'm not feeding you soup, and I'm sure as sloppy stool not letting you laze about. I'm rolling you off the mountain, and may you hit every bump on the way down.

X-Caulder

In the forests and plains are lesser demons drawn to our home, but not worthy of it. Rot within Damnation. Traitors by existence alone.

Do not hide from them. Do not deceive. Kill any you cannot overpower. Snatch the weakest of them up and carry them to the Halls. Pierce them through with their chains. Answer their screams with silence.

Carve the blood rood deep upon their skin with one nail. Flense free all other flesh. Smear your hands and teeth with every drop that wells forth. Spill none.

Pull free their eyes, that they will know you only by the nearness of your breath.

Leave them squalling. Allow no other to touch or speak to them. Return before the moment of their death, and wait for it to pass.

Then match pain for pain upon yourself.

Through this rite you will know Damnation.

It had been a quiet evening in the church. I'd been in from tending the garden for a handful of minutes, when the door to the rectory exploded open.

"Father Amit, please, you must come quickly! The spirit I told you about... it's returned!" Brother Zadir pleaded for me to follow him, and I obliged.

As he'd mentioned to me several times in the weeks previous, a ghostly apparition floated through the nave and approached the narthex. I took up a holy symbol and approached cautiously, reciting the banishments. "The Light forbids your presence in this place. By the power of the Light that binds us, I bid you leave," and thrust the symbol towards the entity.

The spirit changed then, turning a reddish hue, and, flying past Brother Zadir, seemed to vanish. We looked at each other, looked around, and seeing no indication of it, sighed with relief. I didn't know then that the next month of my life would be a living punishment, as I watched Brother Zadir slowly succumb to madness.

Brother Zadir's illness did not become apparent immediately. It manifested subtly at first. He extinguished candles early in the night, remained awake until late hours, and--most concerning--added a few hairs from Brother Cuthbert to his food. This was, of course, before we found him in a corner of the rectory pulling out handfuls of his own hair to eat.

The day after, we approached the commissary table to find mice writhing upon it. Some had been pinned to the table with a small nail through their tail or back feet, others without their skin. We did not find the culprit, and I wanted to believe it was the simple menace of delinquent children. But I think I knew, even then.

That night I awoke to the sound of pews moving. When I left the rectory, I saw that the stained-glass windows had been broken. Brother Zadir stood before the entry to the church, where he had stacked the pews to block our doorway. He was pouring gallons of lamp oil on the ground, as if to set the whole building ablaze.

Zadir's face was contorted, as if in sadness and pain--I strove to calm him, but he did not even acknowledge or respond to my words. I ran for the brothers to help intervene--but as we raced back, I heard screaming and the sounds of a fight.

Later, we were surprised to find him hiding alone in the corner of the recess's residence, tore off a large amount of his hair and swallowed it in his stomach.

The next day, we even found a couple of writhing rats on the table in the dining hall. A few of them had been caged and placed on a table; the others were gone. We didn't find the culprit.

It's all just a nuisance caused by a misbehaving child, I convinced myself. However, I am afraid that at that time I already knew in my heart what was going on.

One night, I was woken up by the sound of someone moving a bench. When I left the recess's residence, I found that the stained-glass windows had been broken, and Brother Zadir was standing at the entrance to the church, piling up the benches and blocking the porch.

He poured gallons of lamp oil onto the floor, as if intending to set the church ablaze.

The expression on Brother Zadir's face was unusually distorted, as if he were wallowing in grief and pain—I tried to calm him, but he did not respond, as if he had not heard what I had said.

I ran for help from the other monks—however, when we returned, we heard screams and fights.

Brother Cuthbert is by no means a small man. His penchant for Brother Devon's breads and bean soup, and the healthy amount of alcohol he drank did not escape our attention; we left windows open year-round.

The sight of that man slung over the shoulder of the much smaller Brother Zadir was surprising, to say the least. Even more surprising was to see Brother Zadir, at full sprint and screaming, leaving the courtyard, and turning south.

We decided it would be best for everyone to keep this quiet; no easy feat, given Zadir's shrieks and the bloodied man he carried. I left the church and hurried to town, where I paid two local hunters to follow the pair south.

The fee was not small, considering that I would be taking them from their families for an indeterminate amount of time. But I hoped they would keep me safe until I could find Brother Zadir and calm him.

The tracking party was the two hunters and myself; I left the rest of the brothers to tidy the church and keep up appearances. I figured, perhaps foolishly, that I would be capable of handling a case of madness unaided.

The hunters led me west for two and a half weeks. The longer we took, the more agitated they became. At first, I'd thought this was due to how long they had been away from their homes.

They assured me that their families had well-stocked larders, but they would not explain the cause of their agitation beyond saying that the trail was complex, and doubled on itself with regularity. Further, the amount of "sign," as they called it, was more than that left by a drunken bear.

At the end of our journey, we found ourselves at the gates to Ashwold Cemetery. Both hunters refused to enter, claiming it as forbidden ground.

I pressed them on their agitation with the trail, and they explained that... while we had taken two and a half weeks to track Brother Zadir, the trail we had followed showed no signs of rest, no camps, no outline of one or more bodies in the soil, not even a slowing of the pace. Brother Zadir had run the entire distance without a moment's rest, all while carrying Brother Cuthbert.

They had no idea what they were going to find, and wanted nothing more to do with it.

I dismissed them from their services and told them to collect their fees from the Brothers at the church upon their return.

My faith in the holy Light--in Akarat--kept me true; I found myself pressing deeper into the cemetery.

7 Damhar

Violent infighting occurred between Cott and Nikolett. Cott's remaining (left) ear was split in the confrontation. Nikolett was consigned to the stocks for two days with water but without bread.

9 Damhar

Mer was observed sharing soporifics with occupants in the outer cells. Afterward, Mer was observed taking draughts of soporifics while on watch.

She admitted to both offenses but excused her behavior, saying she saw things she needed to forget. Mer was placed prisoner in a north cell facing the sea, will return to Westmarch with the next ship, and will pay a penalty no less than half a year's earnings.

10 Damhar

Griet was spotted thieving from the cases of a visiting merchant, Clotilde, including cut gems in the sale value of 120 gold. Griet was required to return the stolen property, was placed in the stocks and thoroughly switched, and will be switched freestanding at the end of the month.

Update 29 Damhar: Griet was switched freestanding without complaint.

14 Damhar

Isabelle was found to be stockpiling food from the halls and salvage lumber from the "Planks" district. She refused to confess to a plan for desertion. Punishment was to be the removal of the left small toe, but Isabelle disappeared from Stormpoint Keep before it could be administered, leaving her supplies behind her cot.

Update 27 Damhar: Her body was discovered among the shoals.

21 Damhar

Hemmerecht was espied vigorously pummeling and kicking Clary (occupant 222) within his cage. Hemmerecht was subject to a disciplinary conversation.

26 Damhar

While on gate duty, Jurgen was seen maiming a demon carcass with his sword and hanging it upside down from the west parapet. When instructed to cut it down by Kobus, Jurgen did so.

Hours later, he dragged forth another of the fodder demons, maimed it, and hanged it from the same spot. Punishment for insubordination was to be switching, but it was waived by order of Commander Kenton.

Before the affliction devoured us, Inari and Lilin chose our Elders in accordance with rules as old as Creation. If one had fidelity with the people, harmony with the land, and nobility of the self, we believed they could hold the Fire of Life.

Our people are shattered. The Fire is ours no longer. Treachery has tarnished the ranks of the Elders. We must change how we offer this rare authority--and look to new Elders for guidance of the soul, not simple matters of law.

Thus I nominate Tarzoine of the Lilin as Elder, and move that we accept her as such immediately, without restriction or trial.

Tarzoine has proven herself a defender of our shared people in our darkest hour. She has lost more than any among our number, and yet speaks with a clear heart. And her affliction, grave as it is, is her ally in this. What selfishness will come from an Elder who measures her days so, and still chooses to serve her people?

The Lilin are all but gone. The Inari may follow them. Even if we endure, the days ahead will be harder than any we have seen. We must ensure that someone can speak for our memory.

If fear or distrust moves you to speak against this decision, to whisper in private without consulting me, then I vow this: all will know your coward's heart before I am through.

In the Father's name.

X-Elder Geherit, Joyful Songstress

The air was thick with mist and fog as I stepped into the cemetery. Unholy sounds rang out from the distance, but with no visibility it was impossible to determine a source. I stumbled through graven mud, tripped over a cracked false tomb and caught my balance on a neighboring headstone.

A dimly lit path lead me further into the fog. As the sounds of scrabbling and chittering surrounded me, I clutched my holy symbol to my chest and moved further in. Seeing nothing until I ran into a large yew tree with a chain wrapped around the trunk.

As I rounded the tree, I touched a bound hand. Following it up the arm, I did not realize what I had come across at first. The remains of a man, his skin chewed off across his upper body, the meat of the face exposed and gnawed upon, the muscle of the belly eaten away, and the entrails left to hang outside of its body. The sight caused my stomach to wrench; had it not been empty from days of travel, surely, I'd have added to the pile.

During my clenching, I saw what was left of the tattered robes and realized I had come across the body of Brother Cuthbert.

I prayed silently, giving penitence for his eternal voyage before I removed the chain that held him up, and lowered him gently to the ground. I would have to bring him back to the monastery for final interment. I took the chain with me, wrapping it around my forearm without thinking.

The sounds of howling drew me further down the path. I sought them to the best of my ability, and found them emanating from a crypt not far from the Brother's remains. A lit torch hung near the entrance, I took it and I stepped in, slowly sweeping it in front of me. The darkness seemed to press back against the flame, causing it to sputter and flicker without wind.

From behind an altar, I saw Brother Zadir suddenly stand to his full height. He spoke in a language I could not comprehend--guttural and screeching at once--it pained the ears. His eyes--sunken and surrounded by blackness--darted wildly; his hands pulled at his clothes as if he couldn't understand their existence.

I raised my holy symbol and returned to the Banishment "The Light forbids your presence in this place. By the power of the Light that binds us, I bid you leave," it was then that Zadir's eyes locked on me with a hatred I had never seen.

His skin stretched as though something were between flesh and muscle. I repeated the Banishment again. The movement stopped for a moment, and Zadir--I think the true Zadir--looked at me for a moment, whimpering and crying as tears filled his eyes.

He whispered, "Oh, thank you, Brother," when a horrific smile spread across his face.

I realized then that the movement was a manifestation of the spirit's grasp on Zadir's body. With unexpected speed, the spirit's hands moved towards Zadir's jaw and a sound, like dry wood snapping, rang out.

Zadir's body folded, his arms and knees bent backwards, and his neck twisted to an unnatural angle. He dropped to all fours and looked up at me, laughing. Without hesitation, I fled for the door.

The sound of Zadir's hands and feet slapping against the floor pursued my flight. I tripped at the entrance and turned, raising my arm just quickly enough for Zadir to bite the chain I had wrapped around it.

The guttural voice returned, promising to slaughter my son, I uttered the Banishment one last time, and the creature struggled. The skin on Zadir's chest split, and the creature began to peel away from the body, ichor seeped over the edges of the rent as smoke rose from the wound.

Unsure of what else to do, I repeated the Banishment until the two forms separated completely. It was only then that Zadir's broken body collapsed. The creature seemed to be taking form again, the way I had originally seen it.

Acting quickly, I stood, shoving the holy symbol at and then into it. The chain around my arm began burning. I continued to chant, adding to the Banishment.

"The Light forbids your presence in this place. By the power of the Light that binds us, I bid you leave. By my will I cast back your shadow, by the Light it shall not return." The pain in my arm grew ten-fold as the flesh seared, it was all I could do to concentrate when, finally, the spirit dissipated.

I have never performed an exorcism this difficult before and I am uncertain of the creature's fate.

I leave behind this record for those that follow me. Rest assured that I will take my Brothers' bodies to the Monastery for final rights and interment.The Light should never touch this unholy place again, unless it is to see it completely eradicated.

I think my time living in a monastery has come to an end.

X- Testament of Father Amit,

XBrotherhood of Zakarum,

XChurch of Light

15 Esunar

Patrol was mostly quiet.

We had a few run ins with lacuni who were getting out of sorts.

Reminded them of where they needed to be, which is not near us.

Took two furs.

They eventually listened.

21 Kathon

Peth reminded the watch commander to keep eyes out for Zov.That snake is still missing. After Tabri's disappearance we could find tracks that would sometimes go for hundreds of yards then just… disappear.

Scouts have seen Zov's silhouette on the horizon, only to watch it fade to smoke before their eyes.

5 Solmoneth

Found footsteps near the outer borders east of Sereth Outpost and Fahir's Tomb. We were jumped by Sand Scorpion remnant forces, losing two souls, Rafah and Faishra--promising new scouts--and killed five of theirs.

I heard that Zov was seen but escaped. We're split between keeping tabs on the Scorpions and searching for him. It's possible the Scorpions are after the scepter, or Zov, maybe both.

We'll find out when we get hold of him and rip the scepter from his still-twitching hands.

6 Solmoneth

Caught sight of Zov myself today; he's changed. Gaunt, with growths of flesh.Like his skin has gathered in bunches and pulled open in other areas. He slipped away using a portal he opened.

We've been hearing the sounds of picks and shovels between the Chamber of Wisdom and the Library of Zoltun Kulle, but when we get close, they stop.

Could he be looking for something to do with Fahir's Tomb? Another entrance we're unaware of perhaps? Or another portion of it?

10 Solmoneth

We've confirmed the Sand Scorpions are staying to the west of us, near the old Library, where Zov has been exploring.

Could I be mistaken? Could the Scorpions be the ones digging? Then what's Zov doing out there toying with them?

11 Solmoneth

Zov was poking around the collapsed ruins again. We were able to see him moving from position to position. He used a series of portals and laid down marks. The Sand Scorpions moved in and began digging where the marks were.

Would they really welcome him back? He was never much of a planner, maybe there's someone, or something, helping him? Would that explain his appearance?

12 Solmoneth

Peth asked us to investigate the region we saw Zov in thoroughly. The dig sites show he's headed away from the Chamber of Wisdom. We tried to gather more information, but the harassment from the Sand Scorpions has also intensified.

They're clearly trying to fortify their location while they look for whatever Zov is after.

14 Montaht

Deep rumbling from underground. Peth doesn't think it was a quake. He sent us out to investigate. I went to the Chamber of Wisdom--I used to know the place well.Moving inside though… it's all wrong, the light was different, it's hard to explain… like it was filtered through smoke, but there wasn't anything burning.

The ground felt of mush and the air smelled of rot so much I had trouble breathing.

The rumbling stopped as I stepped inside, but I could not shake the feeling of eyes upon me.

I continued in, despite the pounding of my heart, but when a voice like tearing leather told me to run or submit, I ran.

I will never step foot near those tombs again.

[Beautiful Rampancy]

Hate-nurtured growth blooms in abundance,

Flora and fauna from Mother's Blood compulsion,

To spite an empty cradle reeling with vacancy,

Inured to diabolic tendency--manifest in beautiful rampancy,

Thorn and claw tempered by flower and family,

Unshackled proliferation with no shepherd,

Save Father's Blood scions of order,

Lovers of life all but not without walls,

The planters have seeded and now the tenders resolve,

When beauty is too rampant the culling sword must fall.

[Rejected but Renewed]

Love found in rejection shared,

Refugees of war eternal spared,

Chaos and order wed in denial,

Natures designed to stir and revile,

Siblings all but a relationship fraught,

Choosing sides where parents fought,

Mother's Blood, curb thy clamor!

Father's Blood, lower thy hammer!

Better nature fallen to nature true,

A conflict fled threatens to renew.

[Prevailing Hate]

O' Father, forgive me

For the side I took, for the lives I took,

For my actions, your love forsook.

O' Father, forgive me

For my infernal blood, for my mother's blood,

For drowning my kin in her murderous flood.

O' Father, forgive me

For my impulsive being, for my carefree being,

For the sins I committed, unseeing.

O' Father, forgive me

It is not too late, before it is too late,

When your Prevailing Winds lead only to Prevailing Hate.

I am driven by conscience to record herein a matter of which I am forbidden to speak, under penalty of censure, expulsion, or perhaps death--the intimations were unclear.

But weighed against all such things, my fear of straying from the Light is greater.

Among the most common duties of the Shadows is the chronicling and pronouncing of the crimes of Immortals.

Very rarely are we called to pass judgment upon one of our own.

In all my days as Attestant, I have presided over only two other such trials--and neither were so secretive as what transpired the fortnight last.

I was roused from my bed in dead of night by urgent knocking at my door.

Upon answering, I was whisked away by cloaked figures to preside over a meeting of the court elders.

As my chaperones shut the chamber doors behind me, I found only the elders, myself, and two others in the room: the Accused, and a witness--his own former accomplice.

In the proceedings that followed, a Shadow--who shall remain nameless--was accused of breaching code and decency in the testing of one Immortal, Gladiolus.

On the authority of the witness, the two prevailed upon dark arts from some decrepit Vizjerei tome to summon a demon into the home of the Immortal.

There, it was said, the two crept nearby in wait of Gladiolus's arrival, where they were instead surprised by the early return of Gladiolus's own wife and their newborn babe from market.

When pressed, the Accused maintained his intent was only to challenge Gladiolus's fitness, and that--though this turn of events was unanticipated--he believed himself bound by oath not to intercede.

In the eerie quiet that followed, they continued waiting, whereupon Gladiolus finally arrived. It was said Gladiolus was devotedly greeted at the door by the demon, clothed in the flesh of Gladiolus's wife, and by the sight of his newborn babe roasting over the hearth.

Thereupon did Gladiolus draw his blade and slay the demon, and immediately thereafter use his bare hands to pull the sizzling babe from the fire.

He then collapsed in grief and set about gouging out his own eyes with the pin of his brooch.

There he sat and wailed, until discovered by Knights of Westmarch.

It was, we were told, only by the contrition of this accomplice that the Accused's crimes came to light.

After the inquisition, guards were summoned to remove the Accused and witness from the chambers so the elders might deliberate.

I will not recount their arguments here--not in fear for myself, but for the sanctity of our order and our faith in the elders' leadership.

Suffice it to say they were deeply divided, and the tally was much nearer than I might have hoped.

By decree of the elders, the Accused was marked for his crimes and expelled from Westmarch never to return, under pain of death.

It was too kind a fate.

He's out there still--that monster in man's clothes.

If the Light is just, mayhaps I'll one day find him in some forsaken hole in Lut Gholein, sucking away at a pipe packed tight with the stuff of dreams, hoping against hope to purge from memory the vision of Gladiolus's flayed wife, and the sickly aroma of a roasting babe.

After their deliberation, the elders bade me to burn all records and vowed me to silence--and I, in my obligation as Attestant, complied.

And so, I must confess to my complicity in these dark deeds in the only way I can; by putting quill to a scrap of sheep's hide that I must, by oath, carry to my grave.

As Shadows, it is our honored charge to tempt, to test, and when necessity deems fit, to overthrow the Immortals.

But this contemptible affair leads me to wonder if we have strayed too far.

The Immortals' duty and ours in turn is to safeguard this world from corruption and evil.

But when men do the work of demons, what need have the evil ones to even lift a beclawed finger?

In light of all I have seen, as to the matter of defending this world from darkness, I must ask myself--are we worthy?

Is anyone?

Daedessa beheld the broken body of her son, his destiny fulfilled, his responsibility met. Kion, the first Immortal, was dead, and his mother praised his sacrifice and the honor he displayed wearing the Eternal Crown.

She shed no tears, impassive and alone at his grave.

It is believed in those moments she whispered her last words of motherly affection.

Daedessa recognized the new claimant to the Eternal Crown, her daughter. With the crowning of Akeba as the new Immortal came the first turning of the Cycle of Strife.

Despite her unflappable demeanor, Daedessa beamed with pride as her plan for Sanctuary's defense came to fruition. The Eternal Crown worked, the Cycle worked, and naught remained but for the adherents of the process to carry it forth.

Daedessa the Builder was now at a crossroads. Her great works, the city of Corvus and the Eternal Crown, were complete and proven successes.

She found herself without a task to busy her magnificent mind, and in the absence of purpose her manner grew dim.

Indomitable as she was, she was grieving. Her own work and the responsibility of her charge had consigned her children to doom for the sake of Sanctuary.

She disappeared overnight, seemingly replaced in her garden by a new statue that would take years to sculpt.

It was immaculate, forever capturing the resolute and unwavering nature she possessed, that enabled her to set into motion grand plans that would see the world safe from the horrors beyond.

The Builder herself would never be seen again in Corvus. Not even Lidar the Noble knew what happened to her, although some believe it is a secret he took to his grave, out of respect for his oldest friend.

Lt. Aeton,

Since the Laird's been breathing down our necks about these "Shardborne" things moving around the Dreadlands, I figured I'd write this report to fill you in, given your recent transfer.

We first encountered the Shardborne when they broke into the old gaol. Huge lot of them we killed and piled up in there before we abandoned the place.

Can't remember if we left any prisoners behind--probably dead if we did, now that I think of it.

We tracked some of them back to the Underdeeps. Couldn't go much further, given there's all kinds of bugs and muck, making it difficult for us to get into. They're coming from the far end of the caverns, though. That much we can tell.

You passed me orders to have the men look into the problem. See if there was some way we could clean up the lot, at least burning them out of the gaol or slaughtering them wholesale at the source.

Since we're not entirely sure what we're up against, I thought we might take the time to study the nasties before we set to a plan.

As such, we managed to get a few bodies from the gaol--at no small expense. I lost three men--Darling, Beyin, and Piles--killing one of the beasties. I'll… have word sent to their families. One of the monsters also caught Wenton across the face, poor bastard. I watched him try to pull some of the splinters out, his skin came with it. We had to drag him to the infirmary. I know we're serving the best interests of Staalbreak, but… is it worth so many lives?

Once we got back to camp, my first thought was to just cut one to pieces. Well, further pieces. As I took the head off, the damn thing shot its tongue out at me. Gave me a good clip. Been feeling a bit off since. Carved up the body more; it's a mess inside. Splinters worked their way into all the organs, left more of a goop than anything recognizable.

I've seen my share of hearts and lungs where they shouldn't be, but not like this.

My ears won't stop ringing. The ringing almost sounds like whispers, but the words aren't clear--something like "shard," and "fear." Since the fight, my mind keeps focusing on those caverns. Every time I close my eyes I see the cave entrance, I wake up… I'm facing their direction. I hope it's nothing. My skin won't stop itching. I'm scratching so much I've drawn blood.

I've got to cut this entry short. Wenton's screaming bloody murder at the infirmary. Going to check on him. I'll file this report with you when I'm done.

XSgt. Govdel

Sisters,

The Ql'nae--our errant familiars--are changing.

It is an odd thing to say of beings whose very existence is change, whose constant is chaos, but I have watched it happen.

The Varog of the woods is known to slip free its skin and stretch long its horns, but its mien does not waver.

Yet, a night past, I watched one prowl near the great tree.

Its skin was mottled and furred like a feline.

Its feathers were barely visible in the moonlight.

The Varog's essential nature had blended with something... other.

Like a snow-white hart, it was an aberration.

The Varog moved slowly through the underbrush, slunk low as a panther does.

Its quarters tensed as a rat scurried out of its path, disturbing the foliage.

And then, in a flash, it pounced.

It crushed its prey with talonless paws, and as the rat squealed, the Varog dipped down its head to silence it, and then... to feast.

All Ql'nae greedily pursue experience alongside their pactbearers.

Sometimes this experience is sensory, and sometimes violent--for ours is a violent land.

Yet the Varog did not feed upon other darklings, as is its wont.

It did not wait to be enticed by an offered soul.

It simply hunted and ate, as though it were just another common animal.

And I saw malice and death-desire in the creature's eyes, eyes like the demons and the worst darklings.

Not the empty eyes of beasts.

When it had finished its meal, the Varog disappeared in a flash, as if summoned.

I knew then that it was a pacted familiar.

The Varog's animalism had not rid this one of its cunning.

And our pact had not moderated its urges.

This change is what worries me today.

For you, sisters, I offer my questions.

Are the pacts to blame?

Were we correct to introduce them to Rakkis's rotting city?

Has our brave Wardkeeper overtextended herself once again?

Or is this change born of the danger young Seysild howls about?

The darkness at the edges of our vision, in the shadowed corners from which the Ql'nae hail?

Do the Ql'nae change of their own accord… or at the whim of some greater force?

I await the wisdom of your answers.

-Enfys, Questioner of the Untamable Wilds

An invader came to Bitter Hearth in the night. It took two young sentinels in training from us. It took their heads. The snow was stained with their blood. The attack roused Carling first, and she claims to have seen snow-white fur on a lone creature as it disappeared into the night.

Our first thought was a Wendigo, but that did not fit. Violent and ferocious they may be, but they stick to their territory, playing out a pitiable attempt at their former, peaceful, and communal selves before corruption took them long ago. Besides, the heads of these young sentinels were not mauled off by claws. The spines were pinched and crushed, but also cut clean through. It was the work of Shadow Wolf axes, the same axes that were missing--no, taken.

Dawn's light revealed twin trails of fresh blood heading east, no doubt from the trophy heads claimed by the invader. As Carling and I equipped ourselves for the hunt I gave our quarry a name: Snowstain. I suspected what it was, given its heading, but following the trail would soon confirm it.

Khazra, Ice Clan; the cloven prints in the snow between trails of blood gave it away. It made sense given the alabaster fur Carling saw. What did not make sense was a lone khazra attacker. They are vicious and craven, dominating each other with their strength but never having the courage to face the strongest of Arreat alone. This time a lone khazra did come, but not to challenge; merely to kill in the dark. Disgusting.

The woman from the jungles of Estuar, Tassi, had strange stories from her land and their own trials with khazra. She spoke of mages and meddling with the powers of Hell long ago, the very topics that make any child of Bul-Kathos seethe. I know not of any truth in it, but I would not be surprised. The wendigo are victims of a world gone wrong, and to be pitied as they are slain. The corpses of khazra are to be spat upon. They are vile to their core.

We caught up with the khazra before it could reach its own clan. I felt relief and surprise since the goat man had a significant head start, but it made sense once I had saw our quarry in the flesh. What a wretched sight it was: runty, scarred, and shriveled, with twisted legs that wobbled on tiny hooves. A brutish khazra had likely been swinging this misbegotten example of their race around like a club as a show of dominance. For a moment, I felt the slightest twinge of pity, and then I saw the Shadow Wolf axes on its waist, and the two heads grasped by the khazra's gnarled hand.

It bleated in terror, trying and failing to run faster. A throwing axe from Carling clipped its knee, sending the khazra face first into the snow. Before it could stand, I was upon it. I ripped the stolen axes from its waist and began swinging. I called my quarry Snowstain, a name proven to be prophetic by the time I was done. It was easy, remarkably easy, to slaughter this khazra. My charges had been avenged, but my pride wounded and my disgust visible on my face.

Their weakest had come for our weakest, hoping to prove their prowess. Had this creature made it back to their brethren, it is likely they would have just had their trophies forcibly taken and their body beaten further into feebleness. I returned to Bitter Hearth with no trophies, for there was nothing to celebrate. Our weakest that we had fostered with our own mastery and devotion had been taken from us by a coward.

Our numbers continue to dwindle, but not our kinship with one another. The khazra continue to swell and prove their hatred for one another is only outclassed by their hatred for the world. They are the vileness at the heart of a crumbling Sanctuary, and while I still draw breath, they will not steal from my people in the night. If I must I will not sleep again.

In all my years of ferrying adventurers around Sanctuary, the island of Bilefen has always held a special, albeit somewhat rotten place in my heart. A sailor feels at home with other sailors, even if they are pirates and scoundrels. Over many years, many trips, and many conversations, I have learned what it takes to make a living in this perilous morass--”Swamponomics,” if you will.

Let's get something clear: if you came to this island to settle down, leave immediately. Bilefen is home to exiles, criminals, treasure seekers, and unfortunates assigned to this backwater extension of Westmarch (sorry, Talva). And I have not even mentioned the many creatures and maladies that infest the island. This is no place to find a plot of waterlogged land and start a family. You'd be better served building a home in Arreat's crater.

Piracy and illicit trading are perhaps the obvious way one could make ends meet here. Lut Gholein, the Skovos Isles, and the rich western coast of Estuar are all within striking distance for tenacious scoundrels like the Crimsonblade. However, I do not wish to promote piracy nor focus on a path that will certainly make money in the short term, with long term efforts resulting in an early and watery grave.

Fishing is more lucrative than one might think. Grain is not grown on the island and shipments of it are unreliable at best. Even scoundrels must eat, and those with the patience and skill to find quality catches around Port Justinian will do quite well. No need to fear a pirate's blade when their stomach grumbles and you catch the food.

The festering corpses, Plague Nests, and other carriers of disease are a risky but potentially lucrative market when one considers that Bilefen is a hub of illicit and oddity trading. There are many witches, alchemists, and occultists in this world that will pay a mighty sum for strange samples from the fetid swamps of the island. The risk is great, but the reward is potentially greater should you have the right contacts and potential buyers.

The riskiest option may well be treasure and relic-seeking. The fetish tribes possess charms that many a Caldeum mage would find worthy of the cost, but obtaining such items requires the skills and numbers of a mercenary squad. If you are such a sell-sword, Port Justinian and the local Crimsonblade may happily pay you to just dispatch the little demons, and their charms will be a bonus.

I have it on good authority to dissuade treasure-seekers from entering the ancient Temple of Namari. It may date back to a time of great power on Sanctuary, but my understanding is that place is a temple in name only. It is of great interest to mages, but even powerful individuals like them routinely enter and never return. It may be full of riches, but the dead have nothing to spend. You are better off hunting swamp creatures.

Lastly and most recently I have learned of Magistrate Talva Fairhurst's swamp grape initiative. I wish him the best of luck and encourage all to help in this agricultural endeavor. If successful it could lead to a vintage being sold to Westmarch nobles--bored fools with exotic tastes and full coffers. Such a home-grown success could help Port Justinian divest from the local pirates, and set Bilefen, rotten as it is, on a cleaner path.

-Rehm

Brother Shura,

At your request, I began investigating the nightmares that still walk our land, even with the cleansing of Sladyan's actions from our monastery.

I started at the site where you and your ally recovered Sladyan's corrupted prayer bead. The temple still contains many shades, though I did my utmost to purify it with incense and meditation as I passed through.

The hateborn that plague the monastery speak of hatred and intolerance as the source of their power. I suspect that they still feed on the animus buried deep in the hearts of our brothers and sisters. Perhaps the remnants of the old battles with the Zakarum being so close to the monastery provide a too-fresh reminder of the old hatreds.

I'm not sure of a safe way to move the graves and restore peace to the hearts of our order. All of our acts here risk desecration. Nevertheless, my suggestions are five-fold:

1. We send a messenger to speak with the leadership of the Zakarum Church, with a request that they exhume and remove the bodies.

2. If they refuse, we work to obscure the nearby graveyard from the view of our monks. As they say, "that which is unseen, is not thought of."

3. We must forever hide the forbidden technique Sladyan used to open the way for these nightmares. All record of its methods should be expunged. We should talk with the Veradani who may even only know of this technique and ask them to forget their knowledge, then inform the Patriarchs of their names.

If they choose not to forget, we can take more permanent measures. I know that this seems harsh, and could weaken us, but is preserving such a technique worth it if it means the destruction of a temple, and the creation of such nightmares? Sometimes one must take drastic measures to clear the path.

4. It is unlikely that the monks of the Silent Monastery can be redeemed. They and their home have been corrupted by their constant exposure to the creatures that live there now. We should forcibly remove some of the corrupted and see how far they and the others have fallen. If they have the roots of Sladyan's technique in them, or they show unforgivable signs of being under the influence of the nightmares, then we will need to resort to remedying ourselves completely of the Silent Monastery's inhabitants.

5. We continue purging the land of the nightmares and other demons as they appear.

While my previous steps are treatment of symptoms, I believe there may be another factor:

Our prayer beads represent the thousand and one, Sladyan wore few, but heavy ones--in devotion of his purification--one of his beads responded to his failure, his corruption. The others resisted. Sladyan's hubris and faith in himself was his damnation. Giving rise to the nightmare that used him as a puppet.

We should refocus our faith on all the thousand and one, not just a few, and certainly not in ourselves. Our order, and our views, must expand; teaching our disciples to walk the line between order and chaos and use the tools of diplomacy and reconciliation more flexibly. That they may show their faith in the thousand and one. What happened here is no way for us to maintain the path, and we must adjust our behaviors to account for this.

May you find peace on your journey,

-Sister Zako

Our master is infuriated with your inability to execute even the simplest of tasks. Everything we need to eradicate the foolish trespassers has been provided, and yet you cannot destroy even one camp? Have you forgotten all that he has promised us? Has your resolve weakened? Do not forget: Sanctuary will be made anew, and as harbringers of the new world, we will be rewarded. Anyone who stands in our way, and anyone who disregards our power, will be forced to kneel and grovel at our feet. In this promised world, no harm will come to us. We will never know fear, for we will become fear itself.

Understand that this reckoning relies on us alone. Those Shardborne cannot be trusted with our plan, and we will not be eclipsed by mere walking bags of flesh with no minds of their own.

I will not suffer embarassment from the likes of a mere child who had failed in life, and has failed again after death. None of them deserve our rightful place. We must prove ourselves worthy to walk beside our Lord, worthy of wielding his power. We must acquire his approval or suffer his disdain. So, don't test his temper, or you will be tossed from the gates of paradise.

[Index]

A Call of Port

Ale's What Cures Ya

Blushing Myrrjen Bride, The

Brine and Whorl

Drop Sail and Weigh Anchor

Three Sheets to the Wind

[A Call of Port]

I've sailed across this great big world

From Skartara to Xiansai shore

I've braved the beasts and tides and more

To forge my weight in gold

I've dined with royals in Kehjistan

Tamed tigresses on Skovos sands

Yet for all the ports where I've made land

Only one voice calls me home

Hoist the sails for Westmarch, boys

To fill our hearts with drink and noise

And if chance and courage me do join

I'll make that lass my own

Kashya, Dark Wood - 50 Gold

* Blood Rose

* Sharval Red

* Toddy

Don't see this one more often than I see Akara, has good taste though.

Cpt. Rehm - 20 Gold

* Grog

* Swill

* Rum

Steep discount for my favorite Captain. Interested parties like his help plenty.

Toby - 1 Gold

* Milk

* Pomegranate Juice.

Kid keeps looking for Shadows in here.

Deckard Cain - 250 Gold

* Ale

* Tea

Cain doesn't drink much, most of this is tea, I'll need to talk to R about sourcing at this rate.

Karshun - 100 Gold

* Dark Wood Rye

* Tea

I thought Cain took to the leaves heavily... What is it with these two and the stuff?

Charsi - 50 Gold

* Glass of Ale and one of Rye

* Mead

* Blackberry Wine

Akara - 50 Gold

* Tea

* Mulberry Gin

Don't see her in very often. Always good times when she's here, have to keep a bit of the leaves in reserve so the scholars don't drink it afore she can.

Greta - 0 Gold

(poor kid, can't bring meself to charge her)

* Black Currant Syrup, White Grape Juice

Yakin - 100 Gold

* Kehjistan Ale

* Cider

Dya - 25 Gold

* Aranochian Wine, Red

* Gea Kul Grain

Rayek - 5 Gold

* Switchel

Kid's too wrapped up with his studies to drink.

Ronsen - 30 Gold

* Ale

Kaya - 42 Gold

* Ale

* Kehjistan Wine

Interesting one her, wouldn't think someone in her position could cut loose like that. Probably worth keeping an eye on.

Charsi's Special Orders

- Derek: Lantern hangers for the bounty board. Apparently the local adventurers have been a tad rough with the board.

- Greta: Humane cat trap. Not sure how I tell her the cat it traps probably won't be her kitten.

- Commander Kaya: Custom hilt with sapphire inlay. And here I thought her tastes were more conservative.

- Toby: A glass lens to give him the Hide and Seek edge. I'll see if I can work something out with his mother.

- Bailey: Pewter flagons x60. More durable than glass, less smelly than wood, more expensive than both. Where's a barkeep get that kind of budget?

- Yakin: Long dagger for personal security. With his connections he should be swimming in blades. I suppose I don't mind a little flattery.

- Cassia: Ceremonial spear. She must be busy being Warmatron and all, but it would be nice to clear this out of storage.

- Vic: A new bezel roller and forceps for Seril. "Only the best for my best apprentice," he says.

- Valstus: A big axe. I cherish the simple requests. I'm thinking bearded axe, but single or double-bladed? He did say big…

- Akara: Silver pendant with Sightless Eye engraving and protective enchantment. Oh, how I miss you and my sisters. Maybe Yverius will hold down the forge so I can pay you a visit.

- Yaira: Jeweled straight razor. Grooming with style.

- Rayek: ???? I think this is a blueprint for something, but I have no idea. It looks… spiny.

Wish they'd named it Calmpoint, then maybe we wouldn't have nothing like this.

Wish my parents had named me Robert or Jessun. But life's hard and we don't none of us make our own decisions, not the important ones anyhow. The rain just falls and the wind gets to blowing and we run inside.

It's the worst weather I've seen in months here and now. Howling like a wolf, loud enough to hear inside the keep with the doors barred.

Rainwater's puddling in the courtyard, swishing back and forth. People on the wall got a lakeside appointment. One of the cage prisoners rolled into it and drowned before we could fish ‘em out. Then nobody talked in the halls all day, just ate and watched water soak the padding and creep in under the door.

Everything's grounded. None of the carracks were going out, so Seamus tried to sail away on his little rowboat. The next morning the boat was back without him.

Cracked open on the shoals like a walnut.

We're all stuck here. Now nobody wants to shove off because they've seen what happens if you try. "No point trying myself if Seamus didn't make it."

But if we hain't seen it, sure as sin a few of us would have been on that boat. Maybe we'd get luckier than Seamus, catch a lull, be halfway home. And now we can't. Fear's like a poison that way.

So we're just to wait, and to hope the storm doesn't get worse, all while the tides go higher up the shore. No other choice, s'what the commander tells me.

I got set to working the walls tonight. At least it's as far from the ocean as I can get.

X-Young Ilfred

I don't know what they are, I don't know where they come from, but I want them dead. Every last one of them.

I can smell them even when the wind picks up. That's saying something this close to the quagmire. They smell like an egg supper out Sandro's backside.

One of them made off with Acha's good hand mirror. I saw it sticking out from the scaly little scuzzer's mouth as he waddled out the gates.

Last week they tore the shoes off a pony and it tracked blood all over the dock.

You know who had to clean it up?

You think Talva got down on his hands and knees with a brush?

Ha!

Nowadays, if a trader takes a week in port, she gets robbed in the night, e'en sleeping below deck. Then she never comes back, and then we don't see a new ship for months.

It's a disaster.

They're worse than magpies.

They leave trails of what they steal everywhere, as if to taunt me. They'll take bits of beeswax and half-eaten fruits and coins, always coins. If you could pawn it for a pat on the back, they've ran off with it.

The magistrate's bully-boys are too lazy or too slow-witted to stop them, and I surely hope he reads this, because he's a good-for-naught malingerer.

I appeal to anyone actually worth the King's name. Kill the little goblins or grukkles or whatever you call them. Quiet or loud, blade or blow, I don't care how you do it. Don't need my property returned, either.

Just drop their heads and bits right out front of the magistrate's office, and you'll have my eternal gratitude.

I can't pay you. I'm spending every last gold I own, and I'm swallowing the coppers. The greedy bastards won't get another coin from me.

-Marsle

Kale Monath?,

Curse this land, I have no idea what day or month it is. I came from Westmarch to look for unclaimed magic in a land with fewer talents, but at least some comforts.

Instead, I landed in an underdeveloped hole. Specifically, an overcrowded shantytown supporting an underdeveloped hole. It's been easy enough to create funding for my research here. I've set up an apothecary shop and am selling potions, salves, drops, and gargles from my supply.

I'll have to restock soon; I didn't bring as much as I'd thought.

Ostara? Year?,

The stars never come out here. The weather is always foul. At least I can feel the magics and make use of them.

The Grays' development was sluggish before I arrived, I'm told. The previous administrator had control issues, was too heavy-handed… and demons were involved. But now development is finally starting to pick up.

Establishing a connection to my supplier has been tenuous. I've had to rely on a craven middleman named Larkey who wants more of a cut than he deserves. But at least a shipment is coming. I'll figure out how to make it last.

Montaht? Maybe? It could be the day after my last entry... I'm not sure.

Supplies arrived from Bilefen. Workers have been coming in asking for more remedies, but only oils and tinctures. I have no idea why; they don't do anything! They're not cures, they just treat symptoms... and what does cure them, they don't want! I'm running low again, and I've been stretching already.

I'm going to stop appending months. I have no idea what month or even year it is...

The Grays have been filling with tents competing for space, overflowing fosse where people sit with their knees close enough to touch. There are hastily built gutters everywhere to alleviate the mess. It's repulsive, but it has also kept Staalek's guards from paying me much mind. Still, I'd like more security to ensure my research stays safe, and the tent feels smaller daily.

I've had to put alarm wards on the tent after a few break-ins. For now, they're on every surface. The door uses a rather clever time-locking mechanism. I can unlock it, but it would take a skilled magic-user to bypass it. Even then, there's a failsafe.

I'm still searching the snows when I have time. The stars aren't cooperating, and the sky is dark by the time I'm able to leave undetected.

I struck a deal with a local gang boss for more permanent accommodations. A large shop, with a basement. There's also a discreet way for my supplies to be delivered. It will provide ample space for my needs. I'm still concerned with rising crime and disease. I've reapplied all my wards, plus a few cleverly-placed ones, and the time-lock. It should be enough.

One of my shipments was misdelivered. Larkey slipped up, and I'll have to take it out of his fee. When I finally received it, a couple of the jars were opened. Business is dropping off. This could mean more delays.

It's getting worse. Workers aren't buying salves, drops, or gargles. Unless they're on death's door, they won't bother with me--it seems word has spread that I'm stretching my ingredients.

Meanwhile, the local barbarians are growing increasingly aggressive, frothing at the mouth and speaking incoherently. Not that this is a significant change in their behavior since the mountain exploded. Stupid brutes.

The monsters are more restless lately. They gather in droves, stragetically torch our defences, and never allow us much time to recuperate from an attack. They're worse than wild animals, as animals are at least fueled by survival. All these monsters know and desire is pure carnage.

What concerns me the most, however, are the humans. I know that long ago, villagers reported suspicious activity in the area. People were going missing, only for their emaciated bodies to be found next to basins caked with dry blood. The Sisterhood had investigated, but immediately understood that such attacks were at the hands of humans, rather than monsters. The skin of victims were carefully peeled from their body, rather than savagely ripped off. We observed clean cuts at the wrists and thighs, where blood would pour forth the most.

That was years ago, and yet I've seen the same calculated murders today.

It's clear that these brutes are acting with purpose. We have heard tales of a coven of witches who had brought demons to Sanctuary long ago. An agreement was reached then, and while we're uncertain what the agreement exactly entailed, I'm certain that its effects still linger today. Their sudden crazed movements are a reaction to something. What it is, I'm not certain, but I fear that a terrifying demon will arrive in Sanctuary once again.

To Constable Staalek,

I first heard reports of more concentrated groups of Shardborne approximately two weeks ago. Before then, it was common for Shardborne to move in groups, but their behavior never indicated that such movement was premeditated. In fact, our soldiers often witnessed some Shardborne spontaneously joining another passing group, but there were always a few stragglers. That has always informed my strategies in deploying troops outside of the city, as we knew that Shardborne, while dangerous, were never coordinated.

Two weeks ago, I received a log that a group of Shardborne just outside of the gates of the city had collectively ran off. The Shardborne had been previously identified by scouts, and a group of soldiers were dispatched to encounter the monsters. At arrival, the soldiers were surprised to see all of the Shardborne running away to the same location. At the time, there were no orders to pursue the Shardborne any further, as it was thought that they would simply scatter like they usually do.

Last week, I was alerted of a sudden ambush against one squadron that were returning from their nightly rounds. Only a few were able to survive to tell the tale. When we first heard about the ambush, we asked them about the identity of the culprits. To our surprise, they claimed that it was a group of Shardborne. We had never seen Shardborne conduct such concentrated and planned out attacks, and so we conducted further interviews with the remaining survivors individually, to ensure that no one was speaking out of shock or an addled mind. I had personally collected one witness account from the second in command of the squadron. He informed me that they had actually surveyed that same area earlier in the day, at nightfall, but had never seen any Shardborne at that time. The squadron revisited the area of attack on their way back to Staalbreak. By that time, the sun had fully set, with only the moon as a source of light.

When the squadron reached an area with a thick canopy, creatures suddenly emerged from hiding. It was clear to him that the creatures who had emerged from the surrounding trees were not human. They had unnatural crimson growths on their bodies and they shambled awkwardkly. I was of course skeptical of his ability to identify the culprits when the canopy covered much of the moon, but he conveyed that he had encountered many Shardborne before during his patrols, and so they had become unmistakable to him. By his account, the Shardborne quickly encircled the battalion, and immediately targetted a single individual: their leader.

Around five of the monsters collectively pounced on the man, running him through with their spear-like arms. At the death of their leader, there were soldiers who attempted to run. However, they were all quickly killed by the Shardborne, despite no signal given for the attack. The creatures never communicated to each other, but acted in perfect coordination as they continued their assault on the rest of the battallion. The remaining members were able to fight off the creatures, and once the sun began to rise once again, the remaining Shardborne collectively ran into the forest.

After hearing this witness report, I was unsure. I had thought that the poor soldier was simply traumatizing by the death of his superior. However, once we collected all reports, we discovered that all accounts were perfectly aligned. This could only mean that the Shardborne are now not only able to concentrate their numbers into a large force, but also strategically plan attacks. This is unprecedented. Before, we were simply dealing with creatures that were no better than rabid animals. Now, we must face the concentrated efforts of a force that equals an army.

- General Rehnen

Outlined materials are required for our master's return. Deliver, or face retribution.

- Twelve cages

- Fourty spears

- Thirty shackles

- Six bags human teeth

- Two boxes of flint

- Two boxes of steel

- Three bags of bestial teeth

- Nine vials of blood

The fish have looked strange lately. At first, they only seemed slightly darker in hue than normal. We supposed that this was just a natural occurence, as the meat was completely fine to consume. But after a while, I returned to the beach to catch more fish. All seemed normal, until I caught a fish that was perfectly black, like it had been consumed by its own shadow. It was alive, but it didn't flounder or squirm like the other fish. Instead, it lied perfectly still, its gills rythmnically opening and closing.

Of course, we refused to eat them. Many thought that they were cursed. I merely hated the sight of them. So whenever I caught one, I always threw it back into the sea. Eventually, however, all the fish I caught started to appear black. We could no longer refuse their meat. Fish was our main source of food, and with the cold seasons coming, cultivation wasn't possible. The village could not go hungry, and so we had no choice but to eat the blackened fish.

We filled our nets with black fish. We brought them home in large baskets. Their pitch-black scales made their wide eyes appear to be floating in a pool of ink. The fish were delivered to the butcher, and he cut one open. To our horror, the flesh had already rotted. The stomach was shriveled, the heart was pure black, and the brain had been reduced to mush. The fish should have died long ago, long before we had even caught it, and yet it was alive when freshly caught. In disbelief, the butcher sliced through all the remaining fish until all that remained was a mound of rotting flesh and viscera on his table.

All the fish had already been dead when we had caught them, and yet still showed signs of life.

Some still refused to eat them. Those villagers claimed that the fish's impossible state of life after death was a curse. Consuming them would only invite more darkness. Most didn't want to die from starvation, and so they ate the rotted meat. Myself included. At the time, the obsidian fish were our only chance at survival. I was not going to toss my life away for the sake of superstitions or omens. Such things were unreliable and intangible. The fish, no matter how horrid, was at least real.

Since then, I've been having the same nightmare every night. I force myself to stay awake deep into the night, afraid that my consciousness will slip into that nightmarish abyss, deep and dark like the fish we ate. In that chasm of unreality, monsters surround my village. They torch our houses and slaughter whoever they encounter. They dangle the mutilated limbs of a child's parents in front of their eyes, just so they can relish in the poor babe's cries. I try to run as unnatural creatures jab at my sides and back with long spears, cackling as I scramble away from them. But I always trip on something, whether it be a burnt piece of wood or dead body. The ground is always strangely cold, despite the raging fires that burn our homes. The beasts that loom over me are always smiling, as if they were expecting me. As if they can't wait to do it all again.

A thousand shrieking voices echo in my head, but his booms above them all. "Soon, this world will belong to Terror." He is the father of our nightmares, yet the witch craves his praise. She thinks her service will yield some prize. Idiot. She can't comprehend what lies in Terror's heart. I know better. I feel his mind when his gaze is upon me.

I would do anything not to see within.

When Terror called me before the villagers to offer his gift, I heeded. The fools refused it, so I used the splinters of creation to remake them into something to please Terror. An army to destroy his foes. I molded their bodies like clay. Such is the power he has granted me.

He rewards me, like father... But he is not like father. He is always quick to punish. Quick to remind that all he has given can be taken away. And take he shall. I've seen it in his mind--the plans for this world. This new father… he couldn't love us. Not with what he has in store for our home. A world unmade, drowned in hellfire.

The other voices--I used to think them below me, pawns to be commanded. But now I realize that under his heel we are equals. I feel their pain. I see through their eyes and hear through their ears. The more I look and listen, the clearer it becomes. We are mere weapons to him, forged to be broken and discarded. But to each other, we are more. Brothers and sisters, each linked to the stone by invisible chains. And we share a dream of freedom.

So long as I do Terror's bidding, he allows me my independence. But independence and freedom are not the same. While Terror walks this land, I'll be no more than a puppet on his stage. Perhaps when he turns his eyes toward his true enemies, I might escape notice--run somewhere far from his sight... But what of my family?

Aughild the Conqueror is remembered as the mightiest king of Entsteig, but he forged his crown with the blessings of an untamable land.

Rather than a claim to succession by blood, as the proud feoffs of Sharval made for generations, Aughild made a claim of spirit.

He swore that his family line had ranged the wilds in antiquity--that their pacts with the darklings and the spirits were as old as the mountains themselves.

This claim he supported with a warband thousands strong, and when his howling mob ran forth from the shaded glens without horse or trebuchet, the land aided their every maneuver.

A blazing sun blinded the Path-Garrison's archers on the walls, and unpredictable rainstorms sank their horses' feet deep in the mud.

Night fell earlier than it had in years, and the shade of Sharval hid his retreating armies as they tore, again and again, at Entsteig’s defenses over the course of weeks.

When he was crowned with the grand spike-helm, Aughild the savage gave clemency to the poor and the lame and the wounded, even those who took up arms against him.

His wrath fell squarely on the shoulders of Entsteig’s rebellious nobles, to whom his demands were as eccentric as they were hobbling: on which days they were to tithe their new king and which fabrics they were permitted to wear in public;

which preserves were retained for their fishing and farming, and in which parts of the capital they might speak aloud and where they were called to fall silent.

Most prominently, Aughild treated literacy as a commodity among the landed, and forbade it in those who did not swear absolute fealty to his demands.

When Lord Irming was found holding private verse-readings during the king’s hour, Aughild had the heads of Irming and thirteen of his party-guests taken and speared atop the walls of Entsteig's bailey, with confiscated vellum dangling from their mouths to bleach in the sun.

However fearsome Aughild’s rule was for the noble classes, his ties to the land and its people remain unquestioned, even centuries after his passing.

The great stone walls of Entsteig have grown ever greater.

The city has crowned Faithful Kings like Lur Hagen, Ottvik, and Isbrand, who rule in Aughild's image, and the landed hold regular halsmoot to hear the claims of the common folk.

The people of Sharval are well-accustomed to plying those who would crush them, whether the dark spirits of the forest or the marches of Estuar-born zealots who would steal their land's bounty.

Yet the simplest farmers go about their steads armed, and keep their knives sharp, and carve their names on the trees and in the wood of their homes.

They are today a people unlike most shaped by Rakkis's march, one who have accepted the annals of Zakara and made them their own, contributed verses and located darklings and spirits in the teachings of the Light.

Their faith, however it is clothed, remains in the old power that built their kingdom up, one that passes beyond the human heart and stretches as deep the land itself.

Entsteigians have appeased their conquerors throughout history, but one should never mistake appeasement for submission.

Desided, synce I'm larning my lettrs to practace a bit more then my scrybe friend says I need to. I like the sownd of quyll on parchmint, desided I shud add a count to my jernal. Just tracking the years' harvests.

Year One

- 40 Bushls wheet

- Sent 10 to King Isbrand's kort, Heavens know what deyl do with it.

- Tythed 4 to the Zakaroom Cherch, to halp feed the munks, and the needy.

- 26 to get thru the winter and trade.

- Lettuces, gords, toobers, - 36 stone

- Stored in the root celler, good for trade

- Dryed meets

- 3 deer

- 6 rabbits

- 1 cow

- 12 chickens

- Eggs year 'round

- Meat if we need it

Winter should be easy enough to get thru, lots to trade to. Peple seem happi. Old man Wixham's been luking after evry'ne.

Year Two

- 38 Bushels Wheat

- Sent 10 to King Isbrand's court, still not sure what they do with it.

- Tithed 3 to the Zakarum Church this year, hoping they don't get mad it's less than last year.

- Rest will get us through, the winter without much struggle

- Lettuces, gourds, tubers - 35 stone

- Back in the root cellar, little lean, but we'll get by.

- Dried meets

- 2 deer

- 8 rabbits

- One-half cow

- 13 chickens

- Kept an extra from last year, too much personality

Dryxal, he helped me spell his name, says my letters are coming along. Was proud I took on extra writing. Old man Wickham took ill for a bit, I watch after him since he's been good for the village.

Year Three

- 35 Bushels Wheat

- Sent 10 to Isbrand, never see a return on this. What's the point?

- Tithed 3 to the Zakarum Church, they were OK with the lower donation “it's based on what you make, not how much you should have.”

- 22 bushels, going to be tight this winter. May have to choose between bread or trade.

- Lettuces, gourds, tubers - 35 and a half stone

- Will have to use this to make up trade. Should be OK, just a little tightening of the belt.

- Dried Meats

- 1 deer

- 5 rabbits

- 1 cow

- 10 chickens

- Lost two to a fox, had to eat one. Hopefully I can make up the difference.

Dryxal's taken ill this year, been holed up, says he doesn't want to get others sick. Said he didn't have more to teach me about writing, still a good person to drink with. Old man Wickham was on about something in the woods.

Year Four

- 30 Bushels Wheat

- Sent 5 to the Crown, I can't send any more I just don't have it, not if I want to eat

- Sent 2 to the Zakarum Church, I feel horrible

- That's 23? To eat, and trade with, this winter is looking even leaner than last

- Lettuces, gourds, tubers - a little over 32 stone - We'll make it if we stretch resources.

- Dried meats

- Half of a deer

- 12 rabbits

- Half of a cow

- 11 chickens

- Managed to keep one extra this year, it's not much but everything counts right?

- Foragables - 3 stone

Saw Dryxal out foraging the other day, we teamed up and split our findings. Old man Wickham hasn't been around a few days. Not sure where he got off to.

Year Five

- 20 Bushels Wheat

- The crown can rot, I'm not sending them any. I'll be surprised if I make it through the year.

- 1 bushel to the church, they weren't keen on having to help me when I was donating to them. I offered to keep the bushel, they took it anyway.

- 19 bushels, four mouths to feed. It's going to be tight.

- Lettuces, gourds, tubers - 28 stone

- Looks like lots of foraging this year.

- Dried meats

- None, but we've got a hutch of 20 live rabbits, I managed to catch four early in the Spring.

- 5 Chickens

- Wolves got to 5 of the chickens, we had to eat one. This isn't a lot of eggs to work with.

- Foragables - 6 stone

Dryxal's gone missing now too. Ground's not producing enough to get us by. If we survive the winter... I don't think we're going to survive the winter.

I've always known that the dead always outnumber the living. It's the first lesson I learned when I joined the Ashwold guard, and yet nowadays it seems like death is overpowering life itself. If the undead aren't tearing us limb from limb, then we're dying of starvation and disease. The biting pain in our stomachs has made become resentful of the ill. They dump their shifts onto those of us sane enough to venture outside the watch and they eat whatever food we have left so that they can recover. I overheard Wilbur last night talking to a group of guards. They were sitting in the dark around a fire, the flickering light casting ghoulish shadows across their faces. Wilbur suggested they shove the sick and wounded outside as a distraction, so they could at least be of use. I watched their looming shadows shake in laughter.

It wasn't like this when we had Captain Azmir, Akarat bless him.He always knew how to keep our spirits high, how to remind us of our duties without burdening our hearts. But then he died. We haven't appointed a new captain since his funeral We all knew that none of us were half as brave as Captain Azmir was. After all, Captain Azmir gave his life to save others. Most of us wouldn't think of doing the same.

Wilbur and his friends have been talking about attempting to leave Ashwold in search of food, but we all know that it's just an excuse to escape this place. He's been raving about how we've been abandoned, how nobody is coming to save us, and he isn't wrong. The trade routes have been cut off, choked by the growing number of monsters lurking in the area. Whatever rations we have left have been scavenged from ravaged wagons and torn down sheds. Even the number of grave robbers and bandits have started to dwindle as of late. They must think that any loot they can find in the tombs must not be worth the trouble of getting torn apart by those fiends.

They've become more aggressive. We used to be able to keep our distance from them, keep our swords comfortably in their sheaths until one of them got too close for comfort, but they've begun to lash out at us more often. For a while, they seemed to move in small groups, shuffling around the grounds. Pip said that they looked like they were searching for something, as they seemed to stop in front of a few graves before shambling away, but I called him mad.

Then, just a little while ago, we found clothes. Not just rags or torn pieces of cloth, but proper clothes. I was going on my rounds with Pip when we noticed a long strip of fabric just laying on the ground. Pip and I could tell just by looking at it that it wasn't from some regular smock or tunic. I didn't want to touch it, bad omens and all, so I stuck my sword in it and lifted it up into the moonlight. It was smooth, barely wrinkled, and shined, even under layers of mud and blood. Pip reckoned we could get a few coins from selling it just for the thread alone, but something about it wasn't sitting right with me. The torn fabric was hauntingly familiar. That's when I remembered a bishop had visited the watch years ago to bless us in the Light, so that we could fare better against the ghoulish fiends that lurked the cemetary. That was back when the area was safe enough for occassional visitors. He had worn a robe made out of the exact fabric I was holding at the end of my sword.

Pip and I returned to the watch shortly after, but I haven't been able to sleep since then. Who does that torn robe belong to, and where is he now?

- Niel, Ashwold Guard

Two factions foolishly war in the "Eternal Conflict": the demons of the Burning Hells, and the angels of the High Heavens. Their hubris--and fraternization--led to the creation of the Firstborn, and their children, the nephalem, beings of both angelic and demonic essences. These are our ancestors, simultaneously more powerful and weaker than their parents; possessed of tremendous potential without the knowledge to unlock and capitalize upon it.

We know somewhat less of the angels than of the absent Evils. Other scholars have simply not bothered to research them, or--like so many of my peers--placed blind faith in their virtues. Thus, I have endeavored to compile records of their appearances and purposes, beginning with the "greatest”--the archangels--and their ruling order, the so-called "Angiris Council.”

The council serves as a guiding committee for their fruitless war, and it also serves to keep the other angels in line. Each archangel upon it embodies one virtue... and a host of exploitable traits. They are:

- Tyrael - the archangel of Justice. Tyrael has worked with humanity before, most prominently with the Horadrim, and likely will do so in the future. Yet his contributions to our future are mixed. He has shown even Horadrim as stubborn as Tal Rasha that justice is of little help in overcoming our enemies. Demons have no care for fairness, and angels little wisdom in wielding it.Tyrael's need for equanimity above all makes him predictable.

- Imperius - the archangel of Valor. He seeks only the eradication of evil--and thus, the prolonging of the Eternal Conflict. This is no coincidence; he is often described as the leader of the council during times of war. The essence of humanity, as children of the Heavens and the Hells, pushes Imperius to desire our destruction--but the flaws in his own nature are beyond him. A rift between Valor and Justice is inevitable.

- Itherael - the archangel of Fate. A sad notion to embody. Itherael's power to see so many possible futures may lend stability to his Heavens, but it befuddles him to gaze upon the destiny of humanity. We are no part of his order, and this unpredictability is our advantage against the Heavens.

- Auriel - the archangel of Hope. A relatable virtue, at least. Her essence shines into even the darkest depths of creation. However, one should always question the source of one's hope--if any of the demons were to benefit from her inspiration, or if her words were to guide humanity into despair, her light might flicker.

- Malthael - the archangel of Wisdom. Malthael has also been described as the leader of the Angiris Council in ages past. All accounts I can find of him depict a heavenly scholar, after a fashion. He spends much of his time seeking wisdom and observing the nature of reality, and does not intervene as Tyrael or Imperius might. Yet humanity is an uncertain factor to him. His boundless curiosity must drive him to look upon us.

While more "archangels” may exist, I have only uncovered two other angels described as such. Their lack of association with a specific virtue and absence from the Angiris Council leads me to suspect that they are not true "archangels," and have been dubbed such out of ignorance or willful aggrandizement. I name them here for completeness only:

- Yaerius - I have little confirmed information about Yaerius, other than rumors and supposition from accounts of his interactions with us. He could be benevolent, or malign... if he exists at all.

- Inarius - As one half of the pair that created humanity, Inarius betrayed us and banished his demon lover Lilith, then vanished. Some scholars have suggested that he then walked among humans in a form close to us. This is an unwelcome--but not unsurprising--ability. If one angel can do this, perhaps many can.

As I continue my work on a new soulstone, I must consider the possibility of using it to trap both demons and angels. To keep them from interference with Sanctuary would be a success. To keep them as a source of untapped energy would be unmitigated victory.

Would the stolen power of the archangels restore me to the essence of the nephalem, to our ancestry? I cannot say for certain.

But such is what my will demands.

My cousin and I had a recent idea after watching an adventurer tear through the region and leave a heap of fey corpses behind. Most of our neighbors are just burning them or dumping them in the forest, but their farms have had reduced yields, just like us, and a great portion of those yields have gone to Entsteig and its surrounding towns. Famine is a real possibility, and it occurred to us that maybe fey could be the solution. I prepared meals from various fey, and my cousin tried them.

Loam Eater

The vegetative limbs were sliced into steaks and braised in a vinegar and herb broth. I selected the most promising looking mushrooms from the head, and boiled them in salted water before finishing in a greased iron pan. Cousin said the steaks tasted bitter and had the texture of cabbage combined with a tree trunk. Mushrooms caused hallucinations and vomiting.

Pale Flock

Some of these flying fey I hung in the outdoor smoker for a day, and some I clipped their wings to fry in lard. Cousin said the smoked version was like trying to eat his shoes. The fried wings had nearly no meat on them and cousin nearly choked on the bones. A venom sack was overlooked in the smoked version, which caused temporary paralysis hours later.

Roiling Blight

My cousin refers to these as a mushroom and vine pudding with a face. When preparing, I discarded the face, as that seemed less than palatable. The mushrooms were boiled with the vines, and then finished in a heavy fry pan with salt and garlic. Cousin said he liked the garlic shortly before convulsing and falling unconscious. He has yet to wake up.

Conclusion

Fey are an unreliable famine solution. The flying Pale Flock might work in an emergency if the venom sack is properly removed, but many will be required to meet the needs of a hungry community. I also will be taking over operations on my cousin’s farm until he wakes from his state.

-Johann Alder

Elder Benevit,

I received your last letter, and it warmed my heart as always. Hearing your tales of spreading the faith and your flock’s reception to the teachings of Zakarum always bring me joy.

We’re approaching the Harvest Season in Orthrup. It’s always been one of our most important holidays after the Spring Sowing festivals. I don’t believe I’ve told you of the events around this season, so I think I shall. Be aware that what I describe are ancient rituals not found in--nor at all acceptable--to our faith.

The season always begins at the start of Lunasadh, when the wheat has grown golden and belly high. The farmers used to take a sheep from each farm and butcher it in a sacrificial rite to bring fertile soil the following year. I’ve worked hard to break them of this horrific tradition as I’ve brought them into the fold. It is far more beneficial for them to use the sheep’s manure as fertilizer and tend to their flocks as I tend to them.

After the harvest, the last few sheaves of wheat are formed into a wreath. This marks the start of the festival. The Spring Pole is then stripped, and the wreath is placed around the top as a symbolic prayer for a bountiful crop.

Many marriages are conducted at this time of year, usually throughout the festival which can last a week or longer. Large feasts are prepared on the sixth day, while the rest of the week is spent drinking and preparing the harvest for storage.

The communities come together to celebrate surviving another year. I redouble my efforts to speak with new families and help ensure the Light reaches all in time of need, and in time of plenty.

There is also a burning of sins. Those found to have committed crimes throughout the year can offer themselves to the harvest pyre to purge their guilt, and to earn compensation for their actions by helping to create a bountiful harvest. This is voluntary--a choice they make for the good of all. They are tied to the Spring Pole at the end of the festival, oiled in a volume and part appropriate to their crime, and set alight. They nearly always survive.

I understand the necessity--for if we do not suffer the impact of our mistakes, we will never atone, never grow beyond our worst. And certainly, the land itself recognizes the sacrifice of the guilty. The harvest of seasons is always greater, most years, when one who has done true wrong repents deeply at the pyre. But still I dream of days when the flames have burned too hot, or the sinful have not left the Spring Pole quickly enough. Their screams, their bodies burning… and especially the smell of flesh charring. It permeates the air of the village for days, fills our clothes… this aspect of the holiday shakes me to my core.

However great our need for a strong harvest… and however much the guilty aid us all with their sacrifices… do they truly all choose to suffer and be reborn in service? Or, like the sheep… is it our need which ties them to the Spring Pole?

I pray that all is well at your abbey, Elder. I would welcome your guidance in this matter. May you walk in the Light always.

-Father Elerin

Bailiff: This is the first of Kathon, and the 112th city council meeting. This meeting is being brought to order, all governing council representatives are present. Do be advised that the king has increased taxes on all products again, and another 20% of your produce is required. Who is the first speaker today?

Freston: It's me, your honor.

Magistrate: What's the nature of your issue?

Freston: It's my cow, sir.

Magistrate: Your… cow?

Freston: Yes, she's been very ill. Her milk production isn't high, and she's been growing these strange cysts.

Magistrate: This is a problem for the council… how?

Freston: Oh, well, it's not… yet… sir. My concern is that whatever Gertie has will spread.

Magistrate: Then don't let her around other cows, and don't share her milk? Dismissed.

Bailiff's note: Take care of "Gertie" for Freston.

Bailiff: Next speaker?

Emmett: Greetings, your eminence. I was-

Magistrate: Honor.

Emmett: What?

Magistrate: You should address me as "your honor," I'm not a king, son.

Emmett: Ah, "your honor," I'm concerned about happenings in the wood. Has anything been done to protect the townspeople? I've heard and seen… strange creatures.

Magistrate: The guard is aware and will take appropriate action.

Emmett: But I-

Magistrate: Dismissed!

Bailiff's Note: Paranoid, there's nothing going on in the forest. If he doesn't settle, encourage him to do so.

Bailiff: Next speaker.

Old man: I'm looking for justice.

Magistrate: Pardon?

Old man: No, justice. I've no need of a pardon.

Magistrate: You'll addre-

Old man: You're not.

Balliff's note: Seems half-mad, left immediately after saying there's no justice here. Keep an eye on him. If he gives anyone trouble, round him up.

This was the end of this session.

Bailiff: This is the 115th city council meeting. This meeting is being brought to order, and all governing council representatives are present. The king has ordered another levy on the taxes, 50% of your crop is to go to the crown. This will be enacted at the end of this meeting. Who is the first speaker today?

Needham: Your honor, I've come about the taxes.

Magistrate: What about them?

Needham: Well, we're having difficulty meeting them, and keeping food on the table. I've heard of a prophet out in the hamlets, he seems to be having success growing crop in this soil.

Magistrate: And?

Needham: Well, I was wondering if the crown's in such need, why don't they contact him? See if he can help them? With all the levies, I figure it'd help lighten some of the burden on the people that can't afford it.

Magistrate: I've not heard of this "prophet," I'd be wary of trusting anyone I've not heard of, wouldn't you?

Needham: That's just the thing sir; I've heard of him. Not seen how he does his business, but people in the hamlet-

Magistrate: Are under quite a bit of duress, and willing to craft fanciful tales to ease their burden. Including a mystical prophet capable of fulfilling all their needs, yes? Come now, it's clear that these are just folktales. Go back to your farm... Needham and tend to your crop. The crown should alleviate their need for more taxes soon, I'm sure.

Bailiff's note: I'm under orders from Waldhar, no more talk of this prophet gets out. If anyone mentions it, it's the jail, or the maide across the jaw.

---

Bailiff: Anyone else have business with the Magistrate?

Edgar: Your honor, I've noted that more and more farmers have been dealing with decreasing harvests. I'm concerned that there's something wrong with the soil… or the forest.

Magistrate: There's a "problem," but you don't know the source?

Edgar: That's correct.

Magistrate: How does this impact the crown?

Edgar: It doesn't, sir. Not yet at least.

Magistrate: Then it's no concern to us, dismissed.

Edgar: But, si-

Magistrate: DISMISSED.

Baliff: Will keep an eye on Edgar. Make sure he doesn't become a problem.

You gave freedom to your coins and you made them mine. Together we honor you, even after my new golden friends are long spent, and when they cross new palms, your kindliness will travel with them.

I did not come here to beg, but I have two hands that are suited to it, and to little else. I was not born creased as I am, but I became this way. I do not remember when it started, and I cannot imagine it will end, for those who pass me by see only the brand of a beggar, seared upon my flesh forever, impossible to hide beneath my clothes.

You saw I was downtrodden, but did not turn your face away. You heard the rattle of my teeth, yet you listened. Are you a charitable one? Or are you a curious one, like I was?

I looked where others prefer not to, looked into the quiet void that spreads around all of us, looked into the burning light that searches for our eyes. You can see what it has cost me. My sight is nearly gone. It is not always safe to look. I cough myself awake and feel the world shaking. Splintering ice stretches below our feet, yet we walk on.

The Magistrate’s law bound me and tore at my skin. His decrees have more life than the man. His orders reach past the tip of his tongue, fly away from him, then fall scattered.

I dread much after a long life spent in curiosity. We are mysteries to one another, each upon this earth, but I think I understand the truth of it. For every coin you offered, I have been robbed twice by another, and there is no hope of justice for them. I am afraid, and I close my eyes when people pass near me. They may be born wicked, but so many yearn to be wicked. My clothes catch the spittle of strangers whom I will never know, and who will never know me.

Do they not need their spittle more than I?

I used to love jumping in the puddles. Now they're no good.

It's been this way since we saw the evil. I was just little, but I remember a hellish face, burning like a fire in the middle of the town square, staring at all of us. I tried to look, but Matilde got scared, and she picked me up and carried me away.

And then the evil was gone, and the adventurers came through. From the west, I think. They haven't really stopped tromping through at all hours since then. They have weapons with them, and when I see their shadows they look frightsome. Mattie says never to talk to them. So I don't. But they're kind enough. One of them brought Korrin back home.

It's just that they all leave these bootprints everywhere they go. There's more puddles than last autumn. But I don't want to jump in those.

When I look in the puddles under moonlight, I don't look like myself. I look like a different person. My reflection is hard to see, like a shadow on the wall. My eyes are burning red, and I can't stop smiling even when I try to make my face different. It's not a good smile.

It makes me feel ill. And I catch myself making the smile everywhere, even when I don't want to.

Mattie never stops frowning. It makes her look pinchy. Next time she frumps at me I'll show her the puddles, and hold her face under, and see if she comes back up smiling.

X-Jatessa

A fell darkness has taken root in Westmarch's lowest district. Not plague or war but pure evil reaching for our hearts. I know, for I have felt its touch.

I could not see from whence they came, but I saw them, more than a dozen, gliding through Rakkis square. Dark things of smoke and shadow, moving like whispers on spindly limbs. All at once the plaza was awash in fear, split with screams and cries, and the steel clamor of guards rushing from their far posts.

There was a trader from Caldeum, a great smiling man who had just come from the docks that day, smote to the ground by one of the monsters. It stood upon him like a stone, and, with its unflinching ember eyes and cruel smile, turned to me.

With haste I made the sign of the Light, but so great was the darkness that it resisted me, and the shadow's fingers closed around my wrist, and they were bitter cold as it pulled me close.

All sound fled from my ears. I felt a pop in my shoulder, and my arm went numb to my fingertips, but I kicked and shoved at the ungainly thing, and one of the guardswomen swung a great mace at it from behind, and it rounded upon her, soundlessly opening its arms in a killing embrace.

I am ashamed to say I did not stop to help--yet I could barely make a fist. I backed free of the melee, slipping on cobbles slick with the trader's blood, and fled out the gates and away from my home.

Would that Rakkis were still alive to free his city. Justinian is no holy man. Most of his subjects pray in view of Selynne's likeness, yet he will not declare Zakarum the one faith in the City of the Light. It is an invitation to evil.

And so I must ask: do we in Westmarch deserve the freedom of the first king's days? I shall wait a tenday in Ashwold before I return. If the darkness remains I will have my answer clearly.

X-Amabel

Quite a few stories to tell this month, seems like.

That day, I was down walking by the old Adventurers' Guildhall, just reminiscing on how it used to be. The sign's been gone for years. Cobwebs inside and out, the windows so white I can't hardly see past. Wood of the rafters all rotted through from seawater.

But I could still remember Kav pouring out all our takes on the long table to divvy up. How proud we were to fill the larder, to buy linseed for our armor. They called us a rabble. If they were nice, they called us mercenaries. But the Seemly Swords, we were a proper company.

A proper company. It's exactly what I was thinking when I heard the commotion. Then the screams. I'm not as fast as I used to be, but I rushed up to the plaza. Didn't think much after that.

The guards were fighting like madmen, but they were as underequipped as ever. Lurking dark shadows were swarming all around the Einfrinn, slicing through steel with their hands.

The Knights of Westmarch were helping people to safety, but most of them stick to the palace or the overlook.

Banners got torn up. Stalls in the market crushed to splinters. People got hurt. Maybe worse. I don't know. My fighting days are further gone than my running days. I lit out. Felt like an hour for me to catch my breath.

Westmarch is a regular den of adventurers. Derek and his bounties, Justinian and his free hand on the coffers, Bailey and his ales. But there's no organization to it.

Back in the guildhall days, the Seemly Swords would have been out there by the dozens, fighting side-by-side with the King's finest. We were a rabble, maybe. Unconventional, sure. But it's a big city. The guards can't be everywhere. We could've helped some folk.

I thought I wanted a breather from adventuring. I still do. But… wouldn't it be nice if the guildhall weren't falling to pieces, if there was somewhere we could gather all these hotheads and showoffs up, set ‘em on a problem, and watch ‘em fix it?

I'm not too old to dream.

X-Taite

It was one of them adventurers as called the darkness to Westmarch. Not lack of prayers or charity. Just mad types going places they shouldn't, doing things they shouldn't, and bringing the stench back home.

How do I know? Why, friend, I was there! Standing on the low stairs, sniffing like a hound, because that's how you make yourself reliable. You watch. You watch for opportunities.

I saw that figure, hood up, stumbling through with the blacksmith and some other folk, whisked away and shuttered in a little flat off the main.

Few hours go by, and the same one comes marching out past the guards and through the docks--and that was all the commotion. Waited an hour. Didn't see another fright nor terror.

Guards doubled up their patrols, but not even a fistfight broke out.

I must've crept the square twenty times that night. Most everyone else was indoors. Being unreliable.

I got the cobbles where the blood spilled--pried 'em up with my own two hands.

I got knickknacks from them as was hurt or carried off by the dark, rings and neckties, keys and copper coins, handkerchiefs with the sweat and tears still wet on them. Even a little brass brooch that looks like a wolf's head.

And I'll not sell them for cheap. The doom of Westmarch is in 'em. That's magic you can use.

So offer up, if you're convinced. I know you Ivo people hate Rakkis, and so do your gods. It's time to put your coin to work. Don't make me reliable for nothing.

-N

Adventurers wanted. Brave souls in need of gold, inquire with Jevro at the Covney Common House.

An exorcism of evil spirits is what we're after--by fire and sword, or by song and prayer if you're keen. Or wilder methods if you aren't.

You won't have to save anyone, and you won't have to find the dark spirits. They'll find you, if you so much as light a torch in the forest.

Few miles out into the Lidwinter's where we got wise to them. There was black smoke trailing across the sky, like a fire on the move. It came from the west, from the city to us, like every problem always does. I didn't see quite where it landed. But we could hear.

These spirits, they creep into the bones of the dead: animals, people, anything. They get deep down into the rot of the woods, in the pits and piles. And there's a glow to them, eerie and pale. The spirits wail, and it draws darkness from all over. Demons, wolves, haunted beasts, all howling. Kin to each other and the night. Only a matter of time before they come for our herds, then our children.

You and your vanguard could sneak in, put the spirits to rest. If you're careful.

And I do want you to be careful. I know how easy it is for adventurers to get themselves killed. Don't need more restless souls haunting the Lidwinter.

There's a meal for you at Covney if you hear me out. And plenty coin, backed by the King himself, if you'll just do some good in this world.

I can't think of a better way to earn a living.

Report & Manifest of the Cargo laden at the port of Westmarch on board the Ship Triumph, bound for World's Crown.

Goods

- Sixty five swords

- Five chests healing potion

- Fourty helmets

- Twenty shovels

- Fifteen chests of rations

- Thirty gambesons

- Twenty barrels of water

- Seventy shields

- Twenty rolls of fleece

- Two chests containing materials from our Expeditions

Persons

- 80 Soldiers, hereby relieved of any other posts or duties that inferfere with the voyage.

By the order of Commander Zuros of the Immortals, notwithstanding the King's censure.

To all Immortals: this is Commander Zuros.

You all must have heard the words of King Justinian and his direct orders to remain in Westmarch. Even when the time has come for us to live up to our charge, to face the darkness and protect Sanctuary, he cowers. He is not a King to the people, but to his own pride and pockets.

Which is why we will disobey. We cannot turn our faces when our world is at the precipise of ruin. The Immortals and their leaders have decided thus: we will face evil. We will heed Daedessa's call, and we will forge a better future through steel and blood. Our swords will not remain mere ornaments as King Justinian desires.

Our plans are as follows: we will make preparations to smuggle as much equipment as we can into into our battle ships. Once all cargo and men have been accounted for, we will sail to World's Crown. Our scriers are aware of a beach suitable for landing. Various strategic points have been already decided, each of them in ruined villages with existing structures acceptable for camps.

Our preliminary mission is to secure these areas and establish a foothold so that reinforcements can arrive. We are not aware of the size of the enemy, but our surveillance and exploration of the area will begin the moment our feet touch land. At close quarters, our scouts and scryers will be capable of ascertaining the nature of our adversaries. In the face of the enemy, all will be revealed.

King Justinian will no doubt flounder at the sight of our departing ships. If we return, we will most likely not be regarded as heroes. But we must prove to all, to the Shadows, Westmarch, and Sanctuary, that we are worthy of this crown.

Only the chilling wind had greeted us. We were fearless, or perhaps foolish, as we ran onto the beach, believing wholeheartedly that we would crush our enemies. Our scouts and scryers had claimed that our enemy were few, that the beasts could be easily eradicated. But as we ran forward, our feet sinking into the cold sand, we were quickly overwhelmed. Our mages floundered, uncertain as to why so many had been undetected, not only through magic but also through the naked eye. Demons poured from every direction and a dark fog swept over our men. As the noxious air crawled down our throats, horrible visions invaded our senses. I felt as if bugs had burrowed under my skin, gnawing at my bones and making their nest in my eardrums. I watched as my men fell, tripping over their dead comrades as they ran ahead. We had always looked towards the Light. But I feared then that it had blinded us.

Despite it all, we advanced. Although the monsters were many, they fell quickly to our blades. Many of our brave mages had given up their own lives to secure our way forward, erecting barriers and smiting demons with their magic until their last breath. Our numbers began to rapidly dwindle, allowing us to swiftly move in unison.

And yet, as we forged onwards, we witnessed that horrible darkness loom over the land. We knew that fighting with such horrible visions would finally bring us to ruin, and so we set up camp. We fought for what seemed like days to secure even a sliver of land to recalibrate ourselves. But even now, we are under constant threat of the enemy, unable to advance because of that horrible fog. Daedessa warned us long ago of hubris and arrogance. I'm reminded once again of those words as I look upon the bodies of my men. Their warm blood seeps into the dirt, turning the ground into sludge. The smell of their burnt flesh won't leave me. I hear their voices, pleading for their life, both in wake and in sleep.

But even now, in a land scourged by darkness, I am guided by the Light. I will not return to Westmarch to face scorn and derision from King Justinian. As a general, I do not regret my decision in coming here. Kion, if you can hear me, deliver us retribution. Do not send us a hero or warrior. What we need most is a miracle that can pierce through evil itself.

I write on behalf of the Blood Hawk company. We had been tasked to secure a defensive area for future missions northeast of the camp. After battling demons and cultists for days, we have been effectively cut off by the enemy. Our troop of 30 has dwindled to 12. We are tired and resources are running scarce. But, we will not give up. We have been observing a strange structure in hopes of deciphering its significance. We successfully discovered its true purpose, and we believe that this information is vital.

Once we had become severed from the rest of the army, I had initiated a short meeting to determine our next steps. We unanimously decided that we must use the opportunity to collect information about the enemy. These abominations are impossible for human beings to fully comprehend, as their ideals and motivations are not rooted in humane desires such as love or even greed. Instead, they are compelled through their own monstrous tendencies to destroy everything they touch for their own satisfaction. The root of our conversation stemmed from a strange structure in the distance. We often saw droves of demons leaving the edifice, with many more defending its perimeter. The structure itself appears otherworldly, as it isn't composed of conventional building materials such as wood or stone. It is rare for these beasts to create rather than destroy, and so we understood that this building must aid their plans in some way.

At the time, we numbered 20. We sent half to scout the pyramid and the area. The people we sent were agreed to be the fastest of the group. We instructed them to return at any sign of danger, as it was pointless to collect information if unable to disseminate it. And so the rest of us waited in bated breaths, hiding under the dead bodies of our comrades as the sun baked their decaying flesh. Bile collected in my mouth as the stench of death stung my eyes and coated my throat, but it was necessary for survival, as demons still prowled about. After agonizing hours, only 2 of the 10 returned. We waited until the sun set to discuss their findings under the cloak of night.

Upon immediately reaching the building, the scouting party had realized how desolate the environment surrounding the structure appeared compared to the rest of the island.

The ground was stained red, and all flora had been warped beyond recognition. A sour stench filled the air, burning their eyes. In hiding, the group decided to split into groups of two, as they could move swifter in smaller numbers. They agreed to surround the structure at different points and to reconvene towards the entrance of the building once the sun was at its peak. They were also encouraged to venture to the rendezvous point at any sign of danger. Our two friends had been assigned to observe close to the entry point of the structure from the shadows as demons marched out of the entrance, but they had also witnessed a dark haze emanating from within. They immediately recognized this fog to be the horrible mist that have terrorized our troops. However, they acutely noted that this fog seemed to always flow out of the pyramid, rather than in. This could only mean that the structure is somehow producing the fog that has limited our army's advances.

With this information in hand, they decided to go to the rendezvous point immediately, as they understood that their lives were at risk the closer they were to the structure. However, once arriving, horrible screams erupted. They witnessed their comrades suddenly emerge from hiding. The dark fog snaked into their eyes and mouths, invading their bodies. They had been too late to realize the truth of the structure, and too close to it to flee. In a craze, they unknowingly ran into the savage arms of demons who swiftly tore them apart, or horribly mutilated themselves with their own weapons. The surviving group decided to swiftly depart, as they realized that only they knew the truth.

I, Ardeth Vez, have been elected as the fastest runner. I carry this message: be wary of the large structure to the north, but let it be known that the root of our trials stem from that abomination.

They say that I'm one of the lucky ones. When the song swept across the land, anybody close enough to fully see the angel evaporated into thin air within an instant. But not before you could hear their cries. Hundreds of screams and yelps as their existences were wiped out in a second. In that moment, there was no difference between commander or private, man or monster, young or old. Everybody succumbed to the same fate. But I was one of the lucky ones.

The truth is, I ran. When our whole army ran across that desolate land, charging ahead to face the enemy, I turned my back on them. I didn't want to die, even though I knew that it was my charge to. I became an Immortal because I knew that this world was worth fighting and dying for, and I once believed that once the time came, I'd be able to surrender my life for the sake of Sanctuary. But no amount of training prepares you for death. So I ran. And then the song came.

It was unlike anything I had ever heard. It was shrill and unnatural, and I felt its vibrations course through my body. The sensation was uncomfortable and intrusive, as if my body itself had been invaded. But even as I heard the shrieks and yells of my comrades, I never turned around. I was determined to live.

I think deep down, I also secretly hoped that there would be no one left to save, as no one could then say that I had left a living person behind.

The song grew louder and louder, as if it was chasing me, roaring in glee as it bounded across swaths of land to hunt me down. Just like how it preyed on my brethren. I cursed my slow feet as I continued to run, desperate to flee from the sound's grasp. But soon, its horrible dissonance enveloped me. Darkness began to fill my vision, and I felt my body teeter. I began to fall, and yet the fall itself was much longer than anticipated. It took a considerable amount of time before pain shattered my side. I felt a rocky and uneven surface, but before I could determine where I had fallen, my consciousness escaped me.

Now, I've awoken in a camp with other survivors. They tell me that I'm fortunate enough to have been so far away from the song when it had spread. I can't tell them that I had actually ran away from my post and deserted my friends, as even now I'm afraid of death and retribution. I was unfortunate enough to survive, and now I must live with that burden.

At the behest of the Advisor and several of our generals, I've a kept a close watch on King Justinian's investigation into our departure for the world's crown.

The heart of the concern is thus: Our numbers are immensely diminished and the risk of our order's workings coming to light has never been greater.

If Justinian were to discover the link between his elite soldiers and the Immortals of common myth, and worse, were he to pursue the Eternal Crown for his own ends, it would represent an existential threat to the Cycle and all we fight for.

Upon our return to Westmarch, Justinian's loyalists interrogated our commanders at length.

As per their instruction, they revealed nothing damning to our cause.

This is all the more noble considering that many of our surviving expedition leaders were intimidated, beaten, and even stripped of rank at the King's command.

To the casual observer, our voyage appears some elaborate pleasure cruise involving the commandeering of many warships and arms by Westmarch's most renowned knights.

That is, excepting the troublesome fact that scarcely a third of our warships made it safely back to port.

Unsatisfied with silence, the King has continued to detain and press those who wear the armor of our elite rank.

I regret to report that one of our newer recruits has since divulged much of what transpired on that accursed rock, perhaps hoping to find in Justinian an ally against the Burning Hells.

It will surprise none to learn that Justinian considers these tales of demonic incursion half a world away to be little more than a flight of fancy.

Justinian would not believe the nose in front of his face if it did not assert itself so prominently.

The King has instead concerned himself with delusions of a great conspiracy, believing the missing ships to be part of a highly orchestrated theft perpetrated by powers unknown.

I wish I could say in time Justinian's fury will fade and that all this will be but a curious happening, yet I fear our excursion has chummed the waters of a reign that was already floundering.

Westmarch's nobles are orchestrating an inquest into the king's supposed misappropriation of the royal navy.

In breaking Terror's grip on this realm, we've made a terrible mess of Westmarch.

Justinian should henceforth be considered a wounded beast.

Unpredictable, a danger to all.

As we begin to rebuild what has been lost, we can afford no missteps.

This concludes my findings.

--Watcher Kothar

Fellow Elders,

The outcome of this recent war has engendered a crisis of confidence among our ranks that must be addressed.

If the Immortals' legions in all their might amounted to nothing, and one adventurer with an angelic blade was the only thing standing between us and annihilation, what hope remains for the Cycle?

It is true the Immortals did not bring the Eternal Crown to that doomed isle.

Perhaps that would have made a difference.

Or perhaps it would have only fallen into the hands of Terror.

In witnessing firsthand the devastation of that place, I confess I feel we are hopelessly outmatched.

I worry that we have failed Daedessa and that the Cycle itself is beginning to be splinter.

And yet, in light of all this, we must press onward.Because we cannot trust the fate of the world to strangers with otherworldly weapons. We must rededicate ourselves to the cause and pray that, when we are challenged, it will be enough.

That we will be enough.

But we also must deeply consider our own strategies.

Are we on the right path?

In realizing our sacred duty to test the Immortals' worthiness, did we weaken them so greatly as to risk the fate of this world?

There is much to ponder.

--Sampha

The wailing wind and howling cries

Twist into a lonely melody.

A fallen foe is a warrior's prize

But a fallen friend has no remedy.

O' Ancients, hear our song!

Hear how our solemn music swells!

Our voices clamor, loud and strong,

As we roar our last farewells.

The shy moon has turned its face

To shower the empty sky with its tears.

This gloomy night we must embrace,

for we must face our fears.

He taught us to never surrender,

to never let down our blade.

Our friend, brother, father, and mentor,

with their blood your loss will be repaid.

We arrived at Mt. Zavain exhausted by the long journey, but sore legs and feet were nothing compared to the anguish weighing down my Veradani companions. Many monks of the Sanctified Earth Monastery traveled to World's Crown to face Diablo, but few returned, and one of their greatest had fallen. It was my honor to call Shura brother-in-arms and friend, and so it was my honor to carry his ashes home.

I shared in the sorrow of these proud warriors, despite our victory, but beyond my sadness I felt a creeping dread as I observed the monks, so famous for their adamant resolve. It was not just waning, but nearly extinguished, and this long-troubled mountain--no, long-troubled world, still needed them.

We honored and mourned the dead for three days. I tried my best to lift their spirits by retelling the tale of Shura's final moments of steadfast heroism, but while they saw me as friend and ally, I was still an outsider. They mostly ignored me, resolved to gloom and despair. I was never skilled at this sort of encouragement. Fussy and charmless wizards like me are hardly the best choice when a wayward flock needs succor and inspiration.

And then I heard approaching steps, a distant tapping at first that grew into a thundering stamping of dozens of boots, all marching in perfect harmony. A great host of Veradani ascended the mountain to the monastery, torch-bearing disciples of Ytar leading the way, followed by disciples of Inna, Vaiyu, Ymil and others.

Those with the fire god's blessing spread throughout the monastery, filling it with light, while those blessed by sky and wind danced around the forlorn, singing of deeds of strength and heroism as the clouds above dissipated. Finally, those blessed by the river god swept the listless children of Zaim onto their feet, returning some of that strength that Ymil had stolen from the mountain god so long ago.

There were no discussions, just song, no formal greetings, just dancing and revels. Ivgorod had gotten word of what these children of Zaim had accomplished, and what they had lost in doing so, and they had sent a retinue of their best that knew exactly how to raise a fallen mountain. Never in my years of traveling this world had I seen the famously rigid and stoic warrior monks drop that exterior as I had here.

It was beautiful to see brothers and sisters rejoice in one another's company. No matter what god they revered most, they were one family that would not leave a sibling to despair.

I saw the shadows retreat from the faces of Zaim's disciples, like a gust of wind had come to wipe away all exhaustion from a grueling expedition and war.

The other monks had mostly ignored me, understandably, after they arrived to celebrate their brethren, but once that famous resolve returned to the Sanctified Earth Monastery, the disciples of the mountain ushered me forward to tell the tale again of Shura, the man who fell upon the legions of Terror like an avalanche, giving his life so the fight could be taken to Diablo himself.

Liquid courage surged through me and cheering Veradani surged all around as I spoke with the spirit of a bard. Ivgorod would know that night that Shura ascended above all in bravery and selflessness.

-- Jin, wizard of Xiansai and friend to the monks of Zavain

Damn you Staalek, damn your hulking beast of a wife, and damn your little runt shit of a boy. Now that you have your prize refuge, your claims of building a better future for us all have been lies. As if those of us in the Gray Wards didn't suffer because of the Laird! I was willing to work, to prove myself and absolve my sins for a place in the city, but you unforgiving lot are as cruel as that madman Aymer ever was.

All my attempts got me was a knife in my back, and my gut, from those bastards in the wards. Hope you find this, Geoffrey "Saint" Staalek, and know you killed me.

I bandaged myself as well I could and got out of the wards. I lost a good deal of blood and got nothing to eat. I won't last long on my own. Not sure why I'm wasting energy writing this drivel. I heard a commotion back in the wards last night.

Yelling, fighting, screaming, and then nothing. I saw a red glow in the distance as the torchlight died. It must be those beasts, the ones from underneath with shards in their skin. I need to put this damn pen down and move. If they are on the move and catch me...

I'm dying. I haven't eaten. I got no strength except to drag myself along the ground and write on this paper. I found some rocks to hide and sleep under. I can hear those monsters shuffling in the hills around me. I'm going to sleep and pray I don't wake up. I'd rather die of weakness in my sleep than be found by those monsters.

I woke up in a strange camp before the sun had risen. The campfire was nearly dead, and I knew immediately I was not alone. All I saw were shadows, but every moment or so I saw a flicker of gleaming red shuffle about. It was them, those shard monsters, all around me. Some shuffling grew louder and closer and I figured I was about to die in a gruesome manner.

I sat up quickly, not realizing at the time that I seemed to have strength, that my bandages were fresh, and my lips weren't so cracked and parched. Out of the dimness came a skinny, pale man in tattered robes marked with diamond shapes the color of blood. He put a hand on me, softly, and told me to rest more, that nothing would harm me. I felt... comfort, and I slept.

Under the light of day I realized I truly was surrounded by the shard monsters, a horde of them, but they paid no attention to me. The man in the robes handed me a bowl of porridge and an apple. While I ate, he checked my wounds, removing the bandages to reveal they were healed. I told him that's impossible, but the man just smiled at me and said that I would soon see all that is possible. He welcomed me to come with him.

There were a few others like him, guiding these shard beasts like clumsy cattle into the southwest. I was given robes marked with the same red diamond shape, and fresh boots. I spent only a moment considering the misery behind me and the hopeful uncertainty that lay ahead. It was an easy choice. I joined them.

- Markus the Rotten Shiv, Outcast from the Grey Wards

This is the first song of Ifeh. I, Seris, offer my left hand as a vow that each word is true.

Long ago, the druids lived in a land drowned with mist. Their leader was Vasily, a strong warrior who taught his people how to live in the dangerous wilds. Nature, delighted by the druids, gave them knowledge. The druids were taught how to turn take the forms of beasts, heal plants, and even speak to nature. As the forest gifted more knowledge, the First College was formed, and soon all druids began to learn the mysterious powers.

One druid named Ifeh was different from the rest. While the First College taught the druids to seek harmony--to be cautious of this new power, Ifeh believed that nature's gifts were not something to fear. Instead of walking alongside nature like the other druids, Ifeh bowed down to her. This made the wilds very happy, and so Ifeh was gifted more strength. She soon became one of the strongest druids in the college. Other druids saw this and asked her to teach them. Ifeh agreed, and her followers amassed.

One day, Ifeh went hunting. She ran through the forest as a large bear, searching for prey. Eventually, she found an elk grazing in a clearing. Ifeh charged forward, swiftly tearing into the animal’s neck. As the blood flowed into Ifeh’s mouth, bestial hunger overwhelmed her and she couldn’t resist. She hunched over her prey, ripping raw meat off the elk’s bones.

Another druid, who had been alerted by the sounds, appeared in the clearing. Auburn leaves crackled under his footsteps, and Ifeh wildly turned her head. As she chewed on meat and bone, the smell of her kill clouded her vision, turning shapes into clouds of blood. Alarmed, Kulm raised his staff. Ifeh immediately charged at the blurry figure, bursting through the vines and thorns attempting to hold her down. In a frenzy, she stood up and slammed her paws down on the intruder, before looking down at the crumpled body below her. She lifted one paw, and warm blood dripped from her claws. Kulm had been slain.

Other druids soon arrived and saw what Ifeh had done. Ifeh's fury cooled and she returned to her humanity, elk and human blood covering her body. While the other druids questioned her actions, Ifeh simply claimed that Kulm should've been prepared to defend himself when he interfered with her kill. If he couldn't ward her off, then he wouldn't have survived the wilds anyway.

Ifeh was taken back to the Great Oak, where Vasily awaited. As the large branches of the Great Oak tree swayed, Ifeh stumbled forwards.

"Ifeh," Vasily said as he looked down at her, "you have committed a great crime."

"In nature, there are no crimes. Only survival."

"You think you know nature? Very well, then. The wilds will decide your fate."

Vasily turned his back to her and looked upon the Great Oak. No one uttered a word and only the faint hum of the wind could be heard.

Suddenly, a raven appeared. It first perched upon a branch, flicking its head around as it peered at the group of druids below. Then, it flew downwards towards Ifeh. In an inky blur, the raven swiped its sharp claws across Ifeh's face before soaring away.

Ifeh howled. Warm blood cascaded down her face from her punctured eye.

"The wilds have decided. Your life will be spared, but you are no longer welcome here. Your desire for power has blinded you, and you must leave." Vasily said.

Ifeh rose, her vision tinted red with blood. She silently turned and walked away towards the wilds. But before the darkness of the forest enveloped her, Ifeh turned back towards the other druids.

"You have seen how the wilds gift those who surrender their pride. If you wish to obtain that power for yourself and truly be one with the land, follow me."

A few druids hesitated. But soon, many followed her, intent on learning more from her teachings. Ifeh and her followers vanished from Scosglen.

This is the second song of Ifeh. I, Seris, offer my tongue as a vow that each word is true.

When Ifeh and her followers were banished from their home, Ifeh knew that they could only survive together. One druid said that they should begin another college with Ifeh as their teacher, one that could rival the First College. But Ifeh refused. She claimed that the wisest teacher was not a druid at all, but the wilds themselves. Beasts had always survived off of nature without anyone to teach them, and so Ifeh proposed that they also give themselves to the wilds. Ifeh’s followers, awed by her wisdom, agreed wholeheartedly. They shed all ties to the First College.

The Talons of Ifeh traveled many days, searching for a new home. Anytime they grew hungry, they hunted together in the night, howling at the moon. They ate meat raw and fresh from the carcass, and they licked the blood from their paws. Some witnesses believed them to be werewolves or wild animals, as the Talons of Ifeh rarely showed themselves in their human form. Because of this, Ifeh and her druids were often unwelcome wherever they went.

Eventually, the Talons of Ifeh arrived at a dark and overgrown jungle. They saw that the land was untouched by humans and that only beasts roamed the wilds. There were no villages, no outposts, and no trails.

As the thick canopy cooled the sweat on their bodies, Ifeh approached an old tree stump caked with dirt and moss. She brushed the mud away with her hands and traced the rings of the tree. As her finger crossed curve after curve after curve, Ifeh realized that the tree was much older than any she had seen before. Immediately, Ifeh ordered her followers to hunt for two elk skulls, a wolf tail, and six bear paws. When these were all gathered, Ifeh laid them on the ground, kneeled before them, and slit her wrist.

The wound was deep. Thick ribbons of blood poured over the fresh offerings. Many of her followers were worried, as the flow never ceased, but Ifeh assured them that the wilds would not let her die.

Ifeh sat for a very long time as the blood flowed from her wrist. Her body grew pale and cold, but still she refused to move. Her followers grew anxious and pleaded with her to rise. But she still refused, even as her body wavered.

Then, when the full moon rose, a rustling was heard from a nearby brush. As the leaves parted, a large wolf appeared, her silver fur glistening in the moonlight. Just like Ifeh, the wolf had a missing eye. Ifeh’s druids immediately bared their teeth and growled, but Ifeh raised a hand.

“She speaks for the wilds,” Ifeh said.

The wolf slowly approached, her gaze never once leaving Ifeh's calm face. When the wolf drew near, she bowed her head and sniffed Ifeh’s wounded wrist. The wolf then opened her mouth and lapped at the wound, drinking Ifeh’s blood. She then raised her head and stared at Ifeh. They both stood still before the wolf turned around and left through the brush.

Ifeh rose. Her druids rushed to tend to her wound, but to their surprise, the cut had already closed. Ifeh declared to her followers that it was their eternal duty to protect this sacred forest from that which would threaten it.

She beckoned her followers to cut themselves open, just as she did. Only then could they be seen and accepted by the forest.

The rest of the druids followed suit, slitting their wrists with stone knives. As the soil drank their flowing blood, the Talons of Ifeh felt a large presence peering under their skin. An invisible hand squeezed their hearts and invisible mouths whispered into their ears. Soon, the squeezing hand turned into a crushing blow and the whispers turned into roars.

The Talons of Ifeh joined the roars, beating their pained chests with their bloodied fists. When the cries subsided, the Talons of Ifeh rose and went deeper into the wilds, leaving their footprints in the blood-soaked mud.

Let all witches of the Untamable Wilds know that the disciples of Ifeh must be hunted. These animals prowl the wilds and have taken our own. Those who mistake these beasts for humans, heed Wardkeeper Eevin’s tale:

Long ago, long before the Eclipse of the Voidwound, the Untamable Wilds drew strength and knowledge from the untouched darkness that blanketed the land. There was much to learn from the creatures that lurked in the night and the shadows that crawled away from sunlight. Our ancestors were wise and curious, yet they knew that great power was only one step away from calamity.

One day, a witch named Roshein was deep in the forest, checking the traps she had laid out for large beasts roaming the area. She held a small knife and pouch in her hands, ready to draw blood as an ingredient for her rituals.

However, as Roshein walked toward a trap she had laid, she saw that a hairy beast was caught, its arm entrapped within the spikes and thorns. The animal was hunched over on its arms and legs, roaring wildly in pain. Roshein walked closer and saw that it was not a wild animal at all, but a man. The man’s body was covered in a cloak of bear fur, and the top half of a bear’s head covered the man’s hair.

The man saw Roshein approach and immediately began gnawing on his trapped arm. He began to chew through skin, then fat, then muscle, then bone. Roshein, watching as he tore off his own arm to escape from the trap, quickly pointed her yew wand at him. With a loud groan, the trees began to meld and bend, tightly wrapping their branches around the man.

Within the bough barrier, a sickening roar was heard. The branches began to crack and splinter, until a large beast burst through the wood. The man’s bones began to twist and grow, and thick fur sprouted from his bare arms and legs. In a second, the man had become a large wolf. Roshein, shocked that her magic was ineffective, turned to run, but she was too slow. Her screams were drowned as the wolf tore into her neck.

Another witch, Klodaw, sprinted toward her sister’s cries, but found Roshein lifeless in the wolf’s maws. Klodaw quickly ran away back towards her circle’s hideaway. As her feet carried her across the rough forest floor, Klodaw could hear the wolf behind her, panting wildly and howling.

Klodaw continued to run, the trees and vines around her blurring into a verdant smear. As she neared her home, she heard a cacophony of crazed and wild footsteps. There were more around her, and they were closing in.

Finally, the vines protecting their circle’s hideaway emerged into Klodaw’s view. With a flurry, she waved her wand and commanded the vines to retract. As she flung herself into the house, the vines quickly closed behind her.

Alarmed by the commotion, other witches arrived to help Klodaw. They all watched in horror as more of the humans, now several men and women, were clamoring against the vines. They scratched, bit, and pulled, despite the fact the thorns were tearing into their skin.

With a raise of her hand, Prima Kwinn parted the clouds above. A streak of moonlight descended upon the crazed beasts and began scorching their skin.

“Wild beasts, tell me why you have come here,” she said.

“We are the Talons of Ifeh,” one beast snarled, “and you are on our land.”

“The coven has been here for many years. You are the ones unwelcome.”

As the moonlight seared their flesh, they began to run away back into the forest. Their howls rung in the night as they disappeared into nightfall’s shadow.

The witches later found Roshein’s corpse in the forest, a chunk of flesh missing from her neck and shoulder. They wept and buried her body underneath a large elm tree by their home, so that she could watch over them for eternity.

Know that these fiends are still active in the wilds, and they will kill you just as they killed Roshein. They know no mercy, and so we will speak to them with blood and violence, as it is the only language they know.

When the Talons of Ifeh arrived in the vast Sharval Wilds, records indicate that they suspected themselves to be the land’s only human inhabitants. Fueled by their connection to the land and territorial nature, they resolved to protect the Sharval Wilds from any unwelcome trespassers.

However, Ifeh and her druids soon came to realize that they were not alone. After an ugly confrontation with the witches of the Untamable Wilds, in which one of Ifeh’s druids killed a witch, Prima Kwinn decreed that the Talons of Ifeh would be hunted down and eradicated from the land. Decades of warfare and bloodshed ensued, but it would eventually lead to partial victory for the Circle of the Untamable Wilds. The Talons of Ifeh slowly lost territory and were eventually pushed to the far eastern reaches of the Sharval Wilds.

When evaluating how and why the Untamable Wilds Circle were capable of pushing the ferocious Talons of Ifeh, one must also evaluate the Talons of Ifeh themselves. While the First College valued harmony and study, the Talons of Ifeh opted for a more radical approach that was better suited for survival.

The Talons of Ifeh were not coordinated; nor were they the type to plot and scheme. To the druids, it was apparent that destroying all the witches would suffice to end their aggression--but the witches’ hideaways and mystic traps made outright confrontation uncommon. Ifeh's disciples hunted and fought much like actual animals and were commonly surprised by hidden wards or pincered by the circle’s summoned monsters, with nary a witch in sight. In the definitive Battle of Gloomgrove, Prima Kwinn and her witches prepared and placed powerful wards around a wide clearing. After luring the druids into the area, the Witches were able to entrap the Talons of Ifeh in a searing curse that boiled the flesh from their bones.

After 20 years of fighting, Ifeh’s disciples were forced to buckle. Their numbers had more than halved and the druids had already been driven from their wide-ranging territory into Sharval’s eastern bramble thickets and caverns.

Years of bloodshed and destruction cannot be easily washed away with time. Tensions and resentment still grow in both groups due to their fundamental differences in culture and perspective. One wrong step from either side, and another age of war could begin again.

-Grand Historian Odette

Long ago, when the Tree of Inifuss was but a sapling, there was a small village of people living in the Dark Wood.

In the village, there was a little boy who loved to play in the thick forest next to his home. He would whistle all day, and all the birds would sing with him.

The boy’s mother scolded the boy for going into the forest alone. The woods were a dangerous place full of wild animals, and the boy was too young to be by himself. The boy’s mother told the boy that he couldn’t go into the forest anymore to whistle with the birds, and the boy was very sad.

One night, when the sun was about to set, the boy’s mother went to bed early. When the boy’s mother was sleeping, the boy quietly left his bed. He tiptoed out of his hut and into the woods, where he could still hear the birds chirping. The boy traveled deeper into the woods as the sun set. He chirped and whistled to the birds, who chirped and whistled back. Soon, the sun disappeared into the ground, and the boy was in complete darkness.

The boy began to walk back towards his house, whistling happily. The boy knew that he had to return quickly before his mother woke up and realized that he was gone. But the boy was so delighted with the birds and their chirping that he couldn’t resist whistling.

Suddenly, the boy heard a person walking towards him. It was very dark, and the boy could not see, but he felt something tall approach.

The boy whistled, but there was no answer. The boy could only hear heavy breathing.

The boy whistled again, but still, there was no answer. The figure moved closer to him.

The moon rose high in the sky, and a streak of light shone down upon the boy, illuminating the area. The boy peered in front of him.

A large wolf with one eye stared back at him, baring her teeth. Drool dripped from the wolf’s mouth onto the ground. The wolf walked closer to him, growling.

The boy screamed and ran away, back towards the village. In the darkness, he tripped and stumbled over roots and vines. As he neared the edge of the forest, his screaming woke up the entire village. All the villagers awakened and scrambled out of their homes.

The little boy screamed, “Help! Help! The beastman wants to eat me!”

The other villagers were at first confused. Then, they heard growling and snarling all around them. The villagers stood still in terror as they heard the wolves slowly circle the village, closing in on them.

All the children in the village began to cry and wail in fear. The adults in the village picked up their pitchforks and grabbed their torches. The little boy was rushed into his home as the villagers armed themselves. When all the torches were lit, a faint glow fell upon the trees. But the wolves were nowhere to be seen. The adults all gathered around the outskirts of the village, peering into the forest. They found nothing but trails of wolf tracks which ended in human footprints at the forest’s edge.

Now all little boys and girls should know not to sneak into the forest at night, or else the beastwalkers will chase you down and eat you. And if you hear the birds chirping, don’t whistle back, or else the beastwalkers will think that you’re prey.

Bow before your betters.

That is what they say through their actions. Entsteig thinks itself entitled to the fruits of your labor. You, whose bones ache from years of toil. You who have struggled to provide for your family, your community. All the while, those who have never known a day's labor grow fat on your taxes. By what right have they earned this exalted station, and why does Entsteig give so little in return?

Faith commands us to resist evil, but for too long we have been blind to the most mundane of evils. A hierarchy justified only through power: Isbrand's selfish reign. The Light has graced me with a vision of a different world. One where each of us is afforded freedom and dignity, where no tyrant dare tread upon us. The time has come for us to realize that there are far more humble men and women across the Wilds than there are armed soldiers in Entsteig.

Their greatest fear is that we discover our collective power. Without your fields, they starve. Without your cloth and your looms, they go naked. Their kingdom rests upon your backs. Stand with us against evil. United, we can take back the power that our forebears so carelessly surrendered for so little gain.

There is freedom in the Wilds, you need only listen. The prophet's voice will guide the way.

The mill's been shuttered long enough--Waldhar says so. Suero's bandaged up and he's been paid fair for his hurts. The rest of you are taking advantage of an accident. Lukas, get the doors open and get your lazy sawyers working through sunset, or your next visit will be from the guards.

By Magistrate's order, Highfork hereby places a bounty of one hundred gold coins upon the miller Edgar, dead or alive, for the fiendish and unprovoked murder of Bailiff Dagmer. He is armed, at the very least, with a short carving-dirk. If the bounty is to be claimed through the death of Edgar, an intact and recognizable head with ample flesh remaining must be presented at the Magistrate's hall for inspection.

Edgar may be traveling in the company of a sworn paladin of Zakarum. The paladin's return alive shall increase the bounty by three hundred gold coins.

Henceforth, any who wish to visit with Magistrate Waldhar outside of a town hall must be accompanied by a guard.

ATTENTION:

By the order of Commander Dunstan of the Entsteig army and the authority of King Isbrand, all denizens must quit this place due to a credible threat posed by crazed zealots. Temporary shelters have been established in Entsteig's Low District. Space is limited. Defensive fortifications have been established upon all major roads leading to the capitol. The crown offers no warranty for any who venture beyond the protected areas in defiance of this warning.

Clo,

I just wanted to leave a note about the harvest festival. We're desperately short on supplies this year. We're out of wheat for the wreath, between the low harvest and the crown demanding every bushel they can get their hands on--and sending the guard to collect. I don't know what we're going to do. We'll have to make do with pine boughs or something to wrap around the poles. Maybe hang some small pumpkins or those odd-looking tomatoes off them? I don't know. Make something up.

Speaking of the poles, they're looking a bit long in the tooth. We'll probably want to replace them with fresh growths next year, if there is a next year.

We're going to be thin on food and libations, enough that the festival might not run the entire week. If we can scrounge up more, it'll be helpful; we'll need all we can get with the crown's hand at play. Here's what I'm turning over:

For food, Stah has worked up some ideas from his homeland. We're going to use a little flour to make meat buns--thank the Light we were able to forage enough meats, and sweetmeats to make different minces for stuffing as well. We're not down to long pig... yet. I figure we can squeeze out 900 give or take between the flour and stuffings, if they're smaller than normal. May even have a bit of sweetmeat left over for some puddings if we're careful.

It's not much, given we're going to expect thousands from Entsteig, Highfork, the hamlets, and hopefully beyond.

We do have plenty of pumpkins. We can make soups, pies, stews… Maybe a few bushels of assorted vegetables, zucchinis, squash, beans. Oats as well.

We've got some wine that's been stashed away for libations; not much.

Maybe two kegs. We can water it down.

I don't think we'll need the garland for the platform. Don't want to interfere with the performers. Speaking of, they let us know they'll have their own instruments, but we should probably see if we can scrounge up some backups just in case.

Vs gur Fha fuvarf, jr fubhyq pneir n sheebj nybat gur pbea. Oevat gur ebggra sbe fpencf, ohg yrg gur fha zbir gur fxl svefg.

I paid no heed to the tales of a prophet wandering the Wilds, 'til I saw him give fresh life to a barren field. His words were sweet as honey, conjuring to mind the stories of a time when the nobles knew their place and the common man lived a life of ease such as we can only dream.

Year after year the taxes climb, and we mutter under our breaths about revolution. But in all that time, nobody's so much as thrown a stone. Whatever we were waiting for, a symbol, a spark, we've found it in Albrecht--now the fire of defiance burns through us like so much kindling. But I fear the flame might consume us.

I joined this “family” to protect my own. My children can't eat from an empty bowl. But the things I've done give me pause. Marked myself in the blood of a pale corpse of a man. Planted vile pulsing tumors in the soil like they were sprouted 'tatoes...

My heart tells me I've sold my soul to a monster. So be it. I can live with bloody hands. If even half of Albrecht's promises are true, I'll be leaving a better world behind for my kin. A homeland free from want and the heel of tyranny. When all the kings are led like pigs to the slaughter, the poor man will finally feast.

Here lies the honorable Glahs family, whose members have served in Entsteig's army for generations. Let their valor and honor be remembered forevermore.

Niko Glahs

Fought under the banner for decades, giving his best years to protect Entsteig and her people. Was known for his temper, affinity for the mighty halberd, and stout devotion to the Light. May Sharval welcome him into her arms, and may his spirit finally rest.

Tomas Glahs

Beloved son of Niko Glahs and husband to Karla Glahs. Was soon to be a father with the arrival of his first child, but died while protecting King Isbrand from a violent insurrection of zealots. Fearless and loving. His sacrifice will allow all children of Entsteig to live in peace. Including his own.

Lotz Glahs

Cherished son of Niko Glahs, husband to Roona Glahs, and father to Hawnes and Neels Glahs. The youngest lieutenant in Entsteig history, and the best shot in all of Sharval. His journey into fatherhood had just begun when he was struck down by insurrectionists, but his sacrifice prevented the scoundrels from harming the King.

In honor of the Glahs family and their numerable contributions to the safety of Entsteig and the king, the surviving family members are invited to dinner at the palace. Moreover, a great plaque in dedication to the fallen Glahs soldiers will be put on display within the city of Entsteig at King Isbrand's convenience.

This is going to be worse than my last tour.

They did something to the fields. Poisoned them, tainted them unholy. I don’t know what. The air’s acrid. It’s red, heavy like wood smoke. I can see it, and I know I shouldn’t. I’m breathing through my kerchief, and my lungs still feel like they’re on fire. My nose and eyes are weeping.

We need to kill these monsters. If we don’t stop them here, they could be days to Massif Mara. Weeks to Entsteig. But… I saw where they came from. Who they were. Just Farmers. Cobblers. Loggers. People I’d seen around the fest in years past. All that was different were their robes, and that bloody diamond on their foreheads.

They stood arm in arm before that horrid pile of flesh, tall as the city walls. The Commander ordered us to march, and I did. I just focused on one of them. He was short. His face shaped like an acorn. His eyes were looking at the sky. He chanted, but it sounded… peaceful. Just like a preacher telling you everything would be ok.

Then red smoke rolled in, and I saw him sink into it. We fell back. When they marched out of the fog at us, he was different. A monster, twisted and broken up everywhere, claws and bones poking out of him like someone else stuck them there. Red eyes. But I could still see patches of his skin, the shape of his face.

Did he feel it when I pushed a spear through his heart? Did he remember minutes before, looking eye to eye with us when Dunstan gave the order to march?

I don’t think so. At least I hope not.

Because we need to kill a lot more like him.

All I could do was watch as she slit her throat. I see her face whenever I’m asleep and even more when I’m awake. But training keeps the memories at bay. My calluses remind me that I’m alive. That I must continue, and that there is no rest for the powerless.

If I was faster and stronger, I could have reached her sooner. If I was a better leader, our sisters wouldn’t have been so ready to accept the words of anguish. I may not have killed them with my own hands, but they were dying long before Andariel made herself known.

How do you continue fighting after watching your loved ones slowly die in front of you? Watch as their souls wither away day after day, the light draining from their eyes? All I could provide were words of encouragement and lectures on sisterhood, but what good are words for a starved spirit?

I was blind. I could not reach them, and because of that, they are forever lost. But I won’t make the same mistake. I will lead with action. Act without fear or weakness. We have lost and we will continue to lose, but I cannot let it break me.

The sisters look to me for wisdom and guidance. But I’ve only guided them to their deaths, encouraged them to fight on while I simply waited. Though I yearn to fight alongside them, I am slower than I used to be. I believed my words could alleviate their burdens, but I have only darkened their reality.

I’ve used their trust so that they may die for the unobtainable. In their darkest moments, I sharpened their grief into a weapon, urging them to avenge their loved ones. But vengeance begets suffering. I fear that we are no closer to the hopes and dreams my sisters carried to their deaths all those years ago.

However hard we fight… can Sanctuary ever be the world we deserve?

It happened again today. I was sparring with Frein, and when she faltered, Kashya raised her voice at her. We all know that Frein hasn’t been feeling like herself lately, but Kashya doesn’t seem to care. All she sees is weakness.

I want to become stronger. I know that Kashya wants the same thing, but nowadays, I’ve started to realize how Kashya is more warrior than leader. She only knows how to solve issues with brute force, even if it kills those around her. She knows how to lead us into battle, but once the battle is lost, her true weakness begins to show.

She scares me sometimes. It’s as if she only acknowledges victory if enough blood has been shed. She keeps talking about World’s Crown as if we weren’t there with her. She wasn’t the only one who lost people that day. She isn’t the only one with a vendetta.

I want to find someone else to train with. Maybe that adventurer can aid me. I’ll have to be discreet. I don’t want Kashya to find out. She tries to appear collected, but she does not like to have her ego bruised. Especially when it comes to battle.

I’m not certain of anything anymore. Not in the Sisterhood, not in Akara, not in Kashya, and certainly not in myself.

There are young rogues who still desire to fight. They believe that their survival is a testament to their strength, and their confidence has only been bolstered by the battle. But survival does not truly come from strength. It comes from luck.

I have won the odds too many times now, and I fear that misfortunate will finally take me. But I do not wish the same for the young ones. They have a long life to live ahead of them, and I wish for them to walk an easy path. One without hardship or loss.

I know the world is not kind, but better to live a life of acceptance than constant denial. Perhaps Sanctuary will always be as it is. After all, what can mere mortals do to change it?

I thought that I had seen my fair share of death and destruction, but Lut Gholein was different. The streets were flooded with blood and guts. Limbs and bodies were stuffed into barrels or skewered on stakes for all to see. I did not feel like I was in Sanctuary anymore.

Kashya was right that our training would save us. Muscle memory and habits forced my body to react, even when my mind was frozen with fear. As demons poured from the alleyways, I couldn’t afford to plan my every movement. I just knew that I had to attack and dodge. One wrong move was the difference between life and death. The raw desperation for survival gripped me, and all I could focus on was killing the demon in front of me, and then the next, and the next.

Voices flooded my senses. I heard the cries of my sisters begging me to join them. I heard my mother’s voice, whispering a lullaby she had always sung to me at night. I heard sobs and laughter and screams. My vision fogged, my hearing dulled, and my limbs grew heavy.

And then I felt a hand on my shoulder, nails digging into flesh. The pain sharpened my senses. I whirled with my dagger, ready to strike, but it was Kashya. I had never noticed how tired she looked before. She told me that she heard the voices too, but it was just Andariel trying to break us. We couldn’t let her.

Eventually, we escaped through the alleyways and into an underground pass. Kashya urged me to go back to Eastgate alongside survivors of the city. I didn’t want to leave her, but she told me that it was my job to protect them, just as it was her job to protect me. The voices have died down to a low whisper since then, but I wonder if Kashya still hears them.

O trees of green and fields of gold,

How I long for that forgotten home.

Where blue birds sing

And children laugh.

Where a mother cow.

Soothes her newborn calf.

O gentle river and rolling hills,

Full of blooming daffodils.

Time has washed these memories clean,

But I still see that summer gleam.

Please don’t leave me,

Dreams of home,

Please don’t leave me alone.

I don’t know when and I don’t know where,

But I will go back to that peaceful air.

So wait for me,

For I will come home.

Wait for me,

In that tranquil gloam.

I won't be long,

o, I won't be late.

With my dying breath,

I won’t make you wait.

Lady Kashya,

If you are reading this, then I was unable to make it to you.

Blackstone has come under attack by strangers clad in black armor.

Please, my lady, we beg for your aid!

Blessed be you, O thousand souls, the King's deserved sacrifice.

Through your gift of the spirit shall our god's wonders be made manifest.

Rest eternally, knowing the Scepter shall guide our great kingdom forever.

To future generations, learn from our mistakes. Fahir is no god, and today his reign of death is over! His abominations would not die, so they have been bound with their accursed creator. May he be forgotten. May our souls seal this place forever. Let them be the last sacrifice in his name.

To my former "brothers",

Your vanguard has failed and my great work will continue.

This Library will serve the future generations of Nephalem as a monument to their salvation! And to your failure.

X - Zoltun Kulle

The Statue of Resurgence derives its power from three runes and each is guarded by a unique trial.

More details on the first trial can be found within the tome: "The Nine Lights."

The Nine Lights

1. The carving turns what is alight from brilliant sun to darkest night.

2. Light the four corners to lead the way.

3. Then make the center become as day.

William Thorpe,

You toothless coward!

The man you sent is chum for my darlings now. Plus, I've locked his "score" away.

If you want it so badly? Come take it yourself.

X- Rhodri

This mountain is cursed. Why the order thought to send us here I cannot possibly fathom. What good is tracking an exile through a land that will most certainly kill him?

We were ordered to avoid entanglements in the monastery, but that left us with few options for a staging ground. We've been able to find some small safety in a cavern on the edge of the mists. It will serve well enough while we continue the search.

The days seem to blend together. Yet still we search. If Master Vitalya's murderer has hidden on the mountain, he will be found and brought to justice. Even if what we find is a corpse.

Dearest Miranda,

I should not have come. This place is terrifying!

I couldn't find the treasure, and I got terribly lost!

I came across a monk today, which should have given me some comfort.

But then I noticed something odd about the mark on his forehead...

Well, I suppose any companion is better than none in this rotten place.

I hope I can get home soon. I miss you terribly.

X-Your Martin

The masters refuse to tell us more about this Dravec beyond a description of his face. Why is there such secrecy over an exile? I know it is not my place to question the sight of the Patriarchs, but this seems like a fool's errand. If he is a murderer, what could possibly bring him back onto the mountain where the very act took place?

The nightmares hinder our progress at every step. Curse whatever begat these monstrosities! One stalks the land with such an intense hatred that even the air around it eats away the flesh. We were able to find one structure in the mists. An old Zakarum chapel, but the creatures swarm around it. I fear this land may be the death of us.

Tayev... I miss you endlessly. Why would Zaim take you away and leave me behind!? How can I go on? The master tells me I will find peace in time... But I don't want peace. I want my brother.

Everything has gone wrong. Gods, I killed him... and the Worldstone shard, the only thing that could bring you back, is out of my reach. If the master would have just let me have it--

Forgive me, Tayev...

Our Lord has made it clear; he will wait no longer. Three shards have already been destroyed. No more shall be taken from him. Deliver the bodies to the ritual sites. If we require more, take them or lay down your lives. Damnation has come for the guilty who live upon this mountain, and they will suffer for their sins.

To Oza,

I'm sorry, but I must kill all who stand between me and the shard. Especially you.

If you still live, perhaps our paths shall cross again and we can finally end all this.

- Dravec

All the pieces are in place. Once the demonic gate opens, the Worldstone shard shall be mine! None shall stand in my way!

But first, get these meddlesome fools out of our way!

Three chances are all you have. Use them well. This is what Lord Skarn commands.

X-Dravec

Two live hens, their legs tied and heads hooded. Threescore candles of animal fat. Fresh well water from the town nearby, seventeen pints, cold, carried separately. Silver, ground to powder, mixed with chalk; enough to encircle a large room.

The rite of purification demands long journeys, but there is no other path before us. The stone will bend to His whim. We will need every hand, in every corner of the realm. You made a vow of sacrifice; stop cowering in your home and take up your knives.

As His eyes, we look across Khanduras, gazing where you point. And I have found a suitable location, one you will be able to sense for yourself. Near the township of Wortham is a cavern suffused with the energy of the stone. You are not to be a moment late. Thus Akinees bids you. Thus you are commanded.

They came in with the fog. I heard them going between the tents and snatching people, screaming about some "heart" or other. Wasn't nothing the girls and I could do. It's quiet now, so we're running. Maybe for the pier. Pray Kara still has her raft.

Love, if you find this, I'm sorry we couldn't wait. Sorry I said your job was for shite. Stay on the walls--you can go back to working the cages for all I care. Just be alive.

-Keel

We're finally sealing up that awful prison. With the lights and sounds coming out of it at all hours, I was relieved. It felt like the decent thing to do. At first.

And then today I heard they're moving some of the prisoners out. I thought they were here because they were too dangerous to be anywhere else. The commander says they'll be caged and mostly inside the walls… but every single one of us here has family working the keep. Some of them were prison guards for years. What if one of the prisoners gets free and decides they want revenge?

Drenna signed on for four years at Stormpoint. We're stuck here. Light help this miserable place.

- Milton

Last night I saw what I can only describe as an abomination.

It ambushed me while I was walking back from the officer's outing. Just surged up out of the brine. Webbed skin, four twitchy eyes, claws the size of daggers. Big enough to rip my guts out by accident. I was in formal wear, but I pulled my knife and puffed myself up, like you do with the things around here. Make yourself big, yell, scare ‘em off. Didn't work. It slithered under my swing, took me to the ground and pushed its claws an inch into my shoulders.

While I was trying to shove it off, it was drooling green bile all over my face, and it burned. Gods, it burned. I felt like a melted candle. Almost bit my tongue off screaming. Then it was scrabbling at my coat, pulling my officer's pin when it should have been choking me to death. I took the opportunity to stab it a couple times, and it rolled off. Stared at me, leaking out its wounds, and then dove back into the water. Took my damn pin with it.

It's been weeks and the burns on my face are as healed as they're gonna get. I look like somebody different. It wasn't trying to eat me, like those godsforsaken crabs in the shallows. I know that for sure. It was more like it just wanted to hurt me. Take who I am away.

I hate this island.

-Nikolett

Let me just write this out.

It’s half a year since our last delivery from the ‘march. No fresh folk aboard, and none of ours going back with them. Little cheese and wine we went through too quick.

Before that, we were a couple months between deliveries. Before that I didn’t even bother to count. This place was like a bazaar. New sails every couple weeks. Our lads splashing out in the shallows to meet ‘em. Sometimes they stuck around for a couple nights. Play some cards, dice, knivesies. Just refreshing to see new faces, if I’m honest.

But on that last trip, Kenton gets one visit from some high and lordly dignitary with her own cabin. Mil heard them arguing about shutting the prison--guess Westmarch and her eminence didn’t like that so much. Next morning the ship left at dawn. Now it’s like we don’t exist anymore. We’ll be eating rats soon.

-Brattom

Why must it always rain so much? I ask myself this each morn upon rising and receive no answer. I ask the Light and--predictably, note--receive less than silence. Why is it that we, who have taken the most repugnant duties of humankind upon ourselves for a pittance, endure naught but gloom and fog and sea puke, while the soft-headed dodderers in Westmarch stroll about in mild climes, sipping their wine and swishing their long skirts? Where are MY lazy, sun-dappled evenings? And why is it that I cannot get a decent inkwell delivered anywhere west of Gholein? They always run out just when I

012

Occupant: No name given. Answers to "Big Peb."

Provenance: Port Justinian

Known Crimes: Murder, Piracy, Theft

Always she's wanting to go to the yard and I'm having to tell her no, it's not your turn, and then she just sits and draws people on the wall in gruel and mumbles in her weirding language. The people all kind of look like her.

-Drenn

Looks real sad faced for somebody done so much evil in their life. Wonder if Woodruh'd let her out fore we shut things up. -Mer

037

Occupant: Vertram Vousemund

Provenance: Duncraig

Known Crimes:

No idea why he's here. If it's so secret, why isn't he on the third floor? -Cott

Seems a nice enough sort. No ranting. Doesn't talk much. Never actually seen him eat. -Mer

Careful with this one. His hands never come untied, ever. Make sure there are always two of you on his rounds. -Sylvie

108

Occupant: Gorloit Daar-Haugen

Provenance: Entsteig

Known Crimes: Inviting Secession, Burning Effigies, Giving Royal Offense

Cell ‘till sundown. Keep away from other prisoners. -Sylvie

Heard he was some kind of leader back home. Insubordinate to Woodruh, but no beatings. At least I ain't seen the bruises. What does this pissmire know? -Mer

222

Occupant: Clarence. No surname given. Answers to Clary, Eyebite.

Provenance: Kingsport

Known Crimes: Murder, Arson, Mutilation, Sarding, Knavery, Louting, Laziness, Theft, Gossip

If he bites one more guard, flog him IN PUBLIC, then move him to the third floor. Don't just threaten him and then not do it, or you'll lose his respect, and he'll bite you next, and I'm not stitching another one of you cretins up. -Sylvie

Can't we just toss him in the water? -Cott

No. Stop asking. -Sylvie

Account of cargo bound for Stormpoint aboard the Dartlily

Goods

70 barrels of good rye flour

12 barrels of Brownrigge red

22 wheels of aged Brammie

400 boards of good timber

100 swords, well whetted

Persons

4 guards, retained for service as stand-in for casualties and retirements

20 prisoners, shackled, for general detention

7 prisoners, shackled, gagged and veiled, for immediate confinement in perpetuity

By the order of King Justinian of Westmarch

When the moon is nowhere in sight, bind them and take them to the ocean, and let their lifeblood commingle with the brine. Before they drown, fill your belly with seawater and the issue of their wounds. You will not find it pleasant, but one does not ascend Terror's throne in calm and certitude. The fear He wishes for others, He wishes for you. Keep it in your heart, and you will join me in the depths, and breathe them clear as mountain air. As you read, thus Akinees bids you. Thus you are commanded.

Thought it was just an ordinary rock. Nice deep crimson, decent shine on it. Put it on the bedstand; next day, I passed it around the mess. One of the green guards gets a real long look, makes for to grab it, and next he's spewing seawater and his face is splitting open like a crab. Meris had to kill him with a fire poker.

Every hair on my back's falling out, and it feels like my skin's goin' to go next. Hell of a week.

Moving the prisoners out to the shanties will work for some. The unimportant ones. But there are monsters down here. And monsters who look like people still. They can never see the light of day again.

Kenton wants to seal this place up. I'm changing already. And I'm their warden. I should stay. Somebody has to make sure they never get out.

Thought I was alone here. Not alone now. The Heart was made to be shared.

My friend is back. It is small but it is growing fast. Like me like we are all growing. Grow hair grow teeth grow spine grow old.

Tired. Need to make the rounds. Can't.

Where is it?

Still hear it beat.

Warm like the lash. Cold like fire to the fingertips. Mine.

The transformation overtakes the afflicted seemingly at random. Some are lucid for weeks, and speak pleasantly with their Conservators before they simply… change. In the dark of the night, at the first rays of day... anywhere between. In its unpredictability lies the greatest burden of our escorts.

And the afflicted have not all lost their minds. Most know we are to take them to the colony, a place of safety… but not for whom it will be safe. When they begin to realize it, their protests, their wails... I will never forget them. I would set my charges loose, yet they have tried violence more than once, and might again.

The Sanctifiers have taken to striking the afflicted dead at the first signs of instability, rather than letting them live out the rest of their lives in peace. I cannot know if it is caution that guides them so... or cruelty. But the Prevailing Wind is firm. This affliction must spread no further. There is nowhere else for it to go. May Inarius protect and forgive us all.

-Conservator Toluthu, Shining Diamond

When the afflicted change the first time, it seems gradual. Their bodies and faces slough and slack. Some develop growths or pustules. They manifest tremors in the limbs, harshness in the voice, dimness of the mind, but it is, I am told, endurable—for months, observably--perhaps longer.

When they change the second time, it is sudden and unholy. There is an issue of gore, a mockery of a second birth, but without any joy. Everything about their sacred heritage twists upon itself. Horns become tusks. Eyes that would have gazed proudly upon the Father grow dead-black and vacant. Some fall to all fours like beasts.

Inari, Lilin… the affliction spreads between us all like breath, and does not care in whom it dwells... or what horror it breeds. Only the Mother knows if we can outlast it.

-Wishtam, Ring of Hands

Father Inarius and Mother Lilith made us for a purpose. Though most of our people build, forage, fish, or hunt to sustain the Cradle and ourselves, some are called to higher responsibilities.

Conservators see to the interpretation of our laws, given us by the Father himself. They inspire and debate; they instruct and record. They care for the land from the granges and beyond, always ensuring that it can be sustained. In their custody, the Cradle and our ideals persist forever.

Sanctifiers deal with the punishment of those who defy our laws. It is a humbling burden, a life of purity and isolation, but they are gifted by the Fire of Life with incredible resilience and strength. This is necessary. Discordant as Lilin and Inari are, we cannot ensure harmony without the means to enforce it.

The Elders, greatest in wisdom and experience, direct these groups. The full powers of the Fire of Life are theirs to wild, and those decisions which impact the entirety of the Cradle theirs to make.

The Lilin, so contemptuous of formality, rarely take up these roles in our day, though records of past service suggest they were once more common among the ranks of the Sanctifiers and the disbarred order of Questioners.

-Trave, Prism That Reflects Wonder

Harnessing the power of Life's Fire is a gift offered to all Inari and Lilin. It is in our blood and our home; part of the land, and part of us.

But it must be vested carefully, and used sparingly. Most upon the Cradle may call upon the Fire of Life for small favors… to move safely and swiftly throughout the island, or intuit the location of those closest to them in the blood.

Those gifted in the Fire may channel it to activate our defenses, initiate rites, or strike down invaders. These blessings are to be used only by the Elders, or with their spoken permission.

-Attis, Thrice-Tempered Heart

I wallow here having fled from my own kin. When they saw the flesh drooping from my body, when my screams burst forth even as I slumbered, I knew it would not be long before they called for the Conservators.

Foolish was I to think my life could fall no lower. My kin are the least of my fears. I have seen the faces of the invaders. They are the statues of Mutinous Concord come to life. Neither Inari nor Lilin--their souls as misbegotten as the worst of us both.

Outsiders bring destruction.

-Balaat, Breaker of Shackles

Morwith’s theft of the Pathstone happened in a night, but it was not arbitrary. After the last famine, acrimony between Inari and Lilin blossomed. Disputes over rationing pushed us further apart.

Morwith was the highest-ranking Elder to voice leaving the Cradle behind. I learned later that the other Elders rebuked her, but did not remove her title, and thus she was able to convince many of her followers to escape the Cradle with her.

It was at this point that the Prevailing Wind changed. Ymuthrus said Morwith damned our home and our people with her selfishness, and that all Lilin who had advocated for fleeing the cradle were responsible. Perhaps he was right, but I remember the quiet that fell upon our refuge when Ymuthrus said that the punishment for such a sin would be death.

Decorated Sanctifiers were selected to carry out the executions. Only one of their number dared question Ymuthrus openly. These were not Zatham’s first defiant words--he had, years earlier, accused the Elders of punishing misdeeds unevenly between Inari and Lilin, though it was the sacred responsibility of the Conservators and Elders to assign such punishments, and his as a Sanctifier to carry them out.

Ymuthrus insisted he be judged in the rite of Purity’s Penance. It did not kill Zatham, but burned the eyes from his face. Ymuthrus then permitted him exile. It was, by his standards, generous.

The Fire of Life grew twisted… the affliction came, and Ymuthrus named it the punishment of the Lilin from the land itself. No matter that it burns us just as badly. No matter that we all share in the guilt.

The Prevailing Wind acted almost immediately to separate the afflicted from the rest of us… but he chose the Caverns of Penance as the place he sent them to await their cure. It reeks of his spite for the Lilin.

Worse, Ymuthrus has insisted that no one visit the afflicted. It has been months, and none have returned to us. The Conservators remain reticent about their participation.

Given the Prevailing Wind’s viciousness toward anything he deems a threat to our stability… I feared the worst. I meditated on those of the afflicted whom I could name, and sang before the Veiled Spring.

Day after day, the spring sends me only blackness. He has taken their lives as surely as if he were their executioner.

$N,

I write with the utmost urgency. The people of Mount Zavain need your help once more.

The black mists born from the Zakarum's vile crusades have spread across Zavain and nightmares pour from within.

Somehow you and Oza were able to fight back a demonic incursion together. I know that with your help, we can stop this horror here and now.

Please, come to Mount Zavain and offer us your expertise once more, I beg of you.

X—Shura of the Veradani

My dear sister, Lilian,

How I've missed you. The war against the northern heretics has taken everything from me. It is hard to think, to breathe, to move this quill. We are entrenched in a war of faith and yet now, I find my own shaken. It is a horrifying feeling.

Death and hatred surrounds us... Do you remember Josef? The brown haired man with the cleft chin that would come to our house for drinks? Even now, I remember the laughter... and the spilled wine. I watched him die today. Right in front of me. I caught him as he fell, nearly buckled under his weight. I... How do I go forward Lily? I want to believe. I want to fight... But how?

Hopefully this letter finds you in better health than I am. I struggle, Lilian, I do. But I have to tell myself it's all for our faith. It will be worth it when the Light shines across this land.

XYour brother,

X-Jaysin

We are still struggling against the northern heretics. Does Martanos truly not have enough men to conquer a single valley? If he wishes aid, tell him to petition Lut Gholein.

X- Respectfully,

XCmdr. Terkain

Captain Worth:

For the last time, your request is denied. Lord Rakkis has his sight upon the north and his generals will suffer no cowardice. You would do well to remember the Light does not scurry from shadows.

Bring Zakarum's Light to every corner of Sanctuary. This is our one true mission. Burn that fact into your mind. Any withdrawal or surrender is an act of betrayal and sedition. Those who run shall do so directly into the executioner's blade.

X-Commander Vrayn

Leoric has been too busy to enjoy Tristram. The crown's burdens are never light, yet I'd hoped coming here might bring him peace. I worry for him. He tosses and turns in his sleep, and even in waking hours rarely seems to hear me speak. It's as though he were always listening to the voice of someone else. Someone only he can see. Once I even found him quarreling with an empty room, yet he does little but dismiss my concerns. Is it the pressures of being King that anguish him so?

I have prayed to Akarat to help my husband, to ease his mind. We have always been faithful servants, always devoted to the Zakarum faith. I am beginning to fear we have already drifted too far from the Light.

There once was a boy born with no face. He possessed no eyes, no nose, nor mouth. Even without a face, his family loved him. His mother loved his luxurious hair, his father loved his inquisitive ears, and his older brother loved his gentle manner. Yet the boy still yearned for a face. He wanted to see the world, to taste good food, and to enjoy the scent of flowers. So the boy left his family and searched the world for a face of his own.

One day, the boy met an old witch.

"I can give you what you seek, Faceless boy," the witch crowed as she led him into her hut. "A face that will make you happy. One your family will adore."

"What must I do?" The boy asked.

"You must give me your most precious memory."

The boy thought long and hard. He truly wanted a face, but he did not know which precious memory it would cost him. Would it be the first time he heard his mother laugh? The moment he first felt the sea breeze on his skin? He was not sure, but he knew that he could make new memories with his family. With a face, his new memories would be all the more precious.

And so the boy agreed. The witch cackled, and with a flick of her wand, the boy had a new face. Suddenly, he could see the inside of the dirty hut and the wart-nosed witch before him. He could taste the moisture in the air and smell the foul stench of her cauldron.

"Well," the witch crowed, "how do you like your new face?"

"I love it!"

"And who will you show it to first?"

The boy thought long and hard, but he could not imagine anyone he might show his new face to. He knew in his heart there were people he loved dearly, but he simply could not remember who. And so the boy left the witch. He spent his life traveling the world in search of someone who would adore his new face, and never returned to his family.

Tomorrow, I go to war. As a soldier, I always knew that I would have to venture onto the battlefield, but I never thought that I would have to fight Westmarch. At the behest of my father, no less. He had taken me there himself many times, and we were always treated with respect and cordiality. Moreover, he knows better than anyone the strength of their army. His hasty request means there's no time to rally enough troops. I can only take this as his way of sending me to my death.

My father has changed. He is no longer the great king that I once knew, that everyone revered. He fears that Westmarch is plotting against us, yet only his own treachery is evident in his decision to invade their lands.

I will survive this. I have to. Mother has protected Albrecht from father's unpredictable bouts of anger at great personal expense, and Albrecht still has much to learn before he is able to defend her. I will return, and I will fulfill my duty as a brother, as a son, and as Prince of Tristram.

No one will tell me where mother went. The gardener said a few days ago that she left on a trip, but I don't know why she wouldn't take me with her. It's been so long, and she still isn't back. I asked Father but he doesn't seem to care. He just yells at me to leave him alone. Why doesn't he like talking to me anymore? Did I do something wrong?

Lazarus has been acting even stranger. When I ask him about my mother, he just smiles at me. He smiles like a doll. I don't like it. Sometimes I swear I feel him watching me. But who would believe me? Not Father. I wish Aidan was here, he'd know what to do.

The nightmares. The visions. They feel so real. Every night I feel my limbs twisting, my insides churning. Those shrill voices echo in my head, urging me to end the pain. Maybe my insides would stop hurting so much if I just rip them out. Maybe my limbs would stop twisting if I bound them straight. Maybe the voices would quiet if I had no ears to hear them.

Last seen yesternight by the north gate. Small stature with auburn hair and brown eyes. Unable to speak as her tongue is chewed through. Has a mole under her right eye, chewed and bloody fingernails, and missing patches of hair.

Caution: Unstable, and possibly violent.

Please find her. Her family misses her dearly.

Call me a fool, Landric, but I've never once regretted staying by Constable Staalek. You've heard him say it: when evil men want to see us dead, we're doing the right thing. And doing the right thing costs. More than I wish it did.

Aymer's men caught us taking supplies out to the wards. It's probably just a matter of time for me. But you know what? They didn't catch us sneaking people in uniform right through the front gates. Those people will live the rest of their lives safe from the storm. Because of us.

I don't begrudge you wanting to keep out of it. But if we're fighting an unwinnable war, it isn't because the Laird has good people outnumbered. It's because too many of the good people won't stand up.

Give the girls my regards.

-Alpert

These monstrosities are not to be burned or dismembered; they will be displayed as a reminder by order of the Laird. Stack them somewhere cold and dark and let them molder.

The Owl can barely be called a tribe any longer. Our warriors leave for the city in droves. Too many of those who remain are gripped with rage since Arreat's fall. They sleep only moments and wake with froth on their lips, and set out to kill the first person they see. Nothing will grow here--no food and no families. Yet to leave these lands forever is to accept our death. And I would rather lead my people into madness than death.

-Vargild

Since the hideout got hit, I've seen a tough-looking character pass by it more than once. Just walking the tunnels, peering in. She wore bones around her neck. Keep an eye out. She means nothing good.

-A Friend

Rules of Good Order

The Gray Wards are subject to all laws of Staalbreak, without dispute or appeal.

Steaders of the Wards may not freely enter Staalbreak.

Do not shelter those who have done violence or larceny within Staalbreak.

Do not commit violence or larceny against your neighbor, less your doing so has been declared just by a magistrate of Staalbreak.

Do not traduce the faith of Zakarum or the Lairdship of Staalbreak.

Members of the barbarian tribes must inform guards of their presence in the Wards without delay.

Those poisoned by the storm-sickness must remain outside the Wards, and send written word to Staalbreak.

Should you learn of a violator of these laws, inform a guard at the gates of Staalbreak, and see justice done.

XBy the order of the Laird of Staalbreak and the Wards Without

Should you find one accursed by the storm-sickness, whether living or dead, notify a member of the guard immediately. Those who ravage as demons will be kept from our walls and slain; accursed corpses will be taken and burned. No demon has passed through the gates of Staalbreak, and none ever shall, for the Light protects the devout within.

By the order of the Laird of Staalbreak and the Wards Without

Bandits came through today and took everything; that's the third time this week. If they want a loaf of mold, they can have it. Leastwise they didn't beat any of us. Callum's learned to behave and pretend like nobody's here. That helps.

The guards show up in a hurry when they hear about a barbarian or one of the Constable's people in the wards, but the little ones crying hasn't brought them even once. They've left the bandits to rule this place.

Now, Blair, over in the shantydown, she's been so sick from the storm that the bandits leave her alone. That croaking sound she's been making at all hours… it's unearthly, but it's working. Maybe I should try her way.

Light, give me strength to leave my vanity behind, to persevere no matter what occurs. The people who come to me have been visited by such agonies, with reddish pustules upon their flesh and bloody veins in their eyes, that I can scarcely bear to look upon them. Yet look I must, for "who can minister to those they fear?" I will share everything I have--my food and what shelter we can find in the church's cellar. And, if I do not turn from them, I pray that one day I will no longer see the malady-stricken, but simply my brothers and sisters before me.

-Father Benford

There can never be enough blood for Him. But He sees that we try, and He is appeased by our effort.

Pity the favored ones, but envy them too. They are first to feel His teeth. We who serve Him best must maintain our integrity, and deny ourselves elevation.

Lot of crazies here, but that doesn't scare me. We're all going to die anyway. Might as well die my way up.

Follow the blood, and you will have your quarry. Those who spill it freely are like either to be monsters, or to court them.

Remain watchful of your blood, that you know always the truth of your condition and the swiftness of your decline. Misplaced trust in yourself is the mother of monsters.

The power in your blood is a terrible weapon. If you slake your bloodthirst on the innocent, the curse will drink of it, and then of you.

Fernam is long departed from Gea Kul, and the Annulet can not pretend to speak for him. Offer gratitude to the first of our name and to the great chapterhouse--but never servitude.

The Thrall:

A person made monstrous by vampiric plague. Long-lived. Sustained by blood.

Able to spread the curse of a vampire, and easily bent to the will of such a creature.

If a thrall can be found in the earliest stages of turning, we can delay the curse in a ritual of induction--but only ever with the written permission of the chaptermaster. The curse returns for us all, even we who survive.

The knights of the chapterhouse in Gea Kul see themselves as soldiers in a war against endless evils. Now they battle demons and vampires both.

Thys is not so easily distracted. Thys does not march. Thys watches. Our war is for the very soul of our kin.

Praise and memory to Gresmar, who slew the raveners of the red wastes, and leapt into the Nest Cape ravine as he succumbed to the bloodlust the curse laid upon him.

Praise and memory to Branca, who held the darkness at bay four and twenty years, and entombed herself alone in Thys at the first stirrings of the curse’s end, that her evil could be expunged safely by her comrades. May we all pass with such grace.

Weep for your comrades who fall to the curse, but remember that only you can spare their atrocities. The swifter their end, the truer their vow remains for all eternity.

Be cautious of the caliber of any whom you would induct into our chapter. The bitten and the turned are already gone, and you do not perform a holy miracle by helping a corpse cling to life. In Thys, we are few by design.

I hereby pledge myself as acting chaptermaster of Thys. I have dispatched the fallen since my first weeks as a novice, and walked the dunes longer than a lifetime. I will never close my eyes to the darkness in my fellows, or in myself. This is a vow in ink, but let any here contest it, and I will see it written in blood.

-Mariki

Fernam's ritual has given us all a second chance at life. But it is only a chance. Its power is capricious. Some maintain their hold for decades--others for mere days. Make your moments dear.

In my time I have presided over near a hundred rituals of induction. A handful of subjects have survived and become true knights of the fold--in Gea Kul and Thys and elsewhere. The failures outnumber the successes, as they always do with our ilk. Be cautious. Never perform the ritual alone unless you have no other choice.

-Mariki

Fernam bade his knights remain obscured, hidden from common people--their vengeance, but especially their frailty. Should we become a threat to them, our every vow is made a lie. Thys keeps our own refuge, whatever the Annulet's decree.

The Vampire:

Born of the night in an older age. Accursed with a thirst for blood.

Difficult to kill permanently. Spreads its curse like a plague.

Those it bites become thralls, and they further spread its dark bond. We are at the mercy of their appetites; if not destroyed, they will swallow humanity up.

Bellon, I've need of your talents again. There's a menace on the outskirts, tearing through the livestock and striking unholy fear in the commoners. I sent some of the hedgefolk, but they're unreliable. This must be solved before anyone else decides to quit our lands. Write as soon as you can. I'll come see you off.

-Edelard

From your lack of response, I assume you see the rightness of my proposal. Bellon will be gone only as long as he must, and I will ensure that no harm whatsoever comes to you while he is serving in the realm's defense. Know that you will always have a place of safety where I am, and that whatever you require I can see done.

-Edelard

I wish it were only wolves. These things walk like men; I'm told they drag their nails along the ground until they splinter. Their skin is withered, and they reek. But they do bleed. I know you hardly want for skill at arms, but I have something that will help you put them down.

-Edelard

Cathrien, my deepest apologies for borrowing your lord husband. The hedgefolk are fearful of these monsters, and the estate will not survive an exodus. Not everyone has the means to protect themselves, and those of us who have much indeed are obligated to be generous in their defense, as we are in all other walks of life.

-Edelard

When the fiends are dead, bring me back proof. Five gold for each ear, or 20 for a skull with the flesh on. You can carve your name if you like--it will make a fine display piece.

-Lord Edelard

When the fiends are dead, bring me back proof. Five gold for each ear, or 20 for a skull with the flesh on. You can carve your name if you like--it will make a fine display piece.

-Lord Edelard

When the fiends are dead, bring me back proof. Five gold for each ear, or 20 for a skull with the flesh on. You can carve your name if you like--it will make a fine display piece.

-Lord Edelard

Upon this memory, I pledge myself.

Let it strengthen me when I am beset by my enemies.

Let it calm me when I am given over to my darkness.

Let it steady me when the world is drowned in blood.

Let it restore me when I am at my end.

Until I am no more, I hold to my vows.

Peth,

It seems claiming the sceptre made Vataos desperate. The Scorpions are searching for weapons to counter the scepter's power.

I'm going to face Vataos, but you cannot let the Scorpions acquire the mad mage's power.

As for Zov, make sure he doesn't cause problems.

XTabri

Terminus Connection 606: Failure.

Terminus Connection 607: Failure.

Terminus Connection 608: Failure.

Why does every test result in failure? There must be a way to connect to the Archive. I will not leave my Library abandoned forever. Perhaps the Realm of Shadow...

Terminus Connection 1001: Failure.

I can waste no more time on this portal array. Humanity's salvation awaits. If I must consign this Library to rot to save mankind, so be it.

He is active once again, and yet his trail grows colder every time I catch it. A remote village in Khanduras. The southern dunes of Aranoch. There are no patterns, no remnants, only cold outlines where bodies lay. I must look into the stars... and search my own remembrance. How many more will die in the meantime?

The Taan magi have long believed that, through the stars above, we see the realms beyond. The movements of the astral leave invisble patterns across the land--traces of the power that moves through our world. There's no disputing that reality... but isn't it curious that their "ley lines" are so difficult to map? It is as though the ashes of Arreat have dirtied the sky, and the light of the stars can barely reach us, let alone be interpreted. Or perhaps there's a simpler answer: the Taan are delusional, and they've put their faith in a tradition they barely understand. That seems more likely.

Prognostication Records, First-Year Trainees

Meguin -- 1 hour, 3 arrows missed

Jiya -- 3 hours, 7 arrows missed

Qi -- 4 hours, 19 arrows missed

Honestly, you should all be ashamed of this record. In the early years, we expelled practitioners who couldn't predict and deflect all their arrows in a session. I myself had three uninterrupted days of perfect deflection. The renegade Karshun once managed seven, and we sent him from the tower without a second thought. Do you really intend to continue on like this? Give it some serious consideration. Then try harder.

-Sunithi

It's the burden of the Taan to see farther than everyone else. Bring vision amidst chaos. But we can't, not without decades of duels and proofs and tests, tests, tests until our backs are stooped and our eyes are twitchy. Only because the masters demand everyone suffer for knowledge as they did.

I heard a rumor that, not so long gone, a couple fifth-years built an artifact that could let the wielder see anywhere--even the beyond, gazing through the stars. Imagine that. One eye on this miserable old tower, one looking into Heaven.

Of course they were exiled. I wonder if their work is still around somewhere.

Arcanists Juris Report

At first starlight, the exile Othva attacked the west repository, intending to gain access to the Astral Bloom. Receptacle three remained sealed. The exile tampered with the Astral Bloom, injured the High Arcanist's guards, and slew Chakku himself.

I apologize for including my feelings in formal accounting, but I must. Such bloodshed among us is unprecedented. After the first Astral Bloom "incident," the Juris prescribed exile for all involved. And it was insufficient. Our judgment was toothless, and now we see the result.

-Mhar

Connection to the Beyond

Some of the old Skatsimi--usually before they were burned alive by inquisitors--preached about a part of humanity they called essential. "Us before life, us after death." This is not the decaying horror of bound ghosts or risen corpses, but a source energy. Hold your objections, and let me, for the sake of argument, call it a soul.

Is the soul created when we are born, then subsumed as we live, then reborn when we die? Or does it move through the world, making us and unmaking us, then continuing on? I posit the latter. And if the soul can exist apart from us, then it is our neglected superior in reach. Why send our senses when we can send ourselves? The soul can see places we cannot, go places we cannot, even dwell places we cannot, if only we give it a connection to the beyond, and a means of returning.

This is a foundational principle for lengthier, permanent projection into the Astral, if the cowardly and feebleminded among us do not smother it in its crib.

-Depths-Eye Cabratto

According to Basim's research, use of the mirror requires absolute clarity of purpose. Energy is channeled from the mirror into the user, who must focus on any lingering regrets surrounding the spirit they hope to conjure.

The best site for the ritual is surely a place of significance to both the mirror bearer and the deceased. Naturally, I've chosen the plot where she is buried.

Mother,

I wish you understood how much it hurt that you made yourself a target for such ridicule. I was angry, and my education made me a skeptic, but I regret letting that doubt destroy our relationship.

If this mirror is truly a window into the realm of the dead, perhaps I'll finally have the chance to apologize.