A spell that allows me to see and bear past events from the geographic location in which I happen to be standing. It also casts an ethereal light on enemies and darker areas, giving me the ability to see my foes, as well as find my way. I must be careful in its use, as it has no offensive power and it seems to drain my energies for short durations.
Learned men have stated that they believe that man has yet to unlock the full potential of the mind. While traveling to the Orient after the war, I met up with a local seer who told me that I was one of the chosen few. One of only a handful of individuals that he had ever met that had this ability. He called it scrying, to be able to read portions of the past. Most of the people who possessed this power, he said, over the course of their lives eventually fell into disability, mind-tired from the barrage of images and sounds that could be heard from both the past and the present, the real and unreal.
I know I have the ability to scrye, because of the subtle words I hear calling within me at times, begging me to look deeper into the past, deeper at what actually isn't even in front of me.
But I am truly wondering if this is the gift I dreamed of or a sick curse placed on me by an outside force.
My trusty revolver. A six shot weapon of forged metal grace. Durable, yet lightweight, my military piece has seen many a country and spilled much blood over the years.
The Gel'ziabar stone. I have carried this artifact ever since the day Jeremiah gave it to me following the battle with the Trsanti.
It seems to throw out a shockwave of considerable force, and ever since I acquired the stone I have noticed strange sightings and visual anomalies. However, the power of the stone has its dark side. On occasion, a beast from beyond this world has attacked me. My only explanation for its appearance is that I was using the stone's power for too long. I have not seen the beast for a while, of course, I have not needed the stone...
Each time my past fades from memory, fate has a terrible habit of reawakening me. Most often, the unpleasant name of Otto Keisinger is the vehicle of remembrance, but not today. My old friend and commanding officer in the Great War, Jeremiah Covenant, has sent word.
It has been years since I have heard from him. His letter came whilst I was away, sitting unopened for nearly six months. My joy at reading his name was quickly replaced by sorrow, then by fear. Jeremiah has fallen ill and requires my assistance at his estate in Ireland.
I have not set foot on Irish soil since poor Gwendolyn's death, and I did not think anything could make me return. Could I have been responsible for her death? Being legally exiled from my homeland was painful, but nothing in comparison to my memories. How did she end up on the floor? How could so much blood come without a sound? How was that knife in my hand and why was Keisinger suddenly nowhere to be found? But Jeremiah saved my life and I cannot deny any request he would make.
The necessity of my presence is somewhat vague, as his letter at times was incoherent. He speaks of his sickness as a 'family illness' no medicine can cure.
Regardless, I will go to my friend. I have booked passage on a steam liner leaving tomorrow, arriving in four days time. I hope I am not recognized by the authorities.
I hope I am not too late.
I have arrived in time... apparently just in time. Completely bedridden, Jeremiah is a shadow of his old self, appearing many pounds and a few shades lighter.
His explanation for calling to me is still unclear. He speaks of strange happenings around the estate, problems that he is unable to rectify in his weakened state and has requested that I investigate. I, of course, agreed. Before I could ponder where to begin my exploration, the servant who showed me to Jeremiah's room screamed from downstairs. Often 'where to begin' is the most difficult step...
A piece to the puzzle. The scream downstairs was the result of an attack by a beast... something Jeremiah calls a Howler. Similar to a dog, the animal was pale in complexion, had claws as long as my arm and could leap several meters from a dead stop. I killed the fiend but before I could thoroughly inspect the corpse, it vanished without a trace.
Upon questioning Jeremiah, I am a little more unnerved than I was after seeing the Howler. He told a story involving his brothers and sisters, an isle of standing stones, and a sorcery book of his late father's. Apparently the Covenant children, led by Jeremiah, went to the island and read from this strange book. He maintains it was simply a prank to scare his kin... He believes something from within the ring of stones answered back, raging the sea, angering the wind and shaking the earth.
Since that time, Jeremiah has been visited by terrible misfortune. All of his brothers and sisters have passed away. I recall one late night in a foxhole; Jeremiah showed me a picture of the youngest sister, Lizbeth. No more than a teenager, she was so striking I found it hard to concentrate on his descriptions of the others.
Anyway, Jeremiah is not completely convinced they are indeed dead. Well, to be precise... he's not sure they have remained dead. I suspect that these are delusions brought on by his memory of that day at the stones, otherwise I can only imagine this as a terrible prank played upon a dying man. But if they are only delusions, why not inform me of them when we first spoke? Why would he not write me of such in his letter? Perhaps he did not think I would come.
The scroll Jeremiah gave me has revealed a powerful spell. It seems that with proper concentration and focus of my mana, I am able to release ethereal bolts of ectoplasm from my hand. Unreliable at far range, the mystical damage seems quite effective in close quarters.
The butler said someone broke into Lizbeth's room. Perhaps I should investigate.
I spoke with a maid about Lizbeth. The siblings' mother, Evaline, apparently died while giving birth to her and the housekeeper filled the void of her maternal absence.
She said Lizbeth was a very beautiful girl with a short, violent fuse who passed away from a wasting disease. I take note of the irony of someone who was so beautiful, dying of such a heinous disease that calls for the destruction of their vanity.
The maid said that the groundskeeper believes to have seen Lizbeth alive. Having seen Lizbeth with my own eyes I can only believe this maid's frightful testimony.
I'll go down to the kitchen and try to find my way out to the gardens anyway.
On nights when I cannot sleep I look out from my bed to the monastery out my window. The reflections of the waters that separate us ripple across my bedroom walls filling the room with waves of moonlight. If it is quiet enough and the wind is still, I can hear them chanting. Their prayers roll across the water and fall upon my ears like a lullaby rocking me to sleep. It fills my body with such a quiet peace.
And yet I cannot help but wonder how something that provides so much security could at the same time haunt me. At midnight the chanting stops. The brilliant lights of the monastery go black except for a tiny glow that emanates from the entrance to the catacombs. As I watch that single light I can see the shadows of the monks at the entrance. It is then that I feel a slow creeping of dread rise from my stomach, as if the island somehow has a hold of me.
I have overheard bits and pieces of a story from hushed conversations about monks who died a horrible death years ago among these grounds. It is said their tortured souls were put to rest within the catacombs and that their two brothers have stood guard at the entrance each night since. I cannot help but wonder why. What are they waiting for, or hoping to ward off? Are they bound to the island with the same unknown force as I?
The Lord works in such mysterious ways, but how can a just God allow his own flock to die within sacred grounds?
Surely there is another force working among us, one capable of pure evil. A loving God could never allow such pain and agony. Is it that force that eats at me at night and leaves my dreams unsettled? Are the waters enough to keep me safe? I wish just once I could lie in the grass outside the catacombs for a night and put these haunted dreams to rest. I must end these nightly visions and seek the truth.
It is truly a pity that my dear wife Evaline passed away birthing Lizbeth. She would have loved to see them all grow. I cannot help but think that she would have been able to tame this wild streak that they all have exhibited lately. A mother is a soothing influence. I unfortunately cannot offer them this solace. I wish I could understand what brought on this recent behavior.
I have received a letter today from Ambrose's boarding school. He has been expelled. I don't know what to do with that boy. With the behavior of the other children so appalling, I have no choice but to bring them home. Perhaps I can find a tutor. I hope being under my watchful eye will calm their spirits.
The last six weeks have been terrible. The tutor was a complete disaster. In fact, the poor man just packed his bags and left in the night. Any form of discipline is hopeless with Ambrose and almost seems completely lost on the others. The only thing I have been able to do is play to their interests. I have noticed that each child has their own avid curiosity. Strange to see it manifest at such an early age, but who am I to discourage the one moment of peace I can find with them?
I now understand why the children are behaving wildly. Jeremiah came to me frightened and crying. Several years ago the children broke into my Library and procured one of my research books without my knowledge. But how was I to know a twelve year old boy would take interest in those dusty tomes.
I do not know what passage they read but I suspect that it has led to the current predicament concerning their behaviors and eccentricities. Jeremiah says they woke the spirits of the island. Hopefully I can determine what the children have done. Perhaps there is a solution...
I have pored over the volumes of research and I am no closer to understanding what Jeremiah and the children may have conjured. None of the incantations in the books could have caused this to happen. Calling a Daemon or consulting spirits should not have such a long lasting, disturbing effect. I even traveled to the stones. Nothing there gave me clues to what has happened. Perhaps if they had only told me at the time I would have more insight. Now any clues would be long gone.
I have determined the stones are some sort of Focus. Perhaps there is a reason so many people have been attracted and repulsed by this land. It seems that my own fascination with the standing stones has wrought its corruption upon my children.
All is not well here at the Covenant Estate. Joseph, my husband who once charmed me with his good will and smile, now seems distant and reclusive. I realized that when we met there are those imperfections one must look past and that your heart helps you to forgive. However, Joseph's strange obsession keeps him in the library at all hours of the night.
Seldom are we spending time together, and even more rarely does he want to exercise his husbandly right towards me. I'm beginning to feel inadequate, especially when he talks of his desire for children prancing around the estate. What am I to do?
I bide most of my time alone in the greenhouse, reminiscing of my sweet youth and the rich and gallant Peter Roakana, who would wait patiently on me and shower me with expensive gifts like my beloved pearl necklace. Things could have been different had I kept that social path.
Instead, I feel like I'm the fool for getting involved with Joseph Covenant. His prime moments are being spent in his library with books twice as old as me. Apparently my visage can't garner his attention.
What dear advice could you give me, dearest mother? I'll be waiting for your response.
I hope that this letter finds you and Father well. Tell Father not to worry about his little Robin, that I've left the nest but shall never leave his heart.
The door to the manor gardens is locked. The cook says the maid is the only one with the key and she is cleaning Keisinger's room in the East Wing.
While that name might not ring true for the servant, I'm deeply disturbed that Otto Keisinger would even be here. What the hell does that bastard want with my friend and his family? I can only be sure that when our paths cross, he will get more than a stern word from me. I only wonder how he plans to answer my questions when my hands are gripped tightly around his throat?
Otto has done more to damage my reputation than I care to remember. I have no doubts that should he find out I've made it out to the Covenant estate, he'll stop at nothing to foil my attempts at uncovering the mysteries that seem to be plaguing this family... and my dear friend.
Moon Door NotesEdit
Reddish leaves swirl in the wind like lost souls in search of rest. Like an open sketchbook focused on my dreams, this land is forever pictured as a comforting Autumn dusk. Replete with a golden sky, with crackling river water and bubbling marshes that dot the land, it feels like a Romantic artist's canvas.
Upon further investigation I have sensed horrendous visions of a gnarled doom, decorated as a picturesque facade in this endless autumn dusk. Spiny trees root deep into the foul earth, licking the ground dry of all that is good.
Carcasses populate the brush, their putrid remains swallowed whole by the land. And corners of this malevolent area are teeming with vicious ungodly prey, all whilst the grass stretches over this land twisting together like veins of pulsating sinew, as if the ground were alive, keen of the inhabitants that parade on its back.
Beady, black, soulless eyes flash across the air. Tiny, quick winged bats streak through the bright sky, flying razors waiting for the perfect moment to descend. As they swoop by I see sharp, bloodied teeth, a wicked demonic smile. From the darting blurs I hear an ominous whistling that chills my soul. They own the skies here.
Wraithlike, hooded minions, overseers without heart or soul, patrol this land. Slash-and-stitch techniques permeate their faces and arms, patched together like cheap quilts, using the skin from the bodies of rank corpses. They gather and live like packs of rabid wolves, instigating fights for supremacy. These abominations thirst for my destruction. They are mostly clustered around footpaths that seem to traverse upward along a Cliffside, but alternate groupings are planted among watering holes and the hollowed trees.
Further down the path it is as if the shadows are swallowing the surroundings whole, without a penchant of logic or drop of meaning. It is as if the only reason for this actually lies in darkness itself. Like royalty that rules the black void, entombed in the night infinite.
It is she, the Eternal Mistress of Shadows.
Why do I waste my time with poseurs and fools? I realize now that my correspondence with these others has been a waste of my time. Father had done more research than I could truly appreciate until now. Most of these other "Magicians" are braggarts who act the part but rarely have an inkling of the Truth.
I have tried to contact the Golden Dawn but have been ignored and insulted since I am not from the continent. Aleister Crowley insists I become his acolyte. I suspect it is more of a harem. His vanity is boorish and fraudulent. He is as confused as my brother. Both are lost in vices. While Aaron numbs himself and seeks escape, the "Great Beast" actually believes it to be revelation.
A few have been unresponsive or cryptic. I suspect if I pursued them I might glean some knowledge, however, I am beginning to realize that my research and documentation are beginning to plateau. What I have learned must be put into practice. Perhaps the nature of the knowledge I seek cannot be found within this society.
Trial and error has slowed my learning due to the long recovery periods. The help probably suspects something is amiss since my health fluctuates drastically from these rituals. They wouldn't dare say anything, besides I can always blame erratic fortitude upon my family legacy. That should be enough to excuse my bouts of weakness. Besides, Aaron languishes in a stupor even now.
I am warning you about Bethany. She has become obsessed with father's books since you left for the war. She is increasingly paranoid and secretive. She locks herself in the sunroom or disappears on horseback. I know she is corresponding with a number of outsiders. I fear she is making family business known to these strangers. I doubt we want her bringing unneeded attention to the family.
You know she is the last person we want near those stones. How could you have left us? I can feel the fingers of this curse reaching out to us. Don't think you can escape. You know you have to come back. Damn it Jeremiah! You have doomed us all and you are a coward for leaving us. Can you hear the whispers, Jeremiah? Even another continent isn't far enough. Remember, I tried to go as well. I still heard them, even in Asian dens and German gutters. I figured it out, it's inside...
It won't be long before you cross the threshold, Brother.
Lizbeth bit me today. I cannot understand what has gotten into her lately. She used to be such a graceful, proper little girl. She even licked her lips afterwards. I believe I should leave this place...
The power really is here. I can feel it grow as this family shrinks. Ten little... seven little... five little Indians.
So sad that I spilled Covenant blood prior to my arrival. Ha! It was a trifle beneath me. But arriving without cause nor invitation at the king's throne would not do. Insignificant fodder she was.
But Patrick Galloway. How is it I did not foresee his arrival? Still strange to me that Jeremiah's affection for the Irishman did not waver with time, even after the wonderful night at Cashel.
I await his arrival.
This strange crystalline stone seems to be a source of finite power that may be used to increase the power and effectiveness of my spell casting.
I must keep my eyes peeled and ears open for its pinkish hue and low hum.
According to legend, Ether Traps have the ability to tap into another ethereal plane of existence. And in doing so, the traps themselves become black holes in which spirits can be whisked away and temporarily trapped in another dimension.
And while I'm certain that these magical weapons were not meant for our eyes, I am always humbled when my course of studies proves truth to legend.
Some connections are made to be discovered, while others should remain unseen. Some lands are best never spoken, as their hell lies in between.
The words ring in the mind like a dream with irony not lost. For Oneiros is simply that, the dream city of forgotten souls. Governed by none but watched by many. With a sky that bleeds crimson, it is the only uncharted realm this scholar has witnessed. For the single time I attempted to graph the land, it seemed to belittle me by changing shape.
I will keep watch over this tower until the entrance can be sealed.
Tibetan War CannonEdit
I have heard of this weapon only in story. Created and forged of gold, it is a mystical weapon of Tibetan folklore that was lost in a mountainous area during a great battle. They called it the War Cannon. Rumor has it that the person that holds this weapon must be pure of heart for it to function correctly.
I seem to be able to discharge some sort of cold sphere out of it. I wonder if it can slow down these bastard creatures...
I'm fairly certain this can stop or affect any and all magic I may encounter. I might try this spell on an obstacle of smaller magnitude lest it fail in my most dire time.
I finally spoke with the servant the maid said had seen Lizbeth. He is convinced he saw her perched on a hill... watching him. West of the manor, the family mausoleum seems the first place to investigate.
This spell causes creatures I have just killed to be brought back to life, this time to join my cause.
As disturbing as it is to call the dead back, I'm afraid that if the scroll doesn't work correctly, I may be raising these devilish creatures only to have to fight them all over again. There is no accounting for what might happen should I attempt to use it on a living organism...
These strange tattoos seem to heighten my ability to channel magic. They also remind me of the tattoos the Trsanti Shaman had when we fought him in the war. With these tattoos, I feel the mana surge into my being. No doubt the more of these I find, the better I can battle these abominations.
I can only hope that someone will find these scribblings of mine, someone who can continue my quest for I may not be long for this Earth. I seek a magical talisman, an evil weapon known as the Scythe of the Celt. I fear that this weapon has fallen into the wrong hands, and so I have undertaken a quest to find the Scythe... before it was taken from this ancient Monastery.
You see, hard as it may be to believe, there is a way to travel back to the days when this Monastery was populated with the wise Monks who first found the Scythe of the Celt. These monks were versed in the ways of magic, and they had a portal that would allow them travel across distant lands instantaneously. Across distant times, as well.
I know not exactly where this portal is, but I do know that three items were required to open it. A golden medallion, in the shape of the sun. A potion, made up primarily of mercury. And finally, an ancient scroll on which the incantation to open the portal was written. I myself have found this medallion and hidden it nearby, but the other two components elude me yet.
And now, it appears I will never have a chance to find them. I have broken my leg, and I fear that these strange dog-beasts that roam this land can sense my weakness. They come closer with each passing of the sun. I fear that they will soon attack.
May faith be my armor,
Brother Jonathan McMuir
A double barrel shotgun of potent force. It appears I may choose between firing off individual or double shots, dependent on my taste for maximum effectiveness in close quarter combat.
These small, magical trinkets enable me to hold more of my mana and allow me to fire my spells more often without fear of draining my magical energies so quickly. I need to keep my eyes out for more of these mana well containers, as they'll no doubt help me with my spells...and my endeavors.
There appear to be hidden chambers beneath the monastery ruins. There are several large bricks blocking the way in, too large for me to dislodge. Perhaps if I found some sort of explosive, I might be able to blast my way past them.
Late Harvest, day of our pertinence
In the year of our lord 1231 AD, a garrison of brothers was dispatched to this outer island to establish a vigil over the Ring of Standing Stones on the Isle of King's Head. From our monastery we have kept watch over this site for well over 200 years. Without a doubt it is a focus of unnatural power, which must be guarded with persistent vigilance. For years we were content to stand sentinel over this Megalithic site and we bore our burden with honor.
Now I must confess great concern over the direction the Abbot is guiding our Brotherhood. It has been a long time since we have had any communication with Rome. Fierce storms have isolated us on this island and swept away many brave brothers who attempted to make the crossing to the mainland. Isolated from our superiors, the Abbot has undertaken an investigation into our predicament. Convinced that we are bewitched by agents of the supernatural, it has been decided by the Abbot that we will exhume the grave that lays betwixt the ring of stones. I fear what we may find.
Late Harvest, day of toil
It has grown bitterly cold since the day of the dig. Snow frosts our fields and the crops are ruined. Those on the dig describe discovering the withered body of a man clutching an ancient scythe. Though it is sacrilege, the Abbot ordered the men to retrieve the weapon for study. The Abbot hopes that in understanding the artifact we may shed light on the strange curse we are experiencing.
Late Harvest, day of congress
One of the scribes, brother Abrus, was overtaken with bloodlust while studying the scythe. He struck down a number of our brothers. If it hadn't been for the timely intervention of the Abbot Constantine many more would have fallen. The Abbot declared that the ill wrought weapon must be destroyed before its wicked nature infects us all.
The ritual requires us to destroy the item and may be more dangerous than the weapon itself. We will walk the border of shadow to be freed of this cursed weapon. May we be protected from the fiends. I pray we are released from this curse or else may the Saints preserve us.
Brother William Tufnel
Standard dynamite. I'm sure this can do damage to both the surroundings and these vile creatures.
May the heirs of the future forgive me. Demons move among us and regrettably I know I am responsible. I have sacrificed the trust of my brothers in hopes of ridding the world of a great evil. The consequences are greater than the cost. Even now I hear my brothers' screams of anguish but I cannot save them. I leave this testament to a future hope. Perhaps an emissary will find this incantation and undo that which has been done.
Find the elements of moon and sun and stand before the mirror of time. Call upon the lords of day and night and invoke the incantation that blurs the laws of time.
Stop the demons from stealing the Scythe of the Celt. In the wrong hands this powerful artifact has the ability to unravel the soul. The weapon is forged from chaos and has been our undoing.
Saints preserve us...
Ever vigilant Brotherhood of St George
A man who could only have been the Monastery's Abbot was at one time in possession of the key which opens a grand set of heavy double doors.
I am hoping that beyond these doors lies the lower catacombs... and perhaps Lizbeth's lair. When I make my journey to times long past, I will have to find the abbot... or his chambers... and gain possession of this key.
History of ScytheEdit
Bless me Father for I have sinned.
Temptation has overtaken me. I must leave my brethren, yet I fear there may be difficulties. No one has ever left the monastery alive. My fellow monks have eyes of the eagle and ears of the hound. Therefore, I must walk quietly under the cloak of night. Perhaps if they do not see nor hear me, I will pass safely.
There is yet another reason for my leaving. Weeks ago, we uncovered the Scythe of the Celt out near the Standing Stones. This evil artifact has now infected us. I have seen a change in my brothers and in myself. Our minds are cursed, we spend less time with our quills and more time with our weapons.
The Scythe is a very powerful weapon, very adept at killing, but there is a price. I pray that the ritual at the church can summon the forces necessary to destroy the Scythe and return us to peace. I will not be present for the ritual, as I will use that time to slip away quietly into the wilderness.
Protect me, Father.
Monday - Transcribe
Tuesday - Transcribe
Wednesday - Transcribe
Thursday - Replace window in church tower
Friday - Transcribe
Saturday - Transcribe
Sunday - Rest
I find this Scythe of the Celt to be quite a disturbing force. It's clear from the history of this weapon that it is particularly effective in exterminating the most heinous of entities. At times it seemed to pull me in directions of combat...almost as if it's seeking pain and destruction.
Wreaking havoc on my mana when in my hands for long duration, it seems to replenish my health in particularly frenzied fighting.
I have learned to not fear many things in life, but there is something within this weapon that stirs a horror within me I cannot explain.
Lost Trsanti NoteEdit
These dark, twisting tunnels offer me no hope. I shiver with the cold the damp air brings. It's been several days now... several days since I fell in here, down what I thought was an old dried up water well. At the bottom of this well, there was no mud, no caked dirt, but instead a strange chamber.
This chamber could only have been used to practice the dark arts, as nothing else could explain the strange markings on the wall, the huge altar in the center of the room... the strange creatures that roam these halls.
They could only be the product of some sort of ancient summoning ritual. What horrible death have I doomed myself to?
I have almost completed my internment here on the island. I've spent the bulk of the time making sure that the water supply to the Monastery proper is sufficient. It gets cold and lonely down here in the huge chambers that contain the water storage cisterns, but I warm my heart with thoughts of you and Papa back at home. Pray for me that I might be allowed to remain here with the Abbot, who has shown me salvation. But also pray for some much-needed rain, for our supplies of drinking water run short!
Whilst tracking Lizbeth I came upon the matriarch of the Covenants, Evaline. Her corpse was standing at what seemed to be their dining room table, humming echoes of a childhood lullaby. As I touched her arm, her body fell limp into her chair, lifeless.
As if sensing her mother, Lizbeth entered the room and scolded me, "the interloper", for interfering. I do not yet know the wickedness that has befallen my poor friend's family, yet I feel it around every corner.
Someone must stop them. At first I thought these rituals were but an extension of our Faith, a show of glory to our maker. But to hear that fair maiden screaming for mercy! This cannot be what He would want of His followers. I fear that some of the brothers here have taken a disliking to me, as eyes are averted and silence falls when I enter a room.
How could the abbot allow this to continue uncontested? Does he even know? So much troubles me, yet I fear if I attempt to return to the Monastery to consult him, I might be the next one these madmen sent on the journey to the hereafter...
Ever faithful to the Order,
A spell with a superb effect. When used, it gives me a limited burst of speed and agility, like a big cat racing along the Serengeti.
I have found that this spell may prove critical for overcoming obstacles or retreating from my foes.
I did what I had to. I battled Lizbeth with all I had and narrowly escaped with my life. Even in death she haunted me. As I carried her severed head to the cliffs, she cursed at me still in demonic tongues and belittled her own end. She said I cannot stop what has already begun, that the family will be reunited, that the king will arise once again.
I cannot accept that my efforts are fruitless
I must repay my life debt to Jeremiah.
I will do what I must.
My Trsanti brothers,
The stranger must be stopped. Beware, he has skill. Remember the advice from the master in the East.
"Hence that general is skillful in attack whose opponent does not know what to defend; and he is skillful in defense whose opponent does not know what to attack."
When the stranger is dead, return to me in the Pirate's Cove.
- Ambrose -
I finally did it. I silenced Aaron. He will no longer belittle me or interfere with my research. This has released a great weight from my mind and allows me to pursue my studies in the silence of our ancestral home.
As a memento I have taken my dear brother's jaw. That source of constant ridicule will never again taunt me... his sway over me is broken. Unfortunately I do not think he felt a thing. The fool was so deep in his stupor he no doubt thought me a dream.
It would seem that I am the last of the Covenants. Since Aaron no longer troubles me, or himself for that matter, I find myself all alone. Jeremiah has not been heard from since he left for the War. It is better this way. I will now be able to complete what was started so many years ago on the Isle. It took well over twenty years for us to accept what we had done. I will be the one to finish the task and accept the legacy of this family.
What I heard makes more sense now. The man I heard Ambrose attack was his own father... he actually murdered his own blood.
A butler filled me in on a piece of the morbid Covenant history. The family, townspeople, and local authorities were afraid of Ambrose even after he had disappeared.
When he finally returned to the estate, the constables gave chase and Ambrose was able to evade them by leaping from the cliffs to the ocean far below.
Their fear of him when alive was nothing compared to the sightings of Ambrose following his deadly leap.
Back from the dead... it seems the black sheep has returned.
Some things never change. One by one my kin are dying. This pathetic excuse for a world is coming to an end. I write now only to pass the time, waiting for the authorities to cease their search for my body.
Looking back, I smile at the voices in my head that always said to keep this Pirate's Cove a secret. Had I shared my hideout with my siblings, the police would have shackled me up long ago. Instead, I am the hot-tempered, black sheep Covenant who leapt to his death to avoid capture.
Only my childhood companion Connor knew of this lair, and he, sadly, didn't share my vision of things to come. Funny, even I thought watching the life pour from a friend would trigger some remorse or compassion within me. But such is not the case.
This place is more of a home to me than my father's manor ever was. Long before I took this cove as my own, generations of thieves and smugglers found sanctuary here. Feeling their presence and guiding whispers drove me to unite with the Trsanti. Even the weakest sheep serves a purpose.
Oh, the day comes close.
11 May 1914
My father gave me this diary for my eighteenth birthday, just as he did for my older siblings. He thinks by forcing us into the same pathetic ritual he undertook as a young man, we will magically turn into responsible adults.
15 June 1914
Father is forcing me to use my journal. He watches now, across the library, as I write. "Self-reflection is the key to enlightenment," he says. Rotten tripe. Soon I take leave to travel across Europe and the Middle East.
14 April 1922
I have found my true brothers... the Trsanti. They are a barbaric race, traveling the desert in search of battle. They neither fight for independence nor to subjugate. They fight because they hate. They have taught me how to use primitive but powerful weaponry. I return home soon, bringing my knowledge, and some souvenirs with me.
3 May 1922
I need to know what father has been researching all these years. The old man has been negligent of everything else. I must know why this is so. I will sneak out to the island of standing stones to discover his secret. I will need to be careful. The grounds keepers are loyal and will snitch on me if they have half the chance.
4 May 1922
I am sure I was spotted by one of father's servants last night. I saw his lantern as I pulled the skiff from the dock. The island was a fools errand. Old rocks and some barbaric chiseling were all. It would have been worthless if not for a twist of fortune.
Not wanting to be seen, I risked the reefs and moored up the coast. There amongst the cliffs I discovered a mysterious cove. I am certain it is the hideout my ancestors used so long ago. I am excited to return and explore these caves. This secret will no doubt prove valuable to me.
21 June 1922
Today in the Billiard Room father confronted me about my late night excursions. I did not realize that a stick could do such damage. I watched as his blood stained the floor and he begged me for mercy. I told the servants that father's heart gave out and he hit his head while falling. My family is shocked. The funeral is tomorrow.
Father always said, "Self-reflection is the key to enlightenment." Allow me to reflect on this day. How could I have saved my father from a slow, painful death? I could have hit him harder.
23 June 1922
The constable is looking for me. He is suspicious. This may be my last entry in this journal, for I will not be caught alive. Since father's death, all fear has left me. Although the life I know is coming to an end, I feel as if I am about to begin anew.
"Brother Tristram has been acting very peculiar of late. He has not been seen for weeks, but I remember the afternoon when he began acting strangely. We had journeyed over to the mainland in order to secure supplies for the coming winter. Upon our return, Tristram came to me with a strange black book he had discovered while we were away. It seemed harmless, just a dusty old book with several strange runes etched across its bindings. But I could sense the unnatural power emanating from within.
I urged him to show his discovery to the abbot, but he was hesitant. He said he must return to the mainland, to the caves where he found the book. He beseeched me to leave the monastery with him, to embark on a quest to find more relics of its power. I declined, and have not seen him since. Lust for power is a most unfortunate vice."
The tale above is from a curious document that was given to me by one of the old fishermen in town. I wonder if the artifact they refer to is the infamous "Black Book" which is only whispered of behind closed doors in these parts? Supposedly, whoever was in possession of this book could gain mysterious powers. Rumor has it that the pirates were a blight on this region for so long because they wielded the power of the Black Book. Perhaps the book wasn't legendary... I wonder if it still exists today?
-- Father Patrick Killkenn
Ambrose Scrye EventEdit
An echo. Folks heard but not seen. That's the only way I can describe it... and yet that isn't accurate either.
I heard Ambrose, the family disgrace, arguing with someone and the distinct crack of timber, like a billiards cue. He was clearly striking someone and referring to the family curse.
Whomever it was, I don't think he need worry about a curse anymore.
Spoke with the groundskeeper and asked him how I can get to the Isle of Standing Stones. He says there's a skiff along the rocks that can provide passage.
He warned against idle paddling in these waters... but that's one piece of advice I do not need.
I can't quite explain the power I've seemed to absorb from this spell. It seems to be some protective entity that has the ability to shield me from physical and magical attacks. I'm not too fond of letting a spell do the work of a trusty shotgun, but if anything, I am now more than ever convinced that there are serious external and unnatural powers that can be harnessed on this estate.
Things that most people would disregard or fear...
I am relieved, however, that I have stumbled across this before someone of a darker nature might have turned it upon me.
The waters around the Standing Stones are too treacherous to navigate. Perhaps I should return to the Manor and try to find a coastal route to the Pirate's Cove. The groundskeepers may be able to give me a clue for my journey.
A groundskeeper told me about an old man, the lighthouse keeper... said he would be able to tell me the location of the cove. Name is Sedgewick.
In my search for Ambrose, I ventured out to the lighthouse and met Sedgewick, the lighthouse keeper.
With the first words from his mouth, he confirmed my suspicions about Ambrose's henchmen. The Trsanti aiding Ambrose are descendants of the very cowards Jeremiah and I fought in the Great War...and they have not changed their ways. Sedgewick's son, Conner, was killed by these thieves.
Before Conner's death, he spoke of their hideout located not far up the coast, concealed by the cliffs and hidden in a cove. Sedgewick suggested I look for an entrance on the surface, which can be unlocked with a key in his father's chest. He mentioned I could also find 'silver bullets' in his living quarters.
I certainly do not need any further incentive to kill as many Trsanti as I see... Ambrose or no Ambrose.
Sedgewick was correct. The Trsanti are here and from the looks of things, in numbers. Time to exact some revenge for Sedgewick and Jeremiah... and for myself.
God be with me.
This strange spell gives me the ability to hurl remnants of dead bodies, the skulls of those already in the grave, at ungodly speed. In all my travels, I have never quite seen a weapon of this type. The spell-caster who created this mystical weapon was truly insane.
Jeremiah is gone. My friend. He saved my life and I could not save his. I returned from the Pirate's Cove and found him awaiting me in the great hall. We spoke briefly, but I cannot recall what was said... the last words we shared stolen like a dream.
His outcast of a brother, Ambrose, dropped from the rafters and took Jeremiah hostage. Ambrose demanded my Gel'ziabar stone in exchange for his brother... but I should have known. He smiled as I tossed the stone, the look in his eye remorseless. His axe glided thru Jeremiah's neck without breaking pace. Jeremiah's mouth was still struggling to form words, though severed from his writhing body. I was frozen at the realization that his eyes could still spill tears. Then Ambrose changed.
The combination of my stone and his axe must have some mystical power as it allowed him to distort into a monstrous version of himself. He grew twice in size... twice in strength. We fought and had I not been blinded by rage, Ambrose would have certainly disposed of me most quickly.
My rage was his fate however and I took momentarily solace at ending his life in the same fashion as Jeremiah. Physically shaking, I was struck by a beast and knocked cold. When I awoke, the solace I had felt was replaced by loss... by my failure.
All I can do now is finish this... to let Jeremiah rest in peace.
Something tells me Keisinger has something to do with this. I must find my way back to Oneiros. I noticed odd purple clouds hovering around the strange tower connected to the house after returning from Oneiros. I need to find my way to that tower and discover what mysteries is holds. Now that Jeremiah is gone, perhaps I will get some answers from Keisinger.
This may be the last record of a once great family. For nine generations, the Covenants have occupied these grounds. Yet I sense that we have never been alone. In the past months, I have witnessed the deaths of my siblings, and the horrors of their resurrections. It is worse than I ever could have imagined.
The Covenant name has been tainted by my siblings, yet I fear it is my doing. As a youth, I yielded to temptation and brought them to the Standing Stones. I had thought Father's books on the occult were harmless entertainment, tricks for my imagination. Whatever we unleashed on that day has been with us since. And as my sickness grows, my strength cedes. To cure these cursed grounds, I will need help. I must find Patrick Galloway.
Patrick is a man capable of the extraordinary.
I have not spoken to Patrick in some time. His last letter mentioned that in his travels, he had discovered some good uses for magic and the occult. I find this ironic considering Patrick's pedantic tendencies. But perhaps his newly formed talents will serve him well when he arrives here at the manor.
I feel I must be honest with him when he arrives. The tasks ahead of us are daunting. I am unsure that even Patrick, with his uncanny skill, can survive.
What madness is this? Scrying inside Jeremiah's room, I overheard a past conversation with Aaron ranting at my poor friend. The lunatic is furious at Jeremiah for something incomprehensible.
He spoke of a king being more a brother than he ever had, and demanded to know where Bethany is. What revenge is Aaron looking for against his own sister?
I have prepared the ritual. I don't think I can go through with this. I know this spell could be a powerful means for me to protect this family but the risk may be too great. Perhaps I don't truly believe in the power of the black art. Is it possible for these unnatural incantations to protect us from the unassailable power of nature's raw energy?
If the times were not so desperate I could change my mind. My fear that the ritual may be discovered by the children seems unfounded. The ascent to Widow's Watch is dangerous and unlikely to be discovered, yet I must attempt it once again...if only to see whether my naive tinkering with The Tower has had any further ill effect.
I am sure that it was my wanton interference that attracted the attention of these malevolent spirits. I believe these magical devices called Ether Traps should protect me if only I can trick the specters into them.
The more I explore the realms of magic, the more I have come to fear it. May our souls be protected.
A spell that harnesses the power of the heavens! To be a conduit for this type of energy is mind numbing.
I feel certain that it will provide a potent offensive force, especially when used in concert with my other weaponry.
Keisinger and OneirosEdit
The manor's great tower held another portal to Oneiros. Keisinger was either unaware of this one or simply too arrogant to believe I pose a threat... most likely the latter. I will find him here in this Stygian landscape and we will settle our affairs, once and for all. The Covenant siblings I have dispatched of necessity, of duty to Jeremiah, and of pity for their ravaged, broken souls. But not so, Otto Keisinger. I am not usually a man given to hatred, but I could gut Otto Keisinger and feel no remorse. I may just do that.
Sil Lith HistoryEdit
Labeling it a perspective shift does not portray what they do. A warping of the mind is as close a description as I dare, as the pain returns whenever I recollect the event.
They appear harmless as a crow, and I suppose that alone represents a fraction of their danger. Strange, birdlike creatures that flutter about seemingly innocent until confronted.
I fled the claws that swung at my back and for the briefest moment I thought I had escaped. As I turned to look, a glowing beam of light left its head and struck mine in a single blink. My eyes deserted me as distance came near and solids stretched. I vomited what little I had eaten since the day I first saw Oneiros.
I call them the Sil Lith Inhabitants. And curiously, I feel as though they've wanted me to know their name. That they told me.
It is Keisinger... I know it. I see his face in every direction I look and hear his voice mocking me from afar. I can smell him above and below... and I feel him behind me.
His control over this ruined city must be exacting a toll on his powers. That may be the edge I need.
My hate runs deeper.
Great as I am, even I must admit to envying them. The Verago, the faceless cloaks that gracefully traverse the sky.
Though somewhat novice, their summoning power is commendable and apparently their primary defense. Their true strength seems to manifest when they are in groups, as I've witnessed single Verago flee from what would seem to be even tame, defenseless creatures.
Perhaps I most appreciate their fierceness. Even when cornered by prey, they simply refuse to submit and throw themselves at the enemy in what I can only describe as a suicidal storm.
Perchance I give them too much credit and they are mere cowards? What sport it would be to find how many of these runners I could frighten into taking their own life.
I now laugh as I ink these words, for I have already forgotten why someone like myself would envy them. The creatures of Oneiros seem to build upon their magical power from the realm itself. However I have found that magic can combat magic and that the creatures of Oneiros seem to have a difficult time in combating even the most elemental magical attacks.
These Verago, these cowards with a child's grasp of magic, are so weak when alone they instinctively turn to suicide? Ah, I've grown soft over the years. I think I shall venture up the Oracle and see what attracts them there.
It seems that I have been given the ability of limited flight. When in mystical realms, this spell allows my legs to carry me much higher than before. I must be careful. Like Icarus, I fear if I travel too high for too long I may dash into the ground and injure myself...or worse.
He's dead. The face, the name, the past... all of him. Otto Keisinger had challenged, taunted, and finally attacked me on his own battlefield. He has embarrassed me for the last time.
We fought in the dream world of Oneiros, on a series of buttresses high atop a tower in a floating city. In our chess match, he was beaten at his own game and I feel an uncomfortable sense of joy when I picture his body falling into the abyss.
As I retraced my steps leaving the city, I came face-to-face with the birdlike creatures I fought going in. The 'Inhabitants' did not attack however; rather they gave thanks for Keisinger's demise and supplied me with a Mana Well for my efforts. Though they didn't say, I can only assume Otto had tortured the natives of this world as he did me on earth.
I spoke with a butler about Aaron. An artist, he said Aaron would spend long hours in his private studio, located in the manor's inner-courtyard.
Sleep has denied me. I haven't rested in days as these visions haunt me. Green shapeless thoughts. A world of rats. I wish to return to my German boarding house and the sanctuary it provides. I have seen the crown and it burdens my brow. Behind the canvas is another image.
Bethany, you witch, I know you're watching and plotting...do not covet my thoughts. They are mine and his and you'll never understand. Quiet, this isn't for her to hear. My pen and brush confess too much. These images must get out of my head, I must sleep.
Perhaps I can visit Asia. So far away. It would be escape but it would be a lie.
What is this? Bethany has hidden a human jawbone beneath the floorboards. I seems unthinkable that a family could visit such atrocities upon each other, but from what I have learned, I suspect that this is Aaron's. It's no wonder his ghost is so restless. This grim trophy may be a key to quelling his spirit.
An interesting letter arrived today. It seems that my search for like minds might have been halted prematurely. He calls himself Otto Keisinger. Curiously, I have never tried to contact him. How he got my name, I have no idea, but I must admit my curiousity is piqued. I am going to have to be careful with this one. I can't let him know the extent of my knowledge. He might see me as a threat or even steal what will be rightfully mine.
If I can play to his ego and vanity (do all Magus have this flaw?) I will quicken my learning. He talks of "Oneiros." I have found reference to an ancient city among my father's books. Supposedly it was destroyed in a magical cataclysm. He claims to have been there. He may be another fool like Crowley, but if not, I need his knowledge and help. I am ready to make sacrifices for such knowledge. Perhaps with the right ruse that will not be necessary.
Damn this man, he teases me. He placates me by teaching me parlor tricks. I have little patience for this, but if he were to know the extent of my knowledge he would certainly end our correspondence. He treats me like a toy or child.
I want to complete this. This house is becoming a trap. I don't belong here anymore. I have to take the next step. I must learn what Keisinger knows. Where the hell are all these rats coming from!?!??!
I discovered that Otto lives in England. Perhaps I will have to pay him a visit...
I greet you Patrick, my brother's crusading hero. I have brought you to my realm of Eternal Autumn, where I rule with unquestioned authority. I have watched you. One by one you have destroyed my sister and brothers. You even defeated that vile Keisinger. I find it ironic that he who thought himself a mighty enough magician to kill me, the betrothed of the greatest kings, was bested by a pitiful mortal like yourself. Now only you and I are left. I do not fear you, for I have more power than any of my siblings could ever have dreamed of.
Come to me, if you dare, and die a mortal's death!