| Original Version (by Nino Ruffini) | Final Version (edited & expanded) |
| F R O B O Z Z N A T I O N A L A R C H I V E S CLASSIFICATION: Unclassified LOCATION: Greater Underwing, Sec. 3502.32 ARCHIVE FILE # A-NEM/FOBILA CONTENTS: Journal and effects belonging to Agent L. Bivotar, discovered 20 bloits downwind of the Eastlands (a.k.a. the Forbidden Lands) INSTRUCTIONS: By Order of The Esteemed Vice Regent Syovar: To be filed without indexing among the personal papers and memoirs of the Vice Regent. Seal is to remain undisturbed on pain of severe torture and/or dismemberment of any violator. Signed, Flapto Dimtop, Regal Director of Records and Historical Accuracy Frobozz National Archives | |
| F R O B O Z Z N A T I O N A L A R C H I V E S By Declaration of The Esteemed Vice Regent Syovar the Strong: This Parchment declares that Agent Karlok Bivotar has full Rights and Authority to act as Agent and Representative of Vice Regent Syovar in all matters concerning the investigation of Cases 95820, 95821, 95822, and 95823* of the Bureau of Missing Citizens. Any requests for assistance and/or information made by Agent Bivotar should be treated with the utmost immediacy. Long Live the Vice Regent. *Referring to the suspicious disappearance of Madame Sophia Hamilton, Bishop Francois Malveaux, Doctor Erasmus Sartorius and General Thaddeus Kaine, respectively, all Citizens of importance and stature whose welfare is of the utmost concern of the Vice Regent and the Empire. | |
| 17 Arch 948 To His Royal Highness King Syovar- I doubt that I will live to know whether or not this report will ever reach your hands. This mission has been a dangerous one in the extreme, as we knew it would be. I am not well. I fear for my health and sanity, and yet I feel that I must remain in this place a few weeks longer, in hopes of learning the truth. I have entrusted this packet to a friend who is utterly beyond reproach. Please show him the kindest hospitality available to you. I pray he make it out alive. Your orders, my lord, were vague, because the situation is vague. The Forbidden Lands have been a private hell for me these last months. I have included in this packet parts of my own notes and diary, with particular attention to the words of the survivors. It is imperative that we find the truth behind the four missing alchemists if this land is ever to be cured. I remain behind in an effort to learn more. Give my love to Juranda, and may the best of success be yours. Bivotar |
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| 17 Dismembur 947 Most Esteemed Vice Regent Syovar- My Sovereign, I now stand at the outskirts of the Forbidden Lands, prepared to make quick work of this strange and weighty assignment entrusted to me. I was somewhat disturbed that our briefing was hastened by an unexplained urgency. Nevertheless, my objectives are clear to me, as enumerated by Your Eminence: 1. To determine the whereabouts of Four (4) Missing Citizens of Prominence. 2. To substantiate the alleged curse of the so-declared Forbidden Lands. 3. To investigate rumors of unauthorized magic, black or otherwise, in the region. It is the final element of my assignment that most intrigues me, and, if I read your Countenance properly, stands to bear the most significant fruit. That you have ordered my mission through unorthodox procedures, and madespecial request that I report back to you alone, gives me cause to think there may be much to be gained from this adventure. I shall keep these faithfully. You have promised great rewards. I should hope so, as, true to its name, the land seems to promise great risk. Your Obedient Servant, Bivotar | |
| 22 Dismembur 947 It is clear to me now that the King's order to make all of the eastern provinces outside of his control into forbidden territory was a wise decision. Since the fall of the empire, all of these lands have been devastated by famine and barbarian invasions of the worst kind. It would be a wasted effort for Syovar to attempt to recapture these territories in hopes of restoring the Great Underground Empire. Civilized life will never again thrive in these territories, but the reasons are much deeper than we had ever feared. Some sort of evil spirit has come to reside in this place, and it is doubtful to me that even Syovar would be able to defeat the force that has taken control of this land. What that force might be, I still have no idea. I am now three days' journey south of the northern branch of the Frigid River. The border crossing was well guarded. Even with the scroll bearing Syovar's signature, the royal militia was reluctant to let me cross. They must have thought me crazy for wanting to journey into the Forbidden Lands. I have not yet reached the edge of the desert, but already the signs of devastation are obvious on every side. Immense scars and patches of burnt land are visible with alarming frequency, as if the Implementors have tormented the province with an unceasing series of lightning strikes and fire storms. Giant corbies circle overhead, menacingly, already waiting for me to collapse in exhaustion. [repeated text from below for comparison-- Thinking back to that year, the hauntings and hallucinations must have begun just shortly after the disappearance of the four. The Grey Mountains slipped into oblivion first, the inhabitants of Frostham complaining of horrible screams and an inescapable stench that pervaded the area around the old insane asylum. The reports came from the Desert River next. Merchants and trading caravans that still moved through the areas untouched by the war began to report nightmares, and visions so powerful that they lingered for weeks in the minds of the victims. Soon, the entire sky over that area became covered with distorted faces and figures, prompting Syovar to consider forbidding all access to these desolate provinces.] [Most of the refugees managed to make it out in time. Those that didn't are now shattered husks of human beings.] |
22 Dismembur 947 [see below for parallel text] I am now three days journey south of the northern branch of the Frigid River. The border crossing was well-guarded. Even with the scroll bearing Syovar’s signature, the royal militia was reluctant to let me cross. They must have thought me crazy for wanting to journey into the Forbidden Lands. And perhaps I am; I have not yet reached the edge of the desert, but already the signs of devastation are obvious on every side. Immense scars and patches of burnt land are visible with alarming frequency, as if the Implementors have tormented the province with an unceasing series of lightning strikes and fire storms. Giant corbies circle overhead menacingly, already waiting for me to collapse in exhaustion. This is no place for the living. Of the hauntings and hallucination, this much I can piece together. The Grey Mountains slipped into oblivion first, the inhabitants of Frostham complaining of horrible screams and an inescapable stench that pervaded the area. Reports came from the Desert River next. Merchants and trading caravans that still moved through the areas untouched by the war began to report nightmares and visions so powerful that they lingered for weeks in the minds of the victims. Soon the entire sky over that area became covered with distorted faces and figures, prompting Syovar to consider forbidding all access to these desolate provinces. Most of the refugees managed to make it out in time. Those who didn’t are now dead or, from what I have witnessed thus far, wish they were. |
| [repeated text from above for comparison-- It is clear to me now that the King's order to make all of the eastern provinces outside of his control into forbidden territory was a wise decision. Since the fall of the empire, all of these lands have been devastated by famine and barbarian invasions of the worst kind. It would be a wasted effort for Syovar to attempt to recapture these territories in hopes of restoring the Great Underground Empire. Civilized life will never again thrive in these territories, but the reasons are much deeper than we had ever feared.] | 24 Dismembur 947 It is clear to me now that the Vice Regent’s order to make all of the eastern provinces outside of his control into forbidden territory was a wise decision. It is doubtful to me if even Syovar the Strong (Dear Yoruk, the life of a sycophant— must I call him that, even in my personal papers?) would be able to defeat the force that has taken control of this land—whether it truly is a curse, or simply the latest terrorist tactic of the Enchanters’ Guild. Moreover, since the fall of the empire, these lands have been devastated by famine and barbarian invasions of the worst kind. It would be a wasted effort for Syovar (!) to attempt to recapture these territories in hopes of restoring the Great Underground Empire—just as it is a wasted effort for me to be here now. Civilized life will never again thrive in these territories, a fact undeniably attested to by the unpalatable platypus pot pie I was forced to eat for my dinner last night— if you could call it that. Some sort of evil spirit has come to reside, at least in the gastronomy of this place, that much is clear. |
| 3 Estuary 948 I arrived at the city of Zylonika at dusk last evening. Such a desolate and dismal place to be named after such a magnificent king! The entire area was abandoned, thousands of refugees and lunatics having streamed forth two years earlier, when the worst of the hauntings began. I found only one old woman, sitting in the central square, lost in her own little world. She hadn't eaten in days or bathed in weeks. Using a stick to carve lines in the dirt, she preoccupied herself by doodling a vast array of astrological symbols all across the square. I tried to grab her attention, but she simply went on, mumbling about the nature of the secret elixir and the philosopher's stone, and praising the unity of all elements. The references to the forbidden alchemical sciences caught my ear, and I pressed her for details. She pretended not to hear me, only gradually answering my own questions by continuing to talk to herself. It seems that this old hag had for years been intimate with the most powerful among the alchemical community. She had fled to the east some thirty years before, when the Circle of Enchanters began the worst of their campaigns of persecution against the alchemists. Sharing her journey to the Eastlands was a most learned alchemist by the name of Erasmus Sartorius, to whom she had apprenticed herself several years before. By this time, night had fallen completely and the ruins of Zylonika had become horrible oppressive. Even the old woman seemed to be growing uncomfortable, her mumblings and screechings growing more nervous and frantic with each passing moment. The name she had mentioned struck a distant chord in my memory. I am sure that I have heard of this man before, but at the time, I could remember no details. I pressed her for more, but by this time she was becoming almost incomprehensible. If I understood her correctly, she had had some bitter falling out with the alchemists. Their methods had become too brutal and sadistic for her blood, and she had become appalled at their self-serving motives. She began screaming about voices and visions in the night, blaming the alchemists for the devastation around her. I tried to hold her, to calm her, asking her where I could find this Erasmus Sartorius. Her reaction was one I will never forget. She broke free of me, running and laughing hysterically. "There! There! There! And there!" she screamed, pointing at the rocks, the trees, the stars, the half-moon. "Don't you see? He is everywhere now. We can never escape him. We can never escape any of them!" With those words, she was gone. I never even learned her name. |
5 Estuary 948 I arrived at the outskirts of Irondune, Kaine’s territory, at dusk yesterday. I found only one old woman, sitting in the central square, lost in her own little world. She hadn’t eaten in days or bathed in weeks. Using a stick to carve lines in the dirt, she pre-occupied herself by doodling a vast array of astrological symbols all across the square. I tried to grab her attention, but she simply went on mumbling about the nature of the secret elixir and the philosopher’s stone, and praising the unity of all elements. The references to the forbidden alchemical sciences caught my ear, and I pressed her for details. She pretended not to hear me, only gradually answering my own questions by continuing to talk to herself, but I caught a garbled reference to one Doctor Erasmus Sartorius, a.k.a. my assignment 95822. I hurriedly began to copy down the symbols she was drawing in the dust. Before I could finish, she took the pen from my hand and began to sketch the most beautiful, otherworldly drawing. I asked if I could have it, and she took from her bag a roll of parchment, filled with her elaborate, mystic visions. I have studied them for hours, and don’t know what to make of them. They are strangely arresting. |
| 7 Estuary 948 As I make my way through the desert south of Aragain, the desolation of the sand dunes renders this already-deserted province nearly unbearable. It seems hard toI don’t know what to make of this —believe that this desert was not always a wasteland—not until the black magic of two ruling egos levelled it. I can see Irondune rising up in the distance, surrounded by plumes of black smoke. I see that Ellron wastes no time, now that the General is absent. Perhaps here I will find some answers that will lead me to General Kaine and hasten my return home. My fellow wayfarers—of the unimpressive yet customary sort that you find along the Great Underground Highways of this land—attribute the curse to some dark figure they will only call the “Nemesis.” The name has surfaced two or three times now, and with the same dark respect a child attributes to the boogey-man. But these are mawkish, superstitious folks, with not the insight of a brogmoid between them. I refuse to endure another endless game of Fanucci in hopes of eliciting more useless information. | |
| 24 Estuary 948 I left Zylonika as soon as I was able. Another two days' journey brought me to a little place called Finbar. The situation there was only a little better. Not every store or home had been completely ransacked and destroyed. I was able to find several inhabitants still living in the area, not altogether in good shape themselves, but willing to share certain useful things with me. The following is a clipping from last Oracle's Desert River Frobber, one of the most widely circulated newspapers in the region. Although the article itself is almost a year old, it does perhaps explain certain parts of the current situation in the villages lining the lower Frigid River. "A
group of local enchanters and thaumaturges, headed by the noble
Aramina, met last night in a final attempt to banish the ghosts and
evil spirits that have been haunting the people of Finbar for over a
year and a half. Although hopes were high for the success of the
ceremony, it seems to have met with little luck. Three more
disappearances have been reported since midnight, and Mayor D. U.
Marble-Froz was found dead in his bath early this morning. Aramina was quoted as saying: 'We were up against forces beyond our wildest comprehension. There is little that can be done to oppose those that have passed into the realm of the undead.' Deputy Mayor Torg has ordered a complete evacuation of the village of Finbar, saying that 'those of us that can make it north into the realms of Syovar might be able to find safety. I urge all of you that can afford to do so to travel to the border before Syovar's edict takes effect.'" Since this article was printed, the village of Finbar has lost over 90% of its original population, some of them returning safely to Syovar's rule, still more having disappeared without a trace. Last Mumberbur, the editors of the Frobber were themselves reported to have been kidnapped. The main office was closed and the magical printing presses brought to a halt. Since then, all attempts at reviving the Desert River Frobber have met with failure. The buildings and the presses themselves are reputedly haunted, under the control of some invisible evil spirits. One young man I met in Finbar was himself extremely helpful. He had been an apprenticed sorcerer of some kind himself, but had abandoned the art in disgust once the dispute between the enchanters and the alchemists erupted into full-fledged violence. For some reason the man seemed little affected by the hallucinations and nearly-contagious insanity that has infected the Forbidden Lands. I suspect that some sort of secret association with the alchemists protects him somehow, but I was not able to get him to admit the truth. I questioned him about the alchemical community that had arisen in and around the Desert River Province ever since the alchemical arts had been banned in the western provinces. He seemed fairly knowledgeable about the subject, explaining the rumors that the highest initiates into the secret rites belonged to an ancient and unknown society whose members included Sartorius, whose name I had heard several nights before, along with a select group of others, including General Kaine himself. Knowing that all attempts to reach Kaine over the last three years in hopes of finding some sort of diplomatic solution to his endless struggle with Lord Ellron had ended in complete failture, I asked several more questions. The young enchanter seemed amused at my ignorance. "Haven't you heard of Kaine's fate?" His surprise was evident. I explained that little news had escaped from those regions lately, and that the Forbidden Lands were largely a mystery to all who lived under King Syovar. "General Kaine has been missing for almost three years now!" His words were shocking. Nothing about this situation seemed to make sense. Syovar's subject, Lord Ellron, had been waging an endless war against an opponent that had disappeared, deep inside territory that Syovar had declared to be forbidden? "Who then rules over the provinces of Desert River and Famathria? Has Kaine's son risen to succeed him?" He snickered and laughed at me. "Kaine's son couldn't lead an army if his life depended upon it. He's a hopeless romantic. Since his father vanished, all he's done is wander aimlessly, squandering his father's fortune in some juvenile quest to recover a lost love. Who knows? Some say he killed his father himself, but it's hard to be sure." I asked him where I could find Kaine's son, whose name turned out to be Lucien, and his reply was intriguing indeed. "You can't find him. No one can. He spends all his time underground now, living in the old caverns of the Great Underground Empire. From what I hear, he fancies himself quite the bandit." This explanation is baffling to me. For sixty-five years now the Dungeon Master has fiercely guarded every entrance to the old underground realms, insisting that no one would enter until the time was right. Not even Syovar, the rightful heir to the empire, had been allowed to enter until just recently. Why the Dungeon Master would let this young Lucien run around down there made little sense indeed. |
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| 12 Frobuary 948 It is hard to know what to expect next. Each day seems to bring something stranger still than the day before. Old legends claim that the vast desert between the two branches of the Frigid River was formed ages ago by the violent devastation caused by an epic battle between two great sorcerers. Nevertheless, the heat here is unbearable. I had grown lost in the rolling of the dunes and had begun to despair of ever finding a way out, when I came across a wandering band of monks, a dozen of them maybe, dancing in circles around a fire they had started in the sand. They were a strange bunch, singing aloud in some ancient tongue, throwing little scraps of metal into the fire, yelling out various poems of praise to the fire-gods. Those kinds of ceremonies are common even throughout the lands of Syovar, but it just was not what I had expected to find in the middle of a war-torn desert. People used to think that the world was flat, and that it rested on the head of a giant brogmoid, but hardly anyone ever believes that any more. With the cult of brogmoidism so deeply out of favor, the fire-gods reaped all the benefits. These wild acolytes had chosen to devote their whole life to their faith, living in celibacy and loneliness for their gods. As they grew tired of their ceremonies, they one by one began to take notice of my presence. They did not run from me, unlike most people in this horrible land, but were in fact quite friendly. They almost seemed a little too excited to see me, grinning at me, hugging me, touching my shoulder and kissing me on the cheek. It soon came out through conversation that they had come from a monastery some several hundred bloits to the southwest, among the mountains on the Steppinthrax Peninsula. I mention this as significant because I am sure that Syovar will remember the place of which I speak. This monastery was closed by the Inquisitor in Syovar's name in the third month of 947. The place had been under suspicion for quite some time: it is after all hardly proper for a monastery of male monks to be raising an orphaned teenage girl. At any rate, the place had been under the spiritual leadership of Bishop Malveaux, whose writings had led many thousands of Quendorans to return to the worship of fire, although he was long under suspicion of having given his soul to the demons. All of these monks were unanimous in their praise for Malveaux. They called him a great man, a genius akin to the gods. They claimed that his powers of alchemy had destined him for immortality. One of the group in particular, standing a hand's length from my face and whispering in my ear, told me more than any of the others. He said that the horrible hauntings and evil spirits that had overrun the Forbidden Lands were manifestations of the power of Malveaux and his circle of friends. That he could smile at the evil around him made me horrified. I asked him how he could praise Malveaux if his dark rites were responsible for the madness around us. He smiled and moved closer, touching my cheek. His whisper was ugly and harsh. "Don't you see? He has not yet won! This madness, this hell, is but a moment's purgatory in exchange for an eternity of paradise." I asked the inevitable question. "How can I find him?" His arm began to twitch, almost violently. "You cannot. He is hiding, waiting. For three years now he and the others have been gone, watching this place until the moment is right." "Others? What others?" He backed away from me, dancing and writhing, his answer a haunting and melodic chant: "Air, earth, and water. The madman, the general, and his lover." I blinked, and he was gone. |
[see below for parallel text] |
| 3 Arch 948 Syovar- I have over the last few weeks gained a much deeper understanding of the nature of the war between Ellron and Kaine, the bloody aftermath of which is still weaving its course across the southern provinces. Much of this information will be useful to you in your attempts to gain control over the Forbidden Lands, as it sheds light on the chaotic power-vacuum that has existed in these realms for almost three years now. I have begun with a few explanatory comments that will not be new to you, so that I might trace the story from beginning to end. As you well know, the conflict between Ellron and Kaine has its roots in the disintegration of the Great Underground Empire in the year 883 After Entharion. After the departure of the last king, Wurb Flathead, each province fell to warring with its neighbors. It was only your military strength that preserved any semblance of stability in the Eastlands. Thaddeus Kaine emerged in the early 920s as one of your strongest generals, but the relationship turned sour in 924 when Ellron and Kaine fell to bickering over control of the border regions between the former Aragain and Desert River provinces. Since then, the conflict has dragged on unceasingly for two decades. During your absence on campaign in the Westlands, the two petty lords have marched their armies up and down throughout these regions. Ellron has at times obeyed your wishes and ordered that the violence be stopped, but each time, Kaine's treachery began the conflict again. Since Kaine's inexplicable disappearance, his cause has fallen into complete disarray. His armies have fallen under the command of a series of nameless, second-rate generals that have failed to rise to the urgency of the occasion. As you well know, we had believed that Lord Ellron has, despite your urgings, continued to push his troops further into the haunted and desolate regions that Kaine once controlled. Kaine's armies had held territory as far north as the Frigid River Valley until 945, but by the spring of 946 they had been forced back to the regions surrounding the inaccessible Temple of the Ancients. By the start of 947, Ellron's troops had succeeded in overrunning the entirety of the Desert River Province. It is here that your concerns over the loyalty of Lord Ellron become the most important. Ellron himself had spent most of the year at your side, aiding you in your struggle to retake the ancient Westlands. In your final conversation with me, you had seemed worried that he had not been entirely honest with you, and that even as he was assisting you in your darkest hour, he had betrayed you. Rumors had reached your ears that Ellron persisted in the conquest of the Desert River area in hopes of forging his own power base, and ultimately rebelling against your authority. I can assure you now that these accusations are not true. Ellron has remained faithful to you throughout this entire affair, and if he has ever been dishonest in his reports to you, it is only to spare you the burden of knowing the truth. Since the winter of 946-947, Ellron's armies have fallen utterly out of his control. Every last man once under his authority has fallen prey to the sickness that pervades this land, from his highest generals to the lowest foot-soldiers. The first mutinies began in the last weeks of 946. By Estuary of 947, General Frobblemarre had already quelled three different riots in his ranks by executing one out of every twenty men that took part. Large numbers of soldiers have broken away from the main invading army over the last year and a half. Roving brigades have fallen upon one random village after the next like packs of wild wolves, ignoring all orders and communiques with the outside world. These hordes seem to be driven by a force almost outside of themselves, moving in directions and committing atrocities that even they do not understand. A few of the older veterans have shown enough strength to leave these guerillas, but those that do seem to lose their sanity in the attempt, wandering the hillsides aimlessly, mumbling to themselves. I have spoken to a few of these survivors. Most of what they say makes little sense. What is coherent paints a very ugly picture indeed: "It's
hard, so very hard. I can't remember which came first, the
hallucinations or the killings. The pain... it started at night, in our
dreams. The four would come to us, begging, pleading. In the skies, the
dunes, the dirt... we would see these things and scream out afraid. The
first one to die was skinned alive by his own tent-mate, as he screamed
about the lady and her lover. We can't ever scape those two... ever." -Andrew Brog, Port Foozle "I
love the skies here at night. You see such beautiful things. That woman
is the most stunning sight I have ever seen. No human should be
allowed. None! I wonder why they do this to us. Have we done something
wrong? Is there anything we can do to save her?" -Ariela Comnena, Frigid River Valley "The
Implementors speak to me at night. They come to me as angels, four of
them, and they teach me the true things. But the others around me do
not understand. They yell and scream and fight, and talk to other
voices that I cannot hear. The old empire has fallen, fallen, but I
come to this place and find immortality! Why, then, why help the lady
that torments us with that horrible, aching music?" -F. B. Punketah, Zylonika I know not what to say, Your Highness. All is not well here. Those are the lucid ones, the ones still sane enough to form coherent thoughts, the ones not afraid enough to run from me at first sight. I have tried to infiltrate a few of these roving bands of madmen, but I have had no success. They know almost immediately that I am not one of them, that I do not see the things that they see. I cannot help but wonder why it is that I have been spared. The sickness that pervades this place has passed me over. Perhaps it is only a matter of time. At any rate, these drifting criminals are hardly in worse condition than what is left of Ellron's army. I doubt that any of the men under Frobblemarre are sane enough at this point to attempt to make any contact with Ellron. Perhaps this is why Ellron has seemed so distracted lately: he does not know the fate or whereabouts of thousands once under his command. |
27 Estuary 948 Syovar- I have spent the past few weeks traversing the territories of Irondune, my Regent. The endless border disputes between Ellron and Kaine—over, if you recall, the former Aragain and Desert River provinces—seem to drag on without solution, as they have for several decades now. No two men have despised each other more. As we imagined, since Kaine’s inexplicable disappearance, his army has fallen into complete disarray, and even his precious Irondune is under siege. Yet perhaps more remarkable than the disrepair of Kaine’s army is the lamentable state of Ellron’s. Ellron’s armies have fallen utterly out of his control. Every man has fallen prey to the sickness that pervades this land, from his highest generals to his lowest foot-soldiers. Large numbers of soldiers have fallen upon one random village after the next, like packs of wild wolves. These hordes seem to be driven by a force almost outside of themselves, moving in directions and committing atrocities that even they do not understand. What inhabitants remain in the region keep hidden behind their boarded-up doors. I try to enlist them in conversation, but they are too frightened—and most of what they say makes little sense. I have kept some record. Since
the Nemesis began to visit us, I no longer fear the devil. Blood runs
in the streets where he goes. The madness begins later. And the
hallucinations—unspeakable atrocities, written in the dunes, the dirt,
the skies. The first one to die was skinned alive by his own tent-mate,
as he screamed about the lady and her lover. Please. That’s all. —Andrew Brog, Port Foozle I
love the skies here at night. You see such beautiful things. That woman
is the most stunning sight I have ever seen. But the Darkness. It
stalks her. I witness her murder again and again, every time I dream.
In the morning, my pillow is wet with her blood. Is there nothing you
can do to save her? —Ariela Comnena, Frigid River Valley The
General was a good man. A family man. If he knew what was
happening...in his own land, with his own people. It’s a bloody shame.
Spooks or not, the old empire has fallen, fallen... —F.B. Punketah, Zylonika I do not see the things that they see. I cannot help but wonder why it is that I have been spared. The sickness that pervades this place has passed me over. I fear it is only a matter of time. |
Now it seems that the few reports we had heard in Aragain were true. Ellron's armies have pushed what is left of the resistance all the way to the southern reaches of Famathria, across the southern branch of the Frigid River, and within sight of Kaine's ancestral castle. No one here knows what the final goal of that insane and rebellious army might be, nor exactly what the capture of his castle will accomplish. | 2 Frobuary 948 I have reached the Castle Irondune, and was surprised to recognize the castle from among the madwoman’s sketches. What to make of this, I do not know. Clearly, the sickness has preceded me here. Ellron’s armies have pushed what is left of the resistance all the way to the southern reaches of Famathria, across the southern branch of the Frigid River, and within sight of Kaine’s ancestral castle. No one here knows what the final goal of that insane and rebellious army might be, nor exactlywhat the siege of his castle will accomplish. Still, the black smoke of battle grows thicker every day. It was not difficult to slip past Ellron’s troops undetected, but when I reached Irondune, I discovered a most amazing thing. The majority of Kaine’s troops aren’t even convinced that the General has disappeared at all! It appears Kaine, who, as you will no doubt recall, invented Thaddeum, remains equal parts scientist and general. He maneuvers his troops through an elaborate system of remote radio control codes of such a sophisticated nature that I have been unable to decipher them. All that I know is this: the codes seem to telegraph Kaine’s instructions on any given day, provided the soldier can identify himself with the given cipher for that day. If I progress any further with this intelligence, I will forward it immediately. I sense that information of this nature would be entirely too dangerous to carry on my person. |
| 10 Frobuary 948 I stumbled upon an old castle guard today, raving mad and desperate to talk. Such is my luck. He spent all morning lecturing on the minute differences between each of the General’s many suits of armor. I wanted to borrow a knife from one of their scabbards and slit his throat. Lucky for him, the scabbard was empty. Unluckily for me, he continued on with his deranged show-and-tell all afternoon, trying to convince me this one repugnant little antique dog was actually some sort of weapon. And I am Lord Flathead, and you are Yoruk himself! Apparently, this toothless old hungus has known Kaine since he was a boy. Note: General Kaine does seem to inspire this type of fervent fealty in all those who serve under him. The guard, no less inclined, pressed these photographs into my hands and begged me to bring his beloved liege back to him. I recognized some of the figures in the photographs from the Society Page, the New Zork Times, etc., but I realized I had never seen the young man, whom the guard confirmed to be Lucien, Kaine’s only son. Why this Lucien had never been present at any of the Regional Councils on War, Governance or Taxation that, as heir to Irondune, he would have been overwhelmingly likely to attend with his father, I could only speculate. The guard recalled that he was either an artist or a dentist of some significance. (!) In either case, I am thinking that he may have gone to practice in some foreign clime, perhaps the Westlands. I must find this Lucien Kaine. I am convinced he will lead me to the General. Lady Kaine, whom I have determined to be in seclusion in Antharia, has a well-documented history of poor health and cannot be disturbed. Irondune, once a frontier post in the great campaign of Duncanthrax in the Seventh Century, is the ancestral home of her family, and falls to Kaine by marriage, not blood—so we see the great war hero is perhaps as shrewd as he is strong. | |
| 15 Frobuary 948 I came across a single photograph of a beautiful woman whom I have determined to be Madame Sophia Hamilton, concert musician and headmistress of the Frigid River Branch Conservatory, not to mention Case File 95820 of my quest. The possibility that I might discover the nature of the connection between the honorable General and the cultured Madame leads me north to the Frigid River at once. The potential nature of their connection is a subject upon which decorum forbids me from further speculating at this time. Suffice it to say that the General, too, is a widely noted expert in the usage of a variety of instruments. | |
| 17 Frobuary 948 The Frigid River Valley is just that. (Q) How many Grues does it take to screw in a lightbulb? ha ha... | |
| 25 Frobuary 948 I finally reached the Conservatory today. A second startling discovery: the madwoman, with her peculiar alchemy, must have anticipated my journey, for the exact likeness of the Conservatory appears in her imagery, just as Irondune did weeks ago. The atmosphere of that imposing structure hung heavy and still, and I saw that it had fallen into disrepair, since the disappearance of its ruling Madame. I felt strangely sympathetic to her, as if being in her rare, cultured world could show me something of her refined presence, or teach me something of her expert knowledge. If I stood for a moment listening, it was almost if I could hear lingering melodies from years ago. I felt for her, a moment, a strange sadness. I believe time is not so fixed in this place as elsewhere—though I know here, as everywhere, the old must eventually be replaced with the new... Then the oddest thing happened. A darkness came over me, a feeling of utter fury, a kind of hatred I have never before known. I screamed—I could not help myself—and found that the sound I heard was not my voice, but the roar of a great beast, a daemon in a murderous frenzy. I heard the sound of glass breaking, and I looked up to see a cleaning woman. She backed away from me—making the sign of Yoruk over her breast—and whispered, “Nemesis.” Perhaps the curse of this land is working upon me yet. It is difficult to stay untouched. | |
| 2 Arch 948 As I journey, certain events in past months take on new significance. I remember a routine Surveillance Duty at the Convention of Enchanters (106th). The conversations and seminars were typically dry, ranging from such droll topics as the propriety of using “nitfol” (conversation with beasts) to gain information on competing Guilds, or the dangerous side effects of impurity in “fooble” potions (intended to increase muscular coordination, but also known to act as a most potent laxative). Between sessions, however, I overheard in a hushed conversation a word even the Vice Regent would not speak—alchemy. My sources at the Enchanters’ Guild (which include members of the Circle of Enchanters) were tight-lipped about any new developments or significant information, so I failed to include this reference in my report. In retrospect, however, their forced silence on the subject reinforces my suspicions that my reconnaisance here may reveal more than I expect. Alchemy. What did that madwoman know of my purposes in this dark land? What has her Alchemy to do with the reports of a great power gathering in the Eastlands? I study those symbols again and again, and can make no sense of it. | |
| 7 Arch 948 I am very tired, and cannot write much this evening. I attended a concert today, in the nearby town of Zorokesh. I suppose no one is to blame, considering the general chaos in the land, but without Madame Sophia, there was no Violin in the local Z’orchestra, and the traditional Closing Anthem could not be played. As a result, the concert continued on—most tortuously—for seventeen additional hours. The sun set and the night grew progressively darker; children wept and then slept in the thick stupor of utter boredom—and finally, so did their parents. It was at that point that I crept away from my seatmates in bored Box C, and determined to retire. Perhaps they are sitting there still. | |
| 11 Arch 948 I found this program, but do not know what to make of Bishop Malveaux’s appearance in it. General Kaine, Madame Sophia, and now Bishop Malveaux, all in association — 95823, 95820 and 95821. I am beginning to suspect foul play, some grand conspiracy, but cannot determine why they would be abducted, until I can discover what it is that makes them so valuable to this “Nemesis,” if he is indeed responsible. I will make passage to the Steppinthrax Monastery, and see what I can learn of the good monk Malveaux. I have purchased a copy of his best-selling “Revelation and Eternity”—which has led many thousands of Quendorans to return to Zorkastrian fire-worship, and which I fully expect to be rehashed New Age garbage for the fickle yipple-brained masses. I will read it on the road. The things I do in the name of Syovar (!) and, hopefully, a promotion and vast riches (!)(!) | |
| [text repeated for comparison -- 12 Frobuary 948 It is hard to know what to expect next. Each day seems to bring something stranger still than the day before. Old legends claim that the vast desert between the two branches of the Frigid River was formed ages ago by the violent devastation caused by an epic battle between two great sorcerers. Nevertheless, the heat here is unbearable. I had grown lost in the rolling of the dunes and had begun to despair of ever finding a way out, when I came across a wandering band of monks, a dozen of them maybe, dancing in circles around a fire they had started in the sand. They were a strange bunch, singing aloud in some ancient tongue, throwing little scraps of metal into the fire, yelling out various poems of praise to the fire-gods. Those kinds of ceremonies are common even throughout the lands of Syovar, but it just was not what I had expected to find in the middle of a war-torn desert. People used to think that the world was flat, and that it rested on the head of a giant brogmoid, but hardly anyone ever believes that any more. With the cult of brogmoidism so deeply out of favor, the fire-gods reaped all the benefits. These wild acolytes had chosen to devote their whole life to their faith, living in celibacy and loneliness for their gods. As they grew tired of their ceremonies, they one by one began to take notice of my presence. They did not run from me, unlike most people in this horrible land, but were in fact quite friendly. They almost seemed a little too excited to see me, grinning at me, hugging me, touching my shoulder and kissing me on the cheek. It soon came out through conversation that they had come from a monastery some several hundred bloits to the southwest, among the mountains on the Steppinthrax Peninsula. I mention this as significant because I am sure that Syovar will remember the place of which I speak. This monastery was closed by the Inquisitor in Syovar's name in the third month of 947. The place had been under suspicion for quite some time: it is after all hardly proper for a monastery of male monks to be raising an orphaned teenage girl. At any rate, the place had been under the spiritual leadership of Bishop Malveaux, whose writings had led many thousands of Quendorans to return to the worship of fire, although he was long under suspicion of having given his soul to the demons. All of these monks were unanimous in their praise for Malveaux. They called him a great man, a genius akin to the gods. They claimed that his powers of alchemy had destined him for immortality. One of the group in particular, standing a hand's length from my face and whispering in my ear, told me more than any of the others. He said that the horrible hauntings and evil spirits that had overrun the Forbidden Lands were manifestations of the power of Malveaux and his circle of friends. That he could smile at the evil around him made me horrified. I asked him how he could praise Malveaux if his dark rites were responsible for the madness around us. He smiled and moved closer, touching my cheek. His whisper was ugly and harsh. "Don't you see? He has not yet won! This madness, this hell, is but a moment's purgatory in exchange for an eternity of paradise." I asked the inevitable question. "How can I find him?" His arm began to twitch, almost violently. "You cannot. He is hiding, waiting. For three years now he and the others have been gone, watching this place until the moment is right." "Others? What others?" He backed away from me, dancing and writhing, his answer a haunting and melodic chant: "Air, earth, and water. The madman, the general, and his lover." I blinked, and he was gone.] |
15 Arch 948 The heat here is unbearable. I spent the better part of today lost in the rolling of the dunes. Just as I was despairing of ever finding a way out, I came across a wandering band of monks—a dozen of them maybe—dancing in circles around a fire in the sand. They were a strange bunch, singing aloud in some ancient tongue, throwing little scraps of metal into the fire, yelling out poems of praise to the fire-gods. It’s hard to believe people ever thought the world was flat, let alone that it rested on the head of a giant brogmoid. Then again, it’s hard to believe that anyone would pay a Zorkmid for that fire-rubbish I was reading last night. But I’ve heard of people dropping quite a few Zorkmid on their way to the temple. Even the Implementors have their price. The monks did not run from me, unlike most people in this horrible land, but were in fact quite friendly. It soon came out through conversation that they had come from the very monastery I seek, some several hundred bloits to the southwest, among the mountains on the Steppinthrax Peninsula. All of these monks were unanimous in their praise for Malveaux. They called him a great man, a genius akin to the gods. They assured me that his powers of alchemy had destined him for immortality. Alchemy. My thoughts returned to the strange symbols drawn in the sand. But they would say no more on the subject, and passed the rest of the night plying me with tales of Yoruk and the fires of Hell. I found them strangely compelling, and have tried to reconstruct what I could from recollection— THE DESCENT OF SAINT YORUK The story goes something like this. The merchant Yoruk, a simple man, grows dissatisfied with his simple trade, his simple gods, his simple life. He prays to the Implementors and hears nothing. He doesn’t take it personally. He understands he’s just yipple dung to them, a little man among little men. So he does what any logical fellow would do—and follows this sullen, lowly sod of a daemon down to hell, to speak with the Devil. Quite reasonably, he assumes the Devil, being the Devil, will keep less exclusive company. And he’s right—only, standing between Yoruk and his Devil is this totally horrific, fire-snarling daemon—a major daemon, the grand daemon of them all, the Great Daemon of the Threshold. And, I believe, a ring of hell fire. There absolutely is fire, I am now remembering, because that’s what next has to happen. Yoruk’s daemon pulls out a ruby shield and passes through the flames untouched. But Yoruk—oh ye with the faith of a hungus—loses his nerve and lets go of the magical shield, and is burnt. As a whole throng of daemons gathers around him to heckle and jeer his imminent incineration, Yoruk siezes his opportunity, steals a like shield from the side of a careless daemon, and dashes through the flames—unscathed. Then, armed only with the simple blade of a simple merchant, Yoruk slays the Great Daemon of the Threshold in his surprise, and makes his way down to the Devil, who, reasonably amused, teaches Yoruk the Great Mysteries of the Cosmos. That’s really about it. Yoruk spends the rest of his life making good sense out of Hell, and finally, when his natural life draws to a close and he finds himself creeping upwards to the Implementors, the seraphim and the cherubim, the harmony and the ecstacy, seem strangely florid and overwrought. He stays to talk awhile with the Implementors, finds them likeable enough in their own way, and then politely requests that he be returned to the company of his good friends in the Underworld, citing differences both aesthetic and philosophical. The Implementors resist until Yoruk, brandishing his sword and the bronze shield with the five fire rubies, hacks a path through the Happy Fields where Joy forever dwells, and is never heard of again, though his vast knowledge of things Above and Below, as scripted in the many Books of Saint Yoruk, is truly Enlightenment of a most sensible sort. |
| 21 Arch 948 I am, by this time, not surprised to discover that the madwoman sooth had predicted my current destination in her eerie drawings. As I wandered through the Monastery at Steppinthrax, I stopped upon a stone staircase to look over the arresting view. The landscape, broken by volcanic formations, seemed to reflect the unrest I was feeling at the very moment—the unrest of the curse. A simple man seeking answers, like the good Yoruk himself. I made my way into an empty office, and found several volumes on Alchemy. The subject returns to me once again; it seems to be the common link, but I do not understand it. The monks here are mourning the departure of their dear Bishop, and have, for the most part, taken a vow of silence. Between the hundreds of thousands of fire worshippers who cling to his text, and the Zorkastrian brothers who defend his person, I can find very little reason that anyone would seek to harm Bishop Malveaux to begin with. Then again, if the Nemesis is truly some great daemon, the Bishop’s goodness would be grounds enough. |
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| 26 Arch 948 I found these photographs in the monastery. I found dozens of them, all of the same whimsical little child. I believe she is an orphan, a foster child raised by the sect. It appears that the good Father was indeed, a good father. I cannot yet identify the girl, but I will. |
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| 3 Mage 948 Magic, science; science, magic....
My mind returns again to my visit to the Convention of Enchanter — this
time to the Keynote Address, where Guildmaster Barbel made veiled
references (which only now are becoming transparent) to critical
“elements” that may portend an upheaval of all Learned Arts in the
Empire. He also quoted the renowned historian (and, perhaps, oracle) Ozmar, who wrote in 821 GUE: The
greatest irony is this: that the ancients of our kind were nearer to
knowing the truth about Science than those who called themselves
Scientists. Science has taught us much and given us new words for old
mysteries. But beneath these words are mysteries, and beneath them more
mysteries. The pursuit of Magic has given these mysteries meaning and
provided for our people great benefits unrealized as yet by Science.
One day, perhaps, a great union will be formed between Magic and
Science, and the final mysteries will be solved. Clearly someone, or something, in the Forbidden Lands—I don’t know which best describes this “Nemesis”—has ventured forward along this dark path, further than Ozmar might have expected. |
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| 12 Mage 948 I continue to encounter cosmic symbols and runic writings that I cannot understand and have difficulty reproducing in this Record. I believe them to be magical in nature, however. As, I have determined, are these sketches. Strange. I have sworn to uphold the Unnatural Acts (in effect since 672 GUE), which provide stiff penalties for those convicted of selling “Unnatural or Supernatural Substances,” and prohibit the unauthorized conflagration of the Learned Arts. Yet, (and I have admitted this to no one) in studying the violations and forbidden acts, I have developed a silent fascination with the Enchanter’s Art. Sadly, my memory is weak, and always has been, and therefore my efforts to master the simplest spells escape me. That does not keep me from trying to understand what I see here... I have recorded a list of spells, potions, and my attempted translations on the preceeding page. |
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| 17 Mage 948 This Asylum is a haunted place. Many levels of the complex are abandoned— floors 2 through 19 appear completely deserted. This esteemed Doctor Sartorius, who, from the testimonials I have discovered, has done such good for so many, has left his papers in some disarray. The place looks as if it has been ransacked. It is hard to visit this place and not walk away, for a time, shocked. Partly, the condition could be attributed to the withdrawal of government funding, as the Doctor’s papers attest. However, there is a great deal of blood, which suggests a familiar pattern—the work of the Nemesis. Knowing nothing of the medical profession and less of science, I am learning little. I encountered an unusual chair. It must have been some therapeutic device, as sitting in it created a most pleasurable sensation, as though hundreds (perhaps thousands) of fingers were devoted to my corporeal stimulation. After several sittings, I resolved to bring this device to the attention of the Vice Regent on my return. I discovered some food here and made the mistake of eating it. Suffering from abdominal disorder. Surrounded by medicines I dare not take. Pain increasing. What is going on in my stomache? I am beginning to wonder whether this Assignment is worth the trials I am experiencing. I can only go back to the concealed gleam in the Vice Regent’s eyes when he mentioned my “reward.” |
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| 24 Mage 948 I have spent the last week doing nothing but reading the Alchemy books I discovered among the Doctor’s papers. Finally, I am able to decipher the signs written in the sand. They are indeed Alchemical, and I will try to translate them as best I can. |
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| 26 Mage 948 Alchemy is the study of the great system of correspondances that holds our cosmos together. Hence each of the four has a sign indicating a planet, an element, and a metal. My guess would be that the four were alchemical initiates, each master of one of the four elements. The fifth element, or the Quintessence, is the Philosopher’s Stone that caused the Madwomen such excitement! These books argue back and forth about what is the precise nature of this quint essentia—is it spiritual, like love or hate; or physiological, like blood or marrow; or chemical, like ether or sulphur. What the books do agree upon, however, is the boundless power of the Quintessence, once possessed. Marked by a Great Eclipse, the making of the Quintessence will bring eternal life and the dawning of a new world. If this daemon Nemesis has taken possession of the Forbidden Lands as he appears to have—if this curse is his doing—then it is my hypothesis that the General and his Madame, the Monk and his Doctor—all suffering under the curse themselves, whether for the sake of their troops or their patients, their music or their parishioners—came together to fight All Hell with the One Power Stronger. The Quintessence. And then, I must further hypothesize, they lost. |
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| 9 Arch 948 I've had several days to think the whole matter over and come to a few tentative conclusions. It has long been known that Sartorius had been a practitioner and experimenter in the alchemical arts. Given the dark rumors surrounding Malveaux's earlier years, it is not at all surprising that he too should have veered away from the traditional practices of the magical community. It is Kaine's role in this whole affair that remains somewhat of a mystery to me. Perhaps he threw his lot in with these others in hopes of using their powers to his own political advantage. Whatever the truth might be, nearly everyone in the Forbidden Lands who claims a knowledge of the situation has insisted that the inner circle of alchemists that dominated this region was four in number, not three. Who this fourth alchemist might be still eludes my understanding, although I have my suspicions. At any rate, all four of them seem to have vanished without a trace nearly three years ago, some time in 945. It is hard to escape the feeling that these disappearances had something to do with their perverse alchemical experiments, but it is hard to be sure. Thinking back to that year, the hauntings and hallucinations must have begun just shortly after the disappearance of the four. The Grey Mountains slipped into oblivion first, the inhabitants of Frostham complaining of horrible screams and an inescapable stench that pervaded the area around the old insane asylum. The reports came from the Desert River next. Merchants and trading caravans that still moved through the areas untouched by the war began to report nightmares, and visions so powerful that they lingered for weeks in the minds of the victims. Soon, the entire sky over that area became covered with distorted faces and figures, prompting Syovar to consider forbidding all access to these desolate provinces. Most of the refugees managed to make it out in time. Those that didn't are now shattered husks of human beings. Mysteriously, I have remained untouched by whatever visions of horror pervade this place. I have often wondered what it is that spares me the fate of the creatures I have encountered. It is almost as if whatever it is that is haunting this place has made me exempt, and has chosen me, for some future fate as yet unknown. I have chosen to head for the Temple of the Ancients, where the four alchemists are said to have practiced their evil art. Perhaps it is there that some answers can be found. |
29 Mage 948 [see above for parallel text] [see above for parallel text] The Doctor’s papers name a sacred place built by Agrippa, an engineer of Duncanthrax’—the Temple of the Ancients, in the Eastlands. I believe this place to be a place of power, of wild magic. The kind of magic that creates—and destroys—worlds. If there is anything left of these four brave alchemists, I hope to find them there. I ventured into Frostham, and tried to speak of this Temple. None would say that it existed—but their haunted faces seemed to confirm what their words could not. I found my chance in the gleaming eyes of an old drunk, swilling cheap ale on the side of the road. He had a cousin, who knew a sherpa who needed the money and could take me part of the way. A few Zorkmids later, I found myself shivering on a pack horse, staring up at what appeared to be sheer cliffs of impenetrable rock. Now, my guide tells me, I am on my own. I shall strike out for the temple tomorrow. I am certain that the end of my journey awaits me there. A dark mood has overtaken me. Perhaps I, too, have finally fallen under the curse. It is difficult to say. All I know is that it is no longer the promise of fortune or promotion— neither politics nor economics—that drives me forward. Like Yoruk, I now seek only simple answers, the simple truth, the simple power it wields. I will find the One Power and, if I do not, I will meet the Nemesis in Hell. I have made arrangements, Syovar. If something were to happen to me in there, I have cast the one spell I know by heart—the spell of the homing pigeon, which returns lost possessions to their homes—upon this little book. Despite my clumsy hand at magic, I have attempted to ensure that this narrative would return to your chambers, my Lord. I pray for the day, however, that I place it in your hand myself. Yoruk save us all. Bivotar |
| The four They are here Dead Nemesis HATES killed the girl EVIL he will not I AM DEAD |