A Tattered Journal
From Atlantic Roleplay Wiki
- A Tattered Journal - by Khembryll Chavois
A small leatherbound journal covered in a myriad of stains and marks, it has a musty aroma to it.
Subjects
We hath taken stock of one more shipment o'prisoners from t' village of Lakeshire. Damned Orcs art good for little, but alas we need them for now!
T'would be of little good for the villagers to see who'rt behind their strife, methinks...
Fools, all and one. None shall cast me aside as a madman, or a "danger" ... nay, they shall learn! They shall learn.
Incompetence!
That insufferable fool of an apprentice broke one of my flasks today! He claimed he slipped 'pon the floor ... Methinks he is trying to ruin my work ... He was always craftier than he e'er let on.
I shalt watch him like the hawk - if he doth such ag'in, he life wilt be forfeit to me in payment. Mayhaps he shalt die on the trek to the Gargolye City to purchase another ... small mercies indeed.
-an old brown stain marks the parchment here-
By the Guardian!
T'is working - I can feel
it! Those wretches from
the City of Trees are
showin' the signs! T'were
that they were dead by
now, but no.
The men seem to be the
first to show the
symptoms; hacking coughs,
sweating and headaches.
Could it be that I hath stumbled o'er the key t'success by accident? Oh, what irony if t'were such!
-from what you can make out, the author has drawn an image of one of his victims-
Meeting:
I met with the Dark Stranger ag'in this very morning ... Chills my bones, no man should be able to look into anothers soul as he does... But! Journal, he art most pleased with my progress, indeed! He agreed that the symptoms the subjects art showing match the ones he remembers ... My payment ... Oh my payment! How wealthy a man I shalt be, how unconcerned by the peasants how rush around my feet - t'is what I deserve!
-a thumbprint smudges the ink-
The villagers had the guile
to follow the Orcs! My
laboratory was made
known to them, and now I
flee for my life! I hath
nothing but my journal
and one vial of the
plague, I must be careful
now. So careful.
I shalt head West, try to seek refuge in the swamplands of Nox Tereg.
T'is two days journey along the Prin River to the bridges of Mistas...
I shall write when I can afford to rest. I flee for my life.
Mistas:
I am camped by the southern most bridge, I place my would-be attackers at a day behind me ... I hath been most careful, no tracks. Travel at night, and avoid the roads. I shalt try to catch some fish, I haven't eaten since leaving my laboratory.
Damn those FOOLS!
Midnight:
Blast! I am wounded by some unseen arrow! T'were my attackers, I know! They dare wound ME!?
Nearing Honesty ... bleeding badly, they must hath used a venomous arrow...
Weakness:
I shall last no longer, my time is finished here ... I hath failed the Stranger, and myself.
-blood stains the page-
I shalt hide mine satchel and this book in the hollow of this tree ... pray the someone of my ilk finds it ... perhaps my apprentice...
So...cold now...
Voices? Real? I know not... Mages! Words of power! Cold ... cold ... cold.
-the journal ends here, though you notice that several pages have been ripped out-