I
____ Today I got a letter. It contained but one page on a notebook, tattered and torn with carelessness or damage.
September 11th, 12P.W. (Post-War)
Harold Phillips, of the chronicler’s guild
____ To the Chronicler,
____ I’ve investigated the temple on Drooling Pine Hill, north of Old Vestklar. I had heard tales of nameless horrors beneath the old crypts of that wretched place, and had so foolishly hoped they were true for the sake of winning the Glyph of Scop from you. What I found was beyond the grasp of imagination, things too beyond human comprehension for words or history to ever contain them.
____ Still, it is my duty as an Apprentice of the Chronicler to try my best to relay those lost secrets. You must meet with me and soon. This letter will travel faster than I can. By the time you are reading it, I hope to be en route to Lindesfarme. Meet me there and I will tell you all I know, should my mind remain stable enough for the journey.
____ Even now I jump at shadows. Out of the corner of my eye I can see them moving, roving this way and that into horrid shapes that demand my attention away from the pen. I still haven’t slept since I ventured into the Abyss. How could I? The unconscious mind is as illogical and paranoid as mankind’s was at the dawn of time. The Primordials would seek to ruin me into madness should I lower my guard in such a way. For indeed they are ever watching.
____ I must maintain a form of stiff reasoning. I shall be waiting at the Junction of 3rd and Feywind once you reach Lindesfarme, I’ll be there on the 18th at the earliest, at 3:00 in the afterno nyobig xcxkhecniuyk felldellar cxndl akmd onea jf kik ewf uooic iiinsnuanyxx kaejknf kroopgp ownnnlale,fml jndwpamf kjeaiudnfoam jedoii alm lsof oqnr aimfe jaythirtysix dmawkm dufendrr klwemdf iunrewofm a
____ wfmlw oidf lksnrf oje koiiinfoapmf kj wkjeovcms jakjdofppv j ejnoapfdm aje djsod jad adpifn jeofiajpin esjuoaenfie shjfeiein lkamwd h kaej dfnefin rsjnadoin esnoaina kj odicna dj oiend aejf oasnf dl ae
afndaw awnoianof sdj o enfo j aejod chioaef j oaine chiuen ajboiv pmomovcinx ocnsdenox d oionnl dfnlicnoaijwpdomp aoidpojaon
oianefono oawnoa diunaiwndaj orin sejf ailamoifneoaljaind alkdnlai eubfoioi fosdpnea osidna dnoinofs oaijdpwa eoinfpaow eopfjapwnawmpdoofomfpaijo oiwajpdojp eipvnso oad
lnaefin awodonf oajdpowjdml kalojdawbdefnoaidmnd feaiohaijkn niehaisn iahfepoaoinwdbf
____ A large splatter of ink was streaked across the center of the page, right after the first O in “afternoon”. As you can see, of course, the quality of Harold Phillips' writing degrades somewhat over the course of the letter. But he did keep on writing all the same. Today is the 19th of October. I’ve since talked to every Imperium stationed near the trains at 3rd and Feywind, and not a single one of them (nor any witnesses I could track down) saw Mr. Phillips on the day of September 18th. Clearly he missed his train, just as he missed sending his letter on time. But he did send it nonetheless. Now I’m on the train to Old Vestklar, or rather on the train to the station closest to that remote, forgotten place. One way or another, these things always involve lots of walking to the destination.
____ “Excuse me, sir… Sir!” Someone tugged at the cord of my earbuds, rousing my attention away from my reading. I looked up carelessly, the initiator of the conversation doing little to spur my interest; one of the conductors of the train. He was an older gentlemen, a preexisting irk on his withered face, “We’re coming up to the last stop, sir.”
____ “Thanks.” I fumbled a bit with putting away my headphones, dropping the magazine I was reading in the process. I got droppy when I was tired, and the long ride up as well as the gray weather outside had done little to improve my condition.
____ Despite my thanks, the conductor scowled at the open pages of my reading material. He snatched up the magazine and rolled it up before returning it, “Honestly sir, looking at that dirty drivel? There are—well, there
were—children aboard this train!”
____ “Hey, I get sick when I try reading aboard a vehicle! It’s medicinal!” I excused, but he was already hastily trudging off, “We’re all only human here.”
____ I staggered to my feet and made my exit. The inside of the train was luxurious in appearance: very fanciful and felty. It made the outdoors seem all the more unwelcoming as I stepped out onto the platform. Gray rolling winds immediately battered at my coat, bringing the unpleasant sort of cold that sunk straight into the ears. I shivered and looked for my ride, stuffing the magazine under my coat by my holster.
____ Dellbriggs, or Dullbrig as its teenagers called it, was a dark brown town without the burdens of merit or aspirations. Even its architecture kept its head low, none of the buildings going beyond a first floor. Yet in spite of its ugliness it still represented civilization compared to Old Vestklar, my destination. That place beyond the bog, the place that the children here told ghost stories about. No one looked to that direction of the horizon and hoped for a brighter future. It was a forbidden place, part of the Old Valhalla that no one liked to talk about. My destination. I couldn’t wait.
____ A tall thin man stood on the edge of the boardwalk, looking through the invisible crowd of would-be departures from the arriving train—as if there was anyone but me. Behind him stood a rickety black carriage burdening a thin wide-eyed old horse. A sign with the word “CRONACLER” written on it was held tightly in the man’s bony fingers. I approached him.
____ “Are you him, senior?” The man asked me in a sheepish, nasally tone.
____ I extended a hand, “The cronacler; that’s me. Avarius Fantus is my name, if you please.”
____ “And Vigo Love is mine, senior.” Despite his thinness, he gladly took my hand and shook it heartily. My impression of him improved mildly. He stood up a bit straighter, “They gave me your letter. I can take you to Old Vestklar.”
____ “Then we can talk on the road, Mr. Love.” I motioned to the carriage.
____ He gestured and moved as if to respond but said nothing, stepping back and allowing me access before climbing up to the rider’s seat. With the sharp crack of a whip the horse jumped into a trot. With the carriage rocking and bouncing with the uneven road, and with the window seat, I was back on the train all over again.
____ Vigo talked loudly from his spot, me unable to see him from inside the carriage, “So what exactly do you chroniclers do, Mr. Fantus?”
____ I was in the process of fetching my earbuds but stopped at the incited conversation, “We, uh, we’re a guild of historians. Or storytellers as some prefer. I see myself as more of an investigator.”
____ “And what investigation business do you got in Old Vestklar, senior?”
____ “I’m looking for one Harold Phillips, a fellow chronicler.” I said, “Or more astutely, the purpose of this investigation is to find out what happened to the last investigation.”
____ “Oh.”
____ “Oh indeed.”
____ “Well,” Vigo took a moment or two before speaking up again, “We did have a guy come in a little over a month ago. He wanted to see the temple. It’s just about the only thing people come looking for around these parts, senior. But, uh, I didn’t talk to him much. It could be him, but I didn’t talk to him enough to say for certain. He was shacked up with a guy (well, not really a guy) named Craft. When we get to town, I can take you to him. He’d know. He’d know for certain.”
____ “That so?” I mused, “Er, how long until we get to town, exactly?”
____ “It took me seven hours to get down here, senior. It’ll take just as long to get back, provided the fords haven’t flooded. It’ll be a late night, Mr. Fantus.”
____ “Ugh. No kidding.” I leaned back, finding the stiff seat uncomfortable and trying to strike any posture other than the one I had just been in on the ride here. Closing my eyes, I reached to lean a hat down over my brow, groaning again in frustration for not bringing one. Finally I retrieved my magazine, opened it up and laid it over my face. Probably looked like a lazy sleaze, I did, but it wasn’t necessarily untrue between the two of us. And honestly the picture draped across my face was the only pleasing thing to look at out here, and that would continue for the duration of my coming visit.
____ It took a long time to fall asleep, despite my best endeavors to freely surrender myself to it. Even when it did overtake me it was as brief as a 10-Point ninja’s lifespan, and without dreams to fill its darkness. Vigo slapped my arm, suddenly by my side. The cart was stopped and it was raining.
____ “C’mon, senior! It’s pourin’, and I don’t much care to be out in it for long. Help me get your things.” He said, already turning to leave as I sat up.
____ I stepped out, glad to be standing for once. Heavy droplets tapped my hair and shoulders at a steady pace, what was once a drizzle slowly becoming a full-on downpour. I hastily zipped up my overcoat.
____ It was indeed very dark out, only an edge of the sun’s light still visible beyond the murky clouds on the horizon. Old Vestklar rotted around me, a shambling collection of uneven buildings and roads; all painted black in their murky palette and the darkness. Only the soft glow of firelight against a curtained window gave the structures any form. It was a town that earned this kind of weather.
____ I turned and saw it, to the north. Far off in the horizon, painted black in silhouette and juxtaposed against the light of the nearly-extinguished sunset. The temple I had been told about. Only its dome-shaped top was visible from this far away, but I could see it nonetheless. A sense of foreboding rose up my spine, meeting the sense of dread running down halfway.
____ A semicircle of pitch black, like a sun without its fire, the temple sat there in silence. Overlooking the town. What exactly had Harold seen there that cracked him so? I myself had seen and uncovered a lot—all of us chroniclers had. But even so, there was something about that structure that struck a particular chord with me. Unsettled me in a way that I could not rationally explain.
____ I smiled. That was simply my favorite flavor of horror, the surreal kind. I had work to do. A lot of it.
____ The rain had picked up enough to be rather noisy, justifying Vigo’s volume as he shouted at me, “That there’s the place, senior! Craft puts up with any visitors.”
____ “Got it.”
____ “I live over there down Murg Street. Me an’ my family that is.” He forcefully handed me my only case, “I’ll be going now. My wife’ll kill me as is, being so late. I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Fantus.”
____ “Right, right.” I watched him rush back to the carriage and take off in a hurry. He seemed strangely antsy all of a sudden, certainly in no fast pace on the ride up here. Ah, forget about it. I turned and walked into my new abode.
____ The place was a tavern of sorts, various ugly shades of brown making up the walls and furniture and such. A fire struggling to maintain its existence in the corner was the only source of warmth and life. There was a bar counter at the northern end of the room—only a few drinks on display—where I thought I could hear a strange noise like the faint clanging of pots and whirring of metal. Instinctually I reached for my holstered Glock.
____ A metallic man rose up from behind the counter: a Warforged. I relaxed my movement. He was a banged-up old model, his metal plating only shining where any fresh stains would be and numerous parts of his frame seemingly replaced with wood or lesser metals. A small furnace growled where his stomach should be.
____ “Are you Mr. Craft?” I asked, now understanding the simplistic name.
____ “Yessir. I trust you’re the Chronicler?” He replied solemnly, “I got your letter. Have a seat by the fire to dry off. I’ll get you somethin’ to eat an’ then we can talk.”
____ “Sure.”
____ Clack. A shallow metal bowl full of soup landed on the table next to me as Craft returned. He pulled over a stool and sat down, rubbing his three-digited hands together as if they were cold, “There y’are, Chronicler.”
____ “Avarius is fine.” I carefully handled the hot dish and sampled its contents. The broth wasn’t salty, and it tasted strongly of cheese and chicken. Not horrible, but more importantly it was hot. I cautiously worked on it while we chatted, “What brings a Warforged all the way out here? If you don’t mind me asking.”
____ “When the war ended, I wanted to go home.” Craft said, “But Vydar would not have it. He wanted us to stay in his service, being now addicted to machines as he was. He would not send us home, so I left. Now I live up here.”
____ “I see.”
____ “And why is a Human like you still here, Avarius?”
____ “Fair enough question.” I answered coolly, “I could have left with everyone else, but I’m more interested in this world than my own. Most of the chronicler’s guild is. We’ll always be with Valhalla, invested in it, even though everything has been over for a while now. But anyways, that’s not why I’m here right now.”
____ Craft nodded, “Harold Phillips. You are looking for him.”
____ I nodded in return, squinting as I felt something in my spoonful that wasn’t the other ingredients. Squishy.
____ Craft continued, “He stayed here. I put up with any visitors we get here.”
____ “Do you get visitors often?”
____ “No. But we do get them. They’re usually here to see the temple on Drooling Pine Hill. Up north.”
____ My eyes instinctually drifted toward the nearest window. A little pitch black square within a wooden frame, the generous amounts of drizzle on it the only thing that could be seen. I held my stare, “What can you tell me about the temple? Why are folks interested in it?”
____ “In the old days it was a burial mound, that hill. Then during the war a Kyrie named Orym built a church on top of it. Turns out, or so they say, there was actually a hidden wellspring under it. The Kyrie was using it to summon creatures, but it didn’t turn out so well for him as it did for the other generals. At any rate, people go there to visit the church and explore it. Some are trying to find the wellspring; to others it is simply a site of tourism and ghost stories.”
____ “Any luck on that wellspring?” I inquired.
____ “No. And it is forbidden to disturb the burial mound beneath, although if there were such a wellspring it would likely be there. It is a holy site, and people both revere and fear it greatly.” Craft sat perfectly still as he spoke, never breaking eye contact with me even when I would look away and back, “Harold Phillips was investigating the temple. He and Vigo Love went there numerous times during his stay. He kept extensive notes in his room. They’re still there if you want to look through them.”
____ “Yes please. I’ll take his room, if you don’t mind.” I said, setting the finished soup bowl aside and starting to get up. I had slept plenty on the way here, and if Harold had left any further clues I wanted to see them immediately.
____ Craft said nothing but rose to his feet and returned to the bar. He opened one cabinet, revealing three room keys and an old lever-action shotgun within.
____ “He was in Room 3. All of his things are as he last left them. You should not stay in his room or read his notes.” Nonetheless the Warforged tossed me the Room 3 key, “It’s bad to do so. He was a foolish man, Harold. He didn’t do as he was told and didn’t respect the history he was uncovering. He roused bad things, and it might rub off on you if you follow in his footsteps.”
____ I caught the key and patted my holster, “Thanks but I’ll be fine. I’ve got protection.”
____ “They’re not the sort of things that can be fought off with weapons.” Craft warned.
____ But that was the last he said of it, and so I fetched my belongings and went up to my room all the same. It was at the end of a cramped hall, beyond the reach of the light. I felt for the keyhole and slowly opened the door, peering it curiously.
____ It was a mess to put it kindly. The room was bigger than I thought it would be but all the same I could barely see the floor. Books and papers were scattered everywhere. Harold’s bags were all open, their contents spilled all over the place. The only thing free from the debris was the bed and ironically a desk by the door. It indeed looked like the untouched living space of a man who’d gone mad in his last moments of living.
____ I unpacked my things and prepared for my work, setting my phone and machinepistol on the desk. I had brought an electric light but there was no outlet to charge it with, so I instead used an oil lamp already on the desk. It bathed the room in an orange light, cozying it up save for the increased shadows beyond its reach. But I hadn’t been scared of shadows for a great many years. Some pens and a journal of my own I set down in the corner of the desk. The rest of my stuff I left on the bed.
____ It took a long while to snatch up all the books and papers around the room, but I was diligent. Not a thing could be missed. I organized the papers and began looking through them. Most were torn pages of Harold’s notebook, others were torn pages of various history books and similar texts. I ignored them for now and tried to rearrange the scattered notes back to their original order. I wanted to see if there was anything dated past his last entry that I had received by mail. There wasn't.
____ Hmm, by mail… I pondered for a moment, wondering if this mess was truly caused by Harold in a fit of madness. Craft might say otherwise, but there was also a very good chance (worth betting on I’d say) that someone else had trashed the room while looking for something. Or looking to destroy something, rather. After all, I was willing to assume that Harold was lost to madness or dead.
Someone had sent me that page—and only that one page—and the chances of it being the lost chronicler were slim.
____ I knew When and Where, but I didn’t know Who or Why. Obviously the evil monsters and Primordials he was fearful of hadn’t done it. Someone in town must’ve.
____ I tapped the desk and reorganized the notes again, hastily sorting them chronologically. I didn’t know much, but I had a good way of finding out more. Harold had done much of the research for me, after all.
____ I took up one of the pens and pushed its point out with a
click!, readying to take notes of my own, and got down to reading, “All right, Mr. Phillips. Let’s grade your report… What do you got to tell me…?”
to be continued...
October 22nd, 2018, 10:15 PM
The Creeping Evil
TAF was the Storyteller... 
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