the purple tiefling (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
truthisvicious) wrote2022-11-09 08:40 pm
truthisvicious) wrote2022-11-09 08:40 pm
The Unknown Mage's Journal
cw: allusions to violence, creepy image
written by Madeleine Roux
Note: redacted text represents words that have been scribbled out in the journal.
Now put down here are the words of █████████████████, Grand Archivist of the Dev-Yat Mahiyi Colleges in ██████████ in the year ████. What follows are my best attempts to decipher fragments retrieved from the wastes of Foren, relics I know in my bones came from Aeor, grand city of mages, center of all enlightened thinking, and the greatest loss of our age. Calamity is too small a word for what was taken. I believe, however, that with enough persistence and diligence, much of what was lost can once more be found.
Thieves and scavengers sometimes return to ██████████ from far and wide, hawking their pilferings, some whispering of a vast city beneath the ice fields of Eiselcross. Initially, I thought this all nonsense and boasting, but upon acquiring several of these relics I begin to ruminate on their stories. Foren seems the most likely location to me, as the scathing River Inferno there might handily dissuade the casual adventurer. Such an impediment would keep any ruins protected, and the ice may serve to preserve and perhaps even mummify the ancients of Aeor. If the bones of this theoretical place have not been picked clean, then I may yet prove that the items I have cataloged indeed belong to the mages of Aeor.
Enchantress Lornië tells me I am mad, and that I am wasting my time. What does she know? Her thinking has always been small. Let her experiment on her beasts and birds while bolder souls uncover the true extent of magic. In the end, she will have a talking dog and I will have the secrets of eternity.
The remainder of that page was illegible, defaced with a thick, black ink blotch. The journal had moldered in a tomb city for hundreds of years; of course it was going to sustain damage.
Certainly (and unlike our disgraceful hierarchy) the Convocation of Aeor prioritized the careers of forward-thinking mages, for I have found three separate tablets describing exorbitant funds being granted to someone called Fastidan, who, though seemingly at odds with the Convocation members, nonetheless won their respect. These sums were given over several years, suggesting that the mage’s research was complex and ongoing. It is hard to reconcile these numbers. The figures offered do not match our records of currency used by the peoples of Aeor.
The next page had been scratched through to illegibility, and then:
A breakthrough! Just as I suspected, the tallies on the recovered tablets could not symbolize currency. They instead describe the number of slaves Fastidan put to work excavating, polishing, and constructing “the crests.” I have no inkling of what these crests might be, or their use, and further do not trust my own translations of that particular word, nor the translation of “slaves” though that is my best approximation. It is worrisome to consider that a brilliant mind such as Fastidan’s might resort to enslaving folk for the construction of magical devices, but perhaps future acquisitions will clear up this confusion. In the name of pure professionalism, I have asked Enchantress Lornië to review my translation work, and she so far agrees with my assessments. Improbably, her narrow-minded piddle of a thesis was approved, and the ████████████ are advocating for her immediate promotion, upon which she will formally outrank me among the ██████████. Intolerable! She predictably (and jealously) continues to disparage my work and even had the gall and gumption to imply that Fastidan was a sick tyrant. Ridiculous slander. “These are the words of a small-minded fustilarian!” I admit I screamed this at her. It was not my finest hour. Enchantress Lornië has forgiven me, but something in her eyes suggests otherwise.
At last, at last, I have shown Enchantress Lornië the true depths of my genius. The High Archivist Enchanter Morillo has at last approved my request for an expedition to the far north. The Frigid Depths will be mine to explore and claim. Fastidan assured me this would happen, and he is most pleased, for now my loyalty and persistence are rewarded. The marks upon my body are still somewhat disorienting, but I trust that will pass. To imagine it! I, █████████████, humble son of a pig farmer, entrusted entrusted with a cadre of students and excavators to discover the lost secrets of Eiselcross. I will find it, Fastidan! I will find it. The crests shall be collected, your will shall be done. There will be so much to catalog and preserve. One hopes to come away with a more complete understanding of Aeorian politics, the Convocation, and, of course, the transgression that called down the wrath of the gods! My name will forever be remembered in the halls of ███████████.
Enchantress Lornië has given me some of her trained ravens for the journey. She claims they are not ordinary ravens, but those imbued with her special research, and they are smarter and faster than others of their kind. That she will not set aside her own lamentably juvenile work to join the expedition comes as a great disappointment. She would be useful, even just as a drudge for digging, as I’ve often admired her muscular hands. But her vision has always been narrow, her obsession with paltry domestics regrettably small and female. She says the raven will help us keep in touch, as spells can only transmit very short messages, and she knows I will want to share the full breadth of my findings; this demonstrates a promising leap in insight for her, and I am proud.
The mage rambles on like this for several more pages.
Goldeth lost a hand today. As is his usual way, he attempted to warm us all by lighting a bundle of sticks with a simple manipulation of the fireblast spell. The result was catastrophic, and I may never forget the smell of burning flesh pouring through the camp. It is in my robes now, and horrid. He will continue his work on the expedition, but in a diminished capacity. We are hopeful that infection will not take him. Goldeth is an adept caster, a judicious researcher, and a sober, serious sort, so I do not believe this maiming was due to error. I sense but cannot prove a bizarre warping of the weave, a hiccup, so to speak, in the laws of magic. As we strike north, these hiccups only become more frequent and more severe.
For now, I have directed the members of our expedition to use spells only in dire situations requiring self-defense, as our supplies are limited, and we cannot afford more injuries.
And later:
It is precisely as I expected: Some leagues north of the River Inferno, we discovered an immense ripple of frost, brittle and different from the surrounding ice fields. I listened to but dared not trust the voices that guided me to this place, promising answers, promising knowledge beyond knowledge. Aeor is here. There were complaints when I suggested that we must breach the frost and descend into the ruins, for we are not well equipped for such an endeavor, but I will not give up now. Perhaps brashly, I accused Goldeth, Menzias, and Felinor of cowardice, but I refuse to apologize for it. The voices foretold this, too, that the pursuit of the infinite would require a certain moral flexibility not for the faint of heart. But oh, I do not feel faint now! Not when we have found such wonders, such incredible labyrinths of mysteries to be solved!
Turning a page in the journal once more, he recoiled. The script was interrupted by another illustration, this one of a silhouette, a lone, slender figure, their features blank, though it was clear they wore a dragging robe. Their arms were barely outstretched, as if they were levitating. The mage’s pen had scribbled all around the outline of the person, as if an attempt to stamp the shape of them onto the page. A single red eye stared out from the center of the white face, but when Lucien blinked, the eye pulsated, growing outward like a bead of blood, then slid from the page, leaving no trail. He never found where it went.
After the picture came a scrap of parchment stuffed into the binding, the quality of the paper different, older, the pulp chunkier, with small flecks of what looked like crushed leaves. The penmanship was also different, leading Lucien to conclude that this was something the mage had found in the ruins and taken for himself.
The philosophers abandoned us. The cursed, plotting dreamers took their whole Ward with them. Curse them. May they rot in
There was no more. Behind the stolen scrap, the mage continued chronicling.
Goldeth has returned to the surface with his infected wound, probably to die. I have written to Enchantress Lornië with one of her ravens and asked that she watch for his return. In this same letter, I have reiterated her foolishness, for she will be absent for the most influential magical archaeological find of our era. I did not inform her of Felinor’s disappearance, for I myself do not yet know how to interpret it. We have made camp in the Praesidis Ward, for it provides the most comprehensive shelter. While we had the energy for it, we searched the ruins in which we made our camp, and I have determined it was once the home of an illustrious Aeorian family. A mural in the main hall depicts them at luxurious rest, a mother, father, and three beautiful daughters. Chipping away at the ice, I discovered an artist’s inscription reading FAMILY MAXIMUS ON THE EVE OF SOLSTICE: GLORY TO GORUS AND VITALIO MAXIMUS, WEALTH AND LONG LIFE TO THEIR OFFSPRING, MORBO, SILIO, AND BOLO. I have included a sketch, for I know Enchantress Lornië is enchanted by such prosaic trifles. The find was a brief joy, for in the night, we were woken by a mournful howl. It chilled me to the core, but Felinor agreed to investigate the noise. He has not returned. It is only Menzias and I now, and it is very quiet, giving the shadows that lurk behind us more power. I refuse to bend to fear, though daily I feel its toll. Menzias hardly eats, and my hair has begun to shed in clumps. Tomorrow, we press deeper into the Ars Ward. Watching the raven fly away with my message, I felt a wave of sorrow. I should have told Enchantress Lornië more, and been more honest, but she must not know that, in truth, it is all going very badly here.
The red marks are everywhere now, my hands, my chest, my shoulders, my neck… And they are changing me. The children hunt me in my dreams, and more marks appear. There has been a shift that I cannot explain, only this: Sometimes when I look at Menzias, I can hear fragments of his thoughts. This morning, I heard him speak clearly in my own head, though his mouth did not move. “Why did I follow this crazy old fool?” I heard it clear as a bell. When I examined his face, his guilt was obvious—he was indeed questioning the whole ordeal. There are marks on him now, too. What is happening to me? Why me, Fastidan? Where does it lead?
This is the fruit of a once barren tree. Now we come to it. Now I see it clearly. Cognouza. That which was promised. The marks upon my body that I once mistrusted I now see as proof of the promise—all that the nine philosophers worked to achieve, I am one of their masterpieces. The Astral Sea, that was their goal. The texts describing this were not penned by the philosophers themselves, but by doubting imbeciles like Lornië, too attached to the conventions of this realm to see that so much more lies beyond. The philosophers were wise, they predicted the disastrous outcomes of the Calamity, and their elegant solution was not submission or defeat, but to avoid annihilation altogether. A grand exodus. They were shunned. Shunned. Unbelievable! No, it is completely believable. They did not accept the concept of inevitability, in fact, they challenged the bones of reality as we understand it. Matter. Matter could be molded and shifted at will, dreams made manifest, no limitation but that of one’s own imagination.
The possibilities are, needless to say, tempting. The mind as architect, unrestrained. It is almost painful to conceive of such freedom, and yet I must possess it. Fastidan would not lie. Everything I have found pertaining to the Cognouza Ward, their ward, has been proven true.
Why then, would their theories prove false?
Much has changed, but I must not fear the change. We returned to our campsite to eat and rest, for Menzias still requires such things, only to find someone or something had left a gift for us. It was the head of Felinor, his scalp and eyes removed. What remained of his tongue had been pulled out ghoulishly, as if to mock us. Menzias wept, but I will not be threatened away from this place, this womb that did not birth me, but birthed that which calls me home.
My objectives are clear: Once the threshold crests are recovered, the Astral Sea can be reached, and from there, Cognouza returned. This will be no easy task, as the crests are tremendously large, and I may not alone possess the means to transport them. They might be moved with magic, but the instability of these ruins makes me question such an approach.
I must ruminate on it more.
Enchantress Lornië has written to condemn my studies outright. She has taken great offense at my letters and claims that she will go to High Archivist Enchanter Morillo and the Council and seek an official denunciation. Such an act would strike my name and my research from the ██████████ records, leaving this world once more in blighted ignorance.
I confess, I burst into tears upon reading her threats. My life’s work undone by a cowardly Luddite. It is clear, now more than ever, that I must succeed, for if Enchantress Lornië moves against me, I will return from the Astral Sea with the power to unmake her treachery. In fact, I can unmake her, as well, and mold her into a monstrosity more befitting her twisted, ugly insides.
We return to the Ars Ward this evening in search of a crest. Menzias assures me he has not forsaken the research, but I sense doubt in him. His work is still exemplary; indeed, he has at last finished fully deciphering the schematics for a device resembling a gate. Six runes encompass the circular gate, their meaning still unknown to us, though one displays an eye much like those denoting the philosophers. Perhaps the rods must be inserted such that the eye rune becomes the focal point. Conjecture! But oh, it is rather diverting to imagine breaking the lock on an ancient prison. Moreover, I have dreamed of this gate, glimpsed it in colorful fragments, a gift from the Somnovem.
Menzias, predictably, does not share my excitement. I fear he is not strong enough for what is to come. Few would be. Few are.
A significant portion of pages were missing, torn out and lost, resuming with:
So, it comes to this. Treachery, treachery, treachery! Indeed, I rightly smelled it upon Menzias, but too late did I understand the depths of his weakness. I am imprisoned, and all hope is lost. Upon reaching a high rotunda, well preserved, we discovered a stasis bubble containing an ancient Aeorian citizen. The philosophers screamed in my mind at the sight of them, and I exclaimed to Menzias that we must find a way to discharge the bubble and study this person. He led me to a small room off the rotunda, certain that he had found an inscription relevant to the work. While I attempted to verify this, he locked me inside, dooming me, dooming the work.
I heard the bastard painting something on the other side, likely a warning. Now I sit in the encroaching darkness with nothing but an enchanted rock and my failing hopes for company. I will try everything to get out, I will not surrender to this setback, but I fear I will never behold Cognouza.
Cognouza, lost to me! Fastidan! Ira! Vigilan! Why now silent? Why do you abandon me? Luctus! Elatis! Culpasi! Please, I beg, I beg for your wisdom and your sight. Timorei! Mirumus! Gaudius! I weep. I weep to hear you.
Cognouza, wait for me. If eternity relents, if there is mercy, I will find you.
When Lucien turned the page, he found that in isolation and hopelessness, the mage’s mind had begun rapidly to deteriorate. Fragments, designs, rantings in languages Lucien had no ability to translate. For sixteen consecutive pages, there was nothing but the word: TRANSMUTE. There were elaborate schematics for what Lucien realized was a contraption meant to free him from the secret room, a sort of makeshift lever made from his wooden staff and found stones, tied together with his own hair, and glued into place with mouse droppings.
The gibberish and diagrams ended abruptly about twenty pages after the last coherent journal entry. The mage’s penmanship, unsteady, was at least legible.
I hear their voices once more and dream of the gate. The Nine, the Somnovem, have called. I am called. I go forward to meet them, to become one with Cognouza. The city awaits me in glorious oblivion. Here behold the final words of the Nonagon before his inevitable ascension:
Lucien did not recognize the language of what followed, but he knew a spell when he saw one: the line breaks, the length, and the diagrams beside it demonstrating the necessary materials, focuses, and gestures.
written by Madeleine Roux
Note: redacted text represents words that have been scribbled out in the journal.
Now put down here are the words of █████████████████, Grand Archivist of the Dev-Yat Mahiyi Colleges in ██████████ in the year ████. What follows are my best attempts to decipher fragments retrieved from the wastes of Foren, relics I know in my bones came from Aeor, grand city of mages, center of all enlightened thinking, and the greatest loss of our age. Calamity is too small a word for what was taken. I believe, however, that with enough persistence and diligence, much of what was lost can once more be found.
Thieves and scavengers sometimes return to ██████████ from far and wide, hawking their pilferings, some whispering of a vast city beneath the ice fields of Eiselcross. Initially, I thought this all nonsense and boasting, but upon acquiring several of these relics I begin to ruminate on their stories. Foren seems the most likely location to me, as the scathing River Inferno there might handily dissuade the casual adventurer. Such an impediment would keep any ruins protected, and the ice may serve to preserve and perhaps even mummify the ancients of Aeor. If the bones of this theoretical place have not been picked clean, then I may yet prove that the items I have cataloged indeed belong to the mages of Aeor.
Enchantress Lornië tells me I am mad, and that I am wasting my time. What does she know? Her thinking has always been small. Let her experiment on her beasts and birds while bolder souls uncover the true extent of magic. In the end, she will have a talking dog and I will have the secrets of eternity.
The remainder of that page was illegible, defaced with a thick, black ink blotch. The journal had moldered in a tomb city for hundreds of years; of course it was going to sustain damage.
Certainly (and unlike our disgraceful hierarchy) the Convocation of Aeor prioritized the careers of forward-thinking mages, for I have found three separate tablets describing exorbitant funds being granted to someone called Fastidan, who, though seemingly at odds with the Convocation members, nonetheless won their respect. These sums were given over several years, suggesting that the mage’s research was complex and ongoing. It is hard to reconcile these numbers. The figures offered do not match our records of currency used by the peoples of Aeor.
The next page had been scratched through to illegibility, and then:
A breakthrough! Just as I suspected, the tallies on the recovered tablets could not symbolize currency. They instead describe the number of slaves Fastidan put to work excavating, polishing, and constructing “the crests.” I have no inkling of what these crests might be, or their use, and further do not trust my own translations of that particular word, nor the translation of “slaves” though that is my best approximation. It is worrisome to consider that a brilliant mind such as Fastidan’s might resort to enslaving folk for the construction of magical devices, but perhaps future acquisitions will clear up this confusion. In the name of pure professionalism, I have asked Enchantress Lornië to review my translation work, and she so far agrees with my assessments. Improbably, her narrow-minded piddle of a thesis was approved, and the ████████████ are advocating for her immediate promotion, upon which she will formally outrank me among the ██████████. Intolerable! She predictably (and jealously) continues to disparage my work and even had the gall and gumption to imply that Fastidan was a sick tyrant. Ridiculous slander. “These are the words of a small-minded fustilarian!” I admit I screamed this at her. It was not my finest hour. Enchantress Lornië has forgiven me, but something in her eyes suggests otherwise.
At last, at last, I have shown Enchantress Lornië the true depths of my genius. The High Archivist Enchanter Morillo has at last approved my request for an expedition to the far north. The Frigid Depths will be mine to explore and claim. Fastidan assured me this would happen, and he is most pleased, for now my loyalty and persistence are rewarded. The marks upon my body are still somewhat disorienting, but I trust that will pass. To imagine it! I, █████████████, humble son of a pig farmer, entrusted entrusted with a cadre of students and excavators to discover the lost secrets of Eiselcross. I will find it, Fastidan! I will find it. The crests shall be collected, your will shall be done. There will be so much to catalog and preserve. One hopes to come away with a more complete understanding of Aeorian politics, the Convocation, and, of course, the transgression that called down the wrath of the gods! My name will forever be remembered in the halls of ███████████.
Enchantress Lornië has given me some of her trained ravens for the journey. She claims they are not ordinary ravens, but those imbued with her special research, and they are smarter and faster than others of their kind. That she will not set aside her own lamentably juvenile work to join the expedition comes as a great disappointment. She would be useful, even just as a drudge for digging, as I’ve often admired her muscular hands. But her vision has always been narrow, her obsession with paltry domestics regrettably small and female. She says the raven will help us keep in touch, as spells can only transmit very short messages, and she knows I will want to share the full breadth of my findings; this demonstrates a promising leap in insight for her, and I am proud.
The mage rambles on like this for several more pages.
Goldeth lost a hand today. As is his usual way, he attempted to warm us all by lighting a bundle of sticks with a simple manipulation of the fireblast spell. The result was catastrophic, and I may never forget the smell of burning flesh pouring through the camp. It is in my robes now, and horrid. He will continue his work on the expedition, but in a diminished capacity. We are hopeful that infection will not take him. Goldeth is an adept caster, a judicious researcher, and a sober, serious sort, so I do not believe this maiming was due to error. I sense but cannot prove a bizarre warping of the weave, a hiccup, so to speak, in the laws of magic. As we strike north, these hiccups only become more frequent and more severe.
For now, I have directed the members of our expedition to use spells only in dire situations requiring self-defense, as our supplies are limited, and we cannot afford more injuries.
And later:
It is precisely as I expected: Some leagues north of the River Inferno, we discovered an immense ripple of frost, brittle and different from the surrounding ice fields. I listened to but dared not trust the voices that guided me to this place, promising answers, promising knowledge beyond knowledge. Aeor is here. There were complaints when I suggested that we must breach the frost and descend into the ruins, for we are not well equipped for such an endeavor, but I will not give up now. Perhaps brashly, I accused Goldeth, Menzias, and Felinor of cowardice, but I refuse to apologize for it. The voices foretold this, too, that the pursuit of the infinite would require a certain moral flexibility not for the faint of heart. But oh, I do not feel faint now! Not when we have found such wonders, such incredible labyrinths of mysteries to be solved!
Turning a page in the journal once more, he recoiled. The script was interrupted by another illustration, this one of a silhouette, a lone, slender figure, their features blank, though it was clear they wore a dragging robe. Their arms were barely outstretched, as if they were levitating. The mage’s pen had scribbled all around the outline of the person, as if an attempt to stamp the shape of them onto the page. A single red eye stared out from the center of the white face, but when Lucien blinked, the eye pulsated, growing outward like a bead of blood, then slid from the page, leaving no trail. He never found where it went.
After the picture came a scrap of parchment stuffed into the binding, the quality of the paper different, older, the pulp chunkier, with small flecks of what looked like crushed leaves. The penmanship was also different, leading Lucien to conclude that this was something the mage had found in the ruins and taken for himself.
The philosophers abandoned us. The cursed, plotting dreamers took their whole Ward with them. Curse them. May they rot in
There was no more. Behind the stolen scrap, the mage continued chronicling.
Goldeth has returned to the surface with his infected wound, probably to die. I have written to Enchantress Lornië with one of her ravens and asked that she watch for his return. In this same letter, I have reiterated her foolishness, for she will be absent for the most influential magical archaeological find of our era. I did not inform her of Felinor’s disappearance, for I myself do not yet know how to interpret it. We have made camp in the Praesidis Ward, for it provides the most comprehensive shelter. While we had the energy for it, we searched the ruins in which we made our camp, and I have determined it was once the home of an illustrious Aeorian family. A mural in the main hall depicts them at luxurious rest, a mother, father, and three beautiful daughters. Chipping away at the ice, I discovered an artist’s inscription reading FAMILY MAXIMUS ON THE EVE OF SOLSTICE: GLORY TO GORUS AND VITALIO MAXIMUS, WEALTH AND LONG LIFE TO THEIR OFFSPRING, MORBO, SILIO, AND BOLO. I have included a sketch, for I know Enchantress Lornië is enchanted by such prosaic trifles. The find was a brief joy, for in the night, we were woken by a mournful howl. It chilled me to the core, but Felinor agreed to investigate the noise. He has not returned. It is only Menzias and I now, and it is very quiet, giving the shadows that lurk behind us more power. I refuse to bend to fear, though daily I feel its toll. Menzias hardly eats, and my hair has begun to shed in clumps. Tomorrow, we press deeper into the Ars Ward. Watching the raven fly away with my message, I felt a wave of sorrow. I should have told Enchantress Lornië more, and been more honest, but she must not know that, in truth, it is all going very badly here.
The red marks are everywhere now, my hands, my chest, my shoulders, my neck… And they are changing me. The children hunt me in my dreams, and more marks appear. There has been a shift that I cannot explain, only this: Sometimes when I look at Menzias, I can hear fragments of his thoughts. This morning, I heard him speak clearly in my own head, though his mouth did not move. “Why did I follow this crazy old fool?” I heard it clear as a bell. When I examined his face, his guilt was obvious—he was indeed questioning the whole ordeal. There are marks on him now, too. What is happening to me? Why me, Fastidan? Where does it lead?
This is the fruit of a once barren tree. Now we come to it. Now I see it clearly. Cognouza. That which was promised. The marks upon my body that I once mistrusted I now see as proof of the promise—all that the nine philosophers worked to achieve, I am one of their masterpieces. The Astral Sea, that was their goal. The texts describing this were not penned by the philosophers themselves, but by doubting imbeciles like Lornië, too attached to the conventions of this realm to see that so much more lies beyond. The philosophers were wise, they predicted the disastrous outcomes of the Calamity, and their elegant solution was not submission or defeat, but to avoid annihilation altogether. A grand exodus. They were shunned. Shunned. Unbelievable! No, it is completely believable. They did not accept the concept of inevitability, in fact, they challenged the bones of reality as we understand it. Matter. Matter could be molded and shifted at will, dreams made manifest, no limitation but that of one’s own imagination.
The possibilities are, needless to say, tempting. The mind as architect, unrestrained. It is almost painful to conceive of such freedom, and yet I must possess it. Fastidan would not lie. Everything I have found pertaining to the Cognouza Ward, their ward, has been proven true.
Why then, would their theories prove false?
Much has changed, but I must not fear the change. We returned to our campsite to eat and rest, for Menzias still requires such things, only to find someone or something had left a gift for us. It was the head of Felinor, his scalp and eyes removed. What remained of his tongue had been pulled out ghoulishly, as if to mock us. Menzias wept, but I will not be threatened away from this place, this womb that did not birth me, but birthed that which calls me home.
My objectives are clear: Once the threshold crests are recovered, the Astral Sea can be reached, and from there, Cognouza returned. This will be no easy task, as the crests are tremendously large, and I may not alone possess the means to transport them. They might be moved with magic, but the instability of these ruins makes me question such an approach.
I must ruminate on it more.
Enchantress Lornië has written to condemn my studies outright. She has taken great offense at my letters and claims that she will go to High Archivist Enchanter Morillo and the Council and seek an official denunciation. Such an act would strike my name and my research from the ██████████ records, leaving this world once more in blighted ignorance.
I confess, I burst into tears upon reading her threats. My life’s work undone by a cowardly Luddite. It is clear, now more than ever, that I must succeed, for if Enchantress Lornië moves against me, I will return from the Astral Sea with the power to unmake her treachery. In fact, I can unmake her, as well, and mold her into a monstrosity more befitting her twisted, ugly insides.
We return to the Ars Ward this evening in search of a crest. Menzias assures me he has not forsaken the research, but I sense doubt in him. His work is still exemplary; indeed, he has at last finished fully deciphering the schematics for a device resembling a gate. Six runes encompass the circular gate, their meaning still unknown to us, though one displays an eye much like those denoting the philosophers. Perhaps the rods must be inserted such that the eye rune becomes the focal point. Conjecture! But oh, it is rather diverting to imagine breaking the lock on an ancient prison. Moreover, I have dreamed of this gate, glimpsed it in colorful fragments, a gift from the Somnovem.
Menzias, predictably, does not share my excitement. I fear he is not strong enough for what is to come. Few would be. Few are.
A significant portion of pages were missing, torn out and lost, resuming with:
So, it comes to this. Treachery, treachery, treachery! Indeed, I rightly smelled it upon Menzias, but too late did I understand the depths of his weakness. I am imprisoned, and all hope is lost. Upon reaching a high rotunda, well preserved, we discovered a stasis bubble containing an ancient Aeorian citizen. The philosophers screamed in my mind at the sight of them, and I exclaimed to Menzias that we must find a way to discharge the bubble and study this person. He led me to a small room off the rotunda, certain that he had found an inscription relevant to the work. While I attempted to verify this, he locked me inside, dooming me, dooming the work.
I heard the bastard painting something on the other side, likely a warning. Now I sit in the encroaching darkness with nothing but an enchanted rock and my failing hopes for company. I will try everything to get out, I will not surrender to this setback, but I fear I will never behold Cognouza.
Cognouza, lost to me! Fastidan! Ira! Vigilan! Why now silent? Why do you abandon me? Luctus! Elatis! Culpasi! Please, I beg, I beg for your wisdom and your sight. Timorei! Mirumus! Gaudius! I weep. I weep to hear you.
Cognouza, wait for me. If eternity relents, if there is mercy, I will find you.
When Lucien turned the page, he found that in isolation and hopelessness, the mage’s mind had begun rapidly to deteriorate. Fragments, designs, rantings in languages Lucien had no ability to translate. For sixteen consecutive pages, there was nothing but the word: TRANSMUTE. There were elaborate schematics for what Lucien realized was a contraption meant to free him from the secret room, a sort of makeshift lever made from his wooden staff and found stones, tied together with his own hair, and glued into place with mouse droppings.
The gibberish and diagrams ended abruptly about twenty pages after the last coherent journal entry. The mage’s penmanship, unsteady, was at least legible.
I hear their voices once more and dream of the gate. The Nine, the Somnovem, have called. I am called. I go forward to meet them, to become one with Cognouza. The city awaits me in glorious oblivion. Here behold the final words of the Nonagon before his inevitable ascension:
Lucien did not recognize the language of what followed, but he knew a spell when he saw one: the line breaks, the length, and the diagrams beside it demonstrating the necessary materials, focuses, and gestures.