Joy and terror mix to form the exultant pride at a bad deed well done
Trees flow past, dangerously close in the dark, but none strike you. A glance back reveals the light still flickering in the distance. He doesn’t know yet, no one knows. You don’t know what the axe is worth, but it must be valuable.
Confusion and fear mingle together, barely suppressed by resolve. At the edges, the remains of a great rage seem to be fading away
Sharp, particular images flash: a large keep in disrepair, a bag flying past a window, a starving warhorse, two beautiful but terrible women, a horrid mutant beast that flickers in and out of being, a tall man with a glaive and a book, shadowy claws, a seven pointed star.
A soft, detached sounding voice speaks “Orrin keeps his journals, and I did not really understand them until now. I do not think I could do the same, but my story must persist. I have seen the memories of items and I’m not sure if this will work, but I am attempting to my own onto this axe. I will do my best not to overwhelm the memories it already has, those are part of what it is, but I must tell my tale somehow. I begin at our arrival at the Thornkeep. It is strange, as repugnant as they are, my companions and I were almost drawn in by the grotesque humor of their antics: a cruel game of murdered seagulls, the great crime of stolen pickles, the inestimable danger of a well-trained warhorse. However, we swiftly found that the disgusting, if silly, machinations of the goblins only covered for far more terrible things beneath the surface.”
“While it was initially surprising to find detailed plans of assault in the goblin outpost, the discover of an enchantress assisting the goblins both explained and deepened our concern. We swiftly subdued her, though she has been largely non-responsive. A wand of hers gave me a name, Lyrie. While it might simply be the wands crafter, I suspect it belongs to the young Osirian woman. Beyond her, we descended further into a temple which proved, as if any proof was needed, that these structures were not strictly goblin. We found statues and markings of the peoples we dreamed of. Particularly statues of a man our dreams identified as Karzoug. In these ruins we encountered Tsuto’s lover. While Orrin recognized the signs of divinity in her bloodline, her worship of Lamashtu, the Mother of Monsters, had warped her greatly. We were forced to put her down rather than take her for questioning, but there is no question she would have received the same punishment eventually.”
“The dangers of the goblins and their leaders though paled in comparison to the beings who had been trapped here for centuries. Behind clever mechanisms that seem to have baffled the keep’s current inhabitants, we discovered first some sentient creature, not entirely of this realm that pounced on us from invisibility. We fled and locked it back in the chamber it seems to have occupied for centuries. In another room, marked by a seven-pointed star, we found a burial chamber of restless dead. While their bodies remained quiet, the shadows of the fallen assaulted us. I myself was struck down and thought it to be my last moments, but as their cold incorporeal claws severed my soul from its bindings, I felt the colder yet grip of my lady, the goddess Pharasma, return me to my body to fight again. I have always been a somewhat indifferent allegiant, but I feel that must change. I will try to remember more in this manner later, I hear the sounds of a cat hunting and fear we are in immediate danger.”
A rush of anxious excitement washes away further memories