Entry the First

Mrs. Mennsen has gifted me with this blank tome of charming hand-made paper bound to a quaint leather sheath. An offering of parting, I suppose. Only the old accept thanks by giving more.

I should honor her hospitality and make use of this thing, which is no difficult task – for now I find myself with much free time, my illness now past (and for that we must be grateful to Mrs. Mennsen's stews and blankets). Having rid myself of those tattered, salt-stained shifts, I have acquired a comfortable suit from local tailor, Mr. Blazon. Remarkable that relative civility exists in such aphotic and dismal depths.

Lieutenant Spoad's first law of intelligence – acquisition of historical context: Perhaps the remarkable civility is not so deserving of its describer. This settlement has existed for some two hundred years. [Historical notes of common knowledge are written out here, most pertaining to information found in the works of Adelia Tyrell.] Charles said, “Here there shall be a sanctuary from all the terrors of the Underdark.” And Fredrick replied, “Yes, and a rest in our search for freedom.” It seems simple enough. Any inhabitant of this place could be classified as a Charles or a Fredrick (with the universal exception of inescapable, violent, aimless maniacs). Escapist or Survivalist, Charles or Fredrick. The risk of death for “freedom”, or the risk of “freedom” for security. Perhaps there is a compromise -

But not likely. The proletariat and the adventurers have a strong voice. The curious Council system allows for open speech – from cries of injustice to words of praise. Decentralization. The center will not hold - It hasn't. Regardless – the litter on the public bulletin is often very political. Though dangerous – provides excellent insight for a researcher with much time on his hands: Political murders - assassinations – paranoia – factitious squabbling – bizarre cults – corruption - This state is on tenuous legs. The root seems to sprout from personal desperation of the citizenry: Two kinds, Charlesian or Fredrican. Those who feel the stone closing in, who sweat and stare madly as things fall apart and cave in around them. Or those who claw at the soil walls of their deep, earthen grave in a animal attempt to be loose. Dismal. Yes -

It is easy to see how promises of hope from cults and organizations and loud-voiced men scoop up so many so effortlessly into their talons. There is no reason. Praise be to Ms. Tyrell and Mrs. Dwurrowroot and their associates for retaining some sanity. It will be interesting to see all these events re-unfold (as history is wont to do) before my eyes rather than on paper. I am rather tired of paper.

Clarke

[Written in the margins: “Bhast”, “Archivist”, “Archibald”]

Entry the Second

Strange things here are.

So strange that they are so ordinary. The same games. The same words. The same faces. Lower Sanctuary could be a Marsember dockside.

I have oriented myself enough now. It is time to decide upon a mode. Integration, or observation. Without orders or Spoad's eyes over my shoulder, the freedom of decision is daunting. All the more reason... Integration is the most alluring. Without standing orders it will be easier. Yes, my mind has been made as I write – Observation is not only thinner, but, here, may be more dangerous, surprisingly. Keeping profile will be simpler. Squinting into the shadows will be more difficult in this gloom.

G. S. -- Worth an attempt. Mask. Cover phrase – that is a complicated one. Ruminate.

The sewers are not a pretty prospect, but I should find Ubel. Criller? The Pissing Crone (splendid title) may have deep enough roots. It is hard to tell. Stew shop and gambling hall look more promising. Note: Exercise interaction with monstrous races.

Dragon Embassy and Red Skull Cult. Watch your toes, Mr. Clarke. (Hells take you, Mr. Spoad.) Mulciber. More curiously, Illiana. What is Illiana? Oh yes – a kneader. Curious choice of attire though. I expected more dogmatism from Mr. Mulciber. I expected more dogmatism from everyone. The underdark muffles voices. None-the-less, I found it. It was not difficult to dig up. No more than two feet under. Now all I need to know is why a dragon wishes military affiliation with (domination of) this squalid little settlement. -- Followers -- Slaves -- Food -- Hell's teeth, how does a dragon have an embas-------- Nevermind!

I still need to decide on a foundation. And I still need some more direction. I hope that the latter will come of itself. Bumbling into places unprepared will no longer serve, soon enough. But the former will be more difficult. Where do I find one? Dare I make one? Can I make one? The Council seems too flimsy. I need to find out more about them. -- Position of assister? That might not be so difficult. Perhaps Mr. Nikitovich can help. Kings are oft taken for granted.

Clarke

[Written in the margins: “Do you like my Mask?” “Good Mask today, eh?” , “Quinn”, “Steady Hand”]

Entry the Third

It has been some days since I have been able to write in this. And lords above, do things never cease in this place. My (now chronic, it seems) illness has beset me again. The cough returned with some authority, and Mrs. Mennsen notes that I am more pale. I could hardly see straight for a tenday. Simply trying to read made me sick in the stomach. I have bought a cloak to warm myself, and am spending more time imaginable in front of the upper inn fire hearth. At least I can walk. I must not be a burden to Mrs. Mennsen longer.

I cannot remember the day before I fell sick. Kobolds is all. I was injured – or stabbed. That may have caused the illness to return. I cannot imagine the state in which Mr. Mennsen found me. I suppose that he would not tell me, regardless. All the while – the whole tenday – I was haunted by paralyzing dreams. Nightmares really. Dare I attempt to describe them? To myself?

The faces of those fishmen. The bizarre, wet eyes, and the tapered teeth, and the scales. Seafoam and currents – What was that noise? That horrific sound? Mrs. Mennsen told me that it was that drummer who lives near her apartment. That rhythmic, swirling, hypnotic – his voice – the strange, nasal – I do not think I can write of it more. Regardless, the combination induced in my person a cold fever that I cannot relieve myself of.

But now what, Mr. Clarke? (I'll tell you, Mr. Spoad: You can rot in the nine hells.)

I inquired after the few rumors Mrs. Mennsen picked up on. Most of them seem relatively true. Mr. Gray is dead, it seems. He moved very quickly. Things are quick here. Imminent death from the surrounding gloom instills a vigor in men, down in these depths.

But now, I must consider: Is it worth all this? Stability? It does not seem possible. I cannot think – my head is splitting. I returned Mr. Fosca's letter. All I can do is busy myself until things are made clear – if they ever do.

I believe that I am becoming dark of mind. Fitting.

Clarke

[Written in the margins: Truth, New Dunwarren]

Entry the Fourth

The bindings are still sturdy, but the cover is dusty, and my writings have faded. I had all but forgot this device.

The third relapse was not so terrible as the second, and I managed to nurse myself. I am feeling chipper enough as it is... yet calms often precede storms along the Dragonmere. Make the best of it then, Mr. Clarke. (Expect your wine lukewarm, Mr. Spoad.)

Most of what is written on previous pages seems vague and obsolete now. This is no Marsember dockside. Twisted and tangled, this place is. Untangling it fully would be impossible, for it's nature is to defy the rope's straight utility. But some semblance of utility could be neared if it were gently and carefully unraveled to only a handful of knots. Yes, with such a rope the sails could be secured to capture the winds.

It is difficult to do anything. A thin grime keeps the serene pool murky and opaque. No bottom can be seen. Dive.

The last time I dove- Luckily the dreams have subsided...

I will linger and loiter. I will search and glean. I will ready myself for the dive. I must gird myself against these deceptively frigid waters.

Blatancy may be the most subtle tools I have. Mr. Doors, expect a visit.

Clarke

[Written in the margins: False names, Aledrec Yhaunn, Spellguard]

Entry the Fifth

I do not feel particularly inclined to write now, but I think that I should.

Actually, I shan't.

Clarke