Mistlocke's Book of Secrets

[Life]

I know that the Mayor is a spy for the Enclave, but I don't do anything about it because I am afraid.

I snuck off to MurderTown once and had the best time of my life.

I was walking through the Crossroads when I spotted a stargazer. I ran so fast I could've outran a leopard.

If I jumped into the River Tear, would anyone realize I was gone?

[Life]

I walk  the Old Stones amongst the Conclave servants freely. I almost wish for  them to try something against me, so I can kill them and rid them of  their miserable lives.

I'm happy here. Please let go. I did.

Maybe if I was a better father and husband my family would still be alive.

I seek peace and salvation in the Curio Shop and Library. I always hope that I'll meet someone in there like me, but the place is always empty except for Cornelius.

I hope I die before I'm too old to carry my sword properly.

My wife is a slush and I love it because our marriage was such a bore before she started drinking.

[Life]

I find myself growing truly proud of my family. I'm worried that there won't be many of them left once I'm done.

I was dared to sneak into the Old Stones. I couldn't figure out how.

I tried to learn how to use a spear. Tried to hunt down and kill a deer. Didn't go so well.

[Life]

I'm pretty sure those purple circles that keep showing up in Old Stones are Sarisa's attempts at being clever. I imagine they're notifying certain individuals of her movements, or could be some sort of religious dribble involving Shar. I could sell this information, but I think I'd much rather make her angry.

[Life]

Within the library of the Curio Shop, a book is pulled off the shelf by an invisible figure. The book bobs in the air precariously, as if whatever is holding it is struggling to keep it afloat. Eventually, it is gently guided to a table where it's slowly opened, and the pages flipped through. Coming to the last page of the book. A scroll appears and is pressed onto the page, some sort of sticky, glue-like substance is smeared over the scroll, adhering it to the page.

Whatever pulled the book from the shelf leaves it on the table, for the glue to dry, and for whoever passes by to read it.

Dear Mistlocke,

This is good bye. This village and the people it has gathered has been many things to me. There were times when I loathed my time in this village. There were times when I enjoyed my time here. Regardless of the bad or good, all things come to an end and so it is time that I move on from my editorial of this book.

I collected your secrets.

I heard your confessions.

I mulled your thoughts.

I delved into your dreams.

I pitied your hopes.

I have hoarded this knowledge simply for the sake of hoarding it.

And now I reveal a simple secret: despite all that I have gathered and committed to memory and pen, it will all come to an end, it will all disappear, and it will all be forgotten.

I am no scholar. Nor am I a historian. I simply wished to know and pry for my own personal pleasure. To see what it is that passes through the minds of mortals whose existence is no more than an unnoticeable chirp in a deafening and roaring jungle.

I am a pathetic mortal like all of you and like so many things in this dreadful world and banal existence. With my passing and the passing of others, time will corrode memory. And history. And the past. Nothing will be left.

I've witnessed and eulogized the deaths of many people. Some of them the deaths of simple common folk. Others the deaths of prominent figures. However, in dust, in the grave, in the ashes, all deaths become meaningless. All deaths leaves but a single blot upon the canvas. With each drop of ink, the canvas becomes that much more blacker. Time passes, the canvas absorbs more ink until eventually it is little more than a piece of cloth soaked black. All of the little blots and drops become one. All of them become indistinguishable and meaningless.

Mistlocke is no different. This pitiful village, lost in the Mists, isolated from the rest of the world: it is doomed and destined for death, destruction, and obliteration. All of you share this fate. To suffer and die amongst petty conflicts or to fall to the Lichess when she succeeds in stripping away the last of the Mist.

There is nothing you can do but pray and hope. Perhaps if your prayers are earnest and sincere and honest, you may be granted a swift and painless oblivion.


Ghost Editor

[Erwin the German]

A new message is penned in, in very different hand-writing.

Swift and painless her's wasn't. Let it not be forgotten.

Locked in the cold mist, we endure.