The Book of Sarah

[Et Tu]

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The Book of Sarah

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[INDENT]* Authors Note:[/INDENT]
I have attempted to collect what warnings I can from the history and lore of this Isle. I fear, as with all mortal work, it shall not be enough. If you have a portent you wish added to this work, write to Senan Dorcha at the Mist End.

- Senan Dorcha

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[INDENT]* Forward:[/INDENT]
The Isle of Yphm holds terrors undreamt by those upon the mainland. We speak of those horrors and the needs to face them, yet by the actions of my fellows I see those words are that alone. To often we fall to bickering and petty feuds, to often we turn our backs upon unknown lore that may provide the knowledge needed to ward our people. A reminder is provided here, a reminder of the realities of this Isle. Of the horrors we face. Of the terrors that are beyond our very door. The Book of Sarah. Recall the end that faces us all.

- Senan Dorcha

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[Et Tu]

[INDENT]Chapter 1:[/INDENT]
The sad, skeletal remains of a small child lay upon the ancient stonework of a Citadel long fallen. The body remains hidden in some small room, far from the main passage ways and thoroughfares. Clutched in the tiny, skeletal fingers is a collection of parchments once bound. Now, slowly crumbling to ruin from exposure to moisture and rodents.

If one was to review the fading characters upon this parchment, they would discover them to be the bubble like markings of a child. The first line, seemingly the title of the crumbling tome, would read "Sarah's Very Own Book". To pursue further through the time faded parchment, is to learn of the girl child Sarah. To hear of her travels to the Isle of Yphm and the Colony upon it with her father. His struggles to find coins and food for his family, their existence in this strange new place. The simple writings of a child, unknowing of the true horrors of this Isle.

To continue reading is to learn that her father was given work, named a "Deputy" in the Colony. A short lived, relief. For next would come words of some unknown shield failing, and Nightrisers rising up from the ground. Of a doom beyond understanding facing this Colony. Of the last words of Sarah's fathers to his child. "Run and hide, be brave." Of the last words recorded, "I will be brave ...".

One wonders when they read the above of the thoughts of the residents of the Colony. What filled their minds as the stood upon the walls of their Citadel, knowing that only their blades and spells lay between their family and doom. That despite their current efforts, they were failing. Driven back step by step, driven from their walls and defensive positions. Think as well upon upon the thoughts of their loved ones. Seeing their defenders falling back, every back. Seeing a doom they could not hope to face driving every forward. Do you suppose they all thought of internal feuds and rebellions in their ranks? How many treasures and coins were spent quelling and settling such? Or perhaps their minds turned to lore unlearned or turned away from. Spells or rituals deemed unwise or unneeded.

The horrors of this Isle have spelled the doom of others. In response, the wise would unite and seek all that they can to preserve their people. To fail is mortal, to believe otherwise is foolish and disproved by history time and again. To survive we must seek aid. When asked "why, why must we do this"; I bring to you in response The Book of Sarah.

[Et Tu]

[INDENT]Chapter 2:[/INDENT]
A young boy, Withered and malnourished, stands with a leash about his very neck. Holding the end of this leash, lounges a brutish man armed and armored. From time to time, the man will give the leash a thoughtless yet malevolent pull and watch as the boy is sent stumbling to the boys scabbed knees. The faintest smirk is apparent upon the face of the man at the sight of the pathetic boy, nearly broken upon the ground.

The body of a woman, twisted and contorted in the spasms of a death filled with agony, hangs upon cruel hooks above the twisted court of an insane ruler. The ruler is known to smile up at the shattered flesh of the slain woman; to look up and in an soft voice explain that in life the woman was a prostitute and he offered her what she never found a hook at a time.

If one wished to, one could see both of these horrors in but a single hour. For it is not more than a span of one hundred steps from the boy to the woman, from past to present cruelty of a nature to twist all but the most hardened of hearts. Each of these horrors is contained is a single realm on this Isle, a realm sworn to the Faith of Insanity. One wonders how such a thing could come to be, at what point would men submit to such a travesty?

The answer, rests in the very nature of this Isle. An Isle with such terrors upon it that the very soul is numbed. A soul numbed to such an extent that it no longer seems worth the effort to oppose the insanity that is written of above, especially if that very insanity seems to provide some false strength from which to hide from this Isle behind. For it would be a mistake to believe that the ruler of this land of terror is without power, an insane and twisted power but a power none the less.

What then are we to make of this, is it possible to explain our fellow man sinking to such levels? Above we speak of how it happened, now let us move to a more important thought of why could such happen. Does such darkness truly lie in the mortal heart, that when the soul is so numbed such things as above are possible? The answer is contained in the text above. For indeed, darkness does rest in the mortal soul. To deny such is unwise and untrue, rather instead it must be accepted. The darkness must be guided by a book of laws and a search for wisdom, to simple turns one back upon it and deny its existence is to invite the possibility of the above. For as the soul is numbed, the inner darkness begins to whisper to the mortal mind. Unguided, this darkness is as a edged blade with no hilt or guard. Unguided, this darkness will open the door to the insanity of Murdertown. So ends this lesson in the Book of Sarah.

[Et Tu]

[INDENT]Chapter 3:[/INDENT]
A small hamlet rests in a misty clearing, rising above it an ancient keep of stone. Children dart through its small square, calling to one another and their elders as they move about in play. With a laugh and wave, three warriors stride through the peaceful scene. Though armed and armored, these warriors voices are gentle and their faces kind as they great the townsfolk. Proudly displayed upon their armors shine the heraldies of the bright faiths, a comfort to all the townsfolk. And so the townsfolk go about their business, secure in the knowledge they are thrice warded. A warding of stone, a warding of bright warriors, and a warding of fey power.

It is the last of these wardings though, that is of the greatest importance. For it is the one of fey power that holds back the horrors that would devour this small hamlet, terrors beyond imagination held at bay. Yet as with all things, there is a price for this fey power. A cost to its protective embrace. A champion selected from the hamlet, a champion to stand with this fey power and serve as ward for all. A grave honor, to serve as champion. Yet one that no individual of the hamlet had ever refused, for to fail as champion was to damn the hamlet all.

As the time came for the choosing of the champion, many of the hamlet gathered in it's small square. A peaceful life interrupted by this most important of occasions. As the name was drawn and read, all eyes turned. For it was one of the bright warriors chosen, standing there amidst the crowd. A deep breath of relief was heard, for surely one such as that would stand so that all the others may remain safe. It was a relief short lived, for the second the name was read blades were drawn and prayers uttered. All three of the bright warriors brought battle to the others of the hamlet, screams of denial rested on the lips of the bright warriors as they sought to cut their way free of the hamlet square. Again and again the townsfolk heard the utterances of the bright warriors, any other but the bright warriors must be made to stand as champion.

Fleeing, the bright warriors left the hamlet to it's doom. For without the fey warding the hamlet would surely fall. Days of fear descended upon the hamlet, children whimpered as they cowered in their parents arms. Young eyes pleading with their elders to explain how the shinning warriors could abandon them so. A question without answer.  In the end, the chosen champion would return before the hamlet was broken. But not until at least two other innocents had died, not until those of the bright faiths had shattered the trust of the hamlet. So ends this lesson in the Book of Sarah.

[Et Tu]

[INDENT]Chapter 4:[/INDENT]
A tender child stands weeping in utter despair before the broken bodies of her parents, their slain forms rest draped across an alter consecrated to the demonic. Around this alter, with the utterance of soft chants, stands a grouping of men and woman. Their necks are adorned with amulets bearing a glyph that is twisted and vile. A soft glow seeps from the alter as the blood of slain, the tears of the heartbroken child, and the chants of the cultists all drift into the air.

It is a scene soon shattered, though not in a manner the cultist intend. From out of the darkness comes a warrior, weapon in hand. A rage barely controlled, he butchers the cultists one by one. A force of arms to stand against the demonic sacrifice, a refusal to allow the vile insanity to proceed a single instance longer. For all the terror of the warrior's assault, it is a thing soon ended. The cultist's forms lay littered upon the ground, their work a failure.

Of the child though there is little to be done, her tear filled eyes remain fixed upon the alter and the gruesome sight of her slain parents.  For all the warriors skill at arms, the child remains a broken spirit. A soul crushed by sights so horrendous it can not be born. It is before his shocked eyes that the child acts, unable to bear the cruelties of these Realms she ends her life in single stroke of a knife. With this sight before him, the warrior's weapon slowly lowers to his side and on his lips there are no words he can utter. For this day the warrior has seen a hard truth, to fail is mortal. For all his skill, for all his deadly craft he was unable to save the life of the small girl.

Still though, there is yet another lesson to be learned from this. To those whom have read this tome from the start, it is known that there is darkness in the mortal heart. For those whom unwisely refuse to guide the darkness with law and wisdom, insanity such as what is recorded above awaits. A lesser insanity at first, than the full flowering seen in the streets of Mudertown. Still, an insanity with so high a cost none the less. Remember the small child, recall  the broken bodies of her parents. Ward well against those in whom the darkness rages without guidance, for to fail is mortal. We dance, at times, so close upon the edges of the doom of insanity. So ends this lesson in the Book of Sarah.

[Et Tu]

[INDENT]Chapter 5:[/INDENT]
An ill constructed hovel crouches in the midsts of the blowing sands and cruel sun of the desert. It is in this hovel the broken body of a man slumps upon the hard earthen ground of the small hovel. Above the broken, stands the smirking form of the wielder of the arcane whose perilous arcane weavings broke the one slumped upon the earth. A quiet scene, for all the furry that that was but moments past. A quiet scene that was soon shattered. For bursting into the tiny hovel, blades drawn, were two warriors whom were both boon companions of the one broken upon the ground at the feet of the wielder of the arcane.

Warriors whom but glimpsed the scene before them before they brought their blades forth, seeking the hearts blood of the wielder of the arcane whom had downed the first man. An effort, as with a great many mortal efforts, that was to fail. For the wielder of the arcane did not remain still as the two warriors burst into the small hovel. Upon the entrance of the warriors, the wielder of the arcane began a shaping of power both terrible and potent. It was this shaping of the arcane the wielder of the arcane unleashed upon the two warriors as the warriors charged across the small hovel. It was this shaping that brought both of these warriors to the ground with their bodies broken, to join their boon companion upon the earth at the feet of the wielder of the arcane.

With all three broken at his feet, the wielder of the arcane took the life of one of the warriors whom had dared to enter the small hovel. But, before the wielder of the arcane could act further the voice of the first one upon the ground was heard. The original one, slumped at the feet of the wielder of the arcane, spoke of a desire to live at any cost. With these words, the first one drew a small blade from his boot and gathered every strength within him to crawl across the hard earthen floor of the hovel and slice the throat of the second warrior whom had entered the hovel. The wielder of the arcane merely watched this act, and once it was done the wielders gaze turned to the first man and the blood smeared knife in his hands. Without a word, with only a twist of contempt upon his lips, the wielder of the arcane acted once more and took the hearts blood of the first man ending his life. With this act, the quiet once more returned to the small hovel as the three slain bodies sprawled upon the hard earth. The wielder of the arcane standing above them, a small smirk returning to his lips.

Consider well the above and it's portent. Think of the second warrior, whom had charged into almost certain death in an effort to drag a boon companion to safety. Think of this warriors thoughts as his eyes took in the sight of this "boon companion" crawling towards him with a knife in hand as the second warrior lay broken by the wielder of the arcane's shaping of power. Think of the wielder of the knife, willing to sacrifice all in an effort to draw but another breath. Think of the doom that crushed his very soul as the wielder of the arcane slew him as well but moments after the wielder of the knife cut the throat of the warrior whom had sought to save him. As has been said before, there is darkness in the mortal heart. So many turn their back upon it entirely, or refuse to guide the darkness with the truths of the wise. Ward well whom you place your trust in, for to leave the darkness unguided in the mortal heart is to set foot on the path that leads to the above. So ends this lesson in the Book of Sarah.