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Forte:
--- Quote ---Title: The King in Yellow (Volume I-III)
Icon (book's appearance, if known): iit_book_044
Suggested locations: The Mists, Hidden Library of Dementlieu, any supernatural locations of preference.
Notes: Book within public domain. Has been edited of any illegal characters and elsewise been cut down to it's important sections, as well as keeping the mystery and mythology of the King in Yellow intact (as it has direct impact later on eldritch-related mythos, which DnD draws from for Warlocks and the like in the form of the Deep Ones and in some instances, Cthulu, directly).
--- End quote ---
Spoiler: Volume One show
This tome seems incomplete- Several portions of it seem outright missing, but seems to speak of a supposed play known as the ‘King in Yellow’, esoterically, within the actual contents of the book-- Also seemingly titled ‘The King in Yellow’. An illustration representing a yellow cloaked figure in abstract decorates the cover, as well as the title. The content is as follows, with several pages torn out or missing. The mystery is too much. It is as if the tome itself demands you read it.
‘During my convalescence I had bought and read for the first time, The King in Yellow. I remember after finishing the first act that it occurred to me that I had better stop. I started up and flung the book into the fireplace, the volume struck the barred grate and fell open on the hearth in the firelight. If I had not caught a glimpse of the opening words in the second act I should never have finished it, but as I stooped to pick it up, my eyes became riveted to the open page, and with a cry of terror, or perhaps it was of joy so poignant that I suffered in every nerve, I snatched the thing out of the coals and crept shaking to my bedroom, where I read it and reread it, and wept and laughed and trembled with a horror which at times assails me yet. This is the thing that troubles me, for I cannot forget Carcosa where black stars hang in the heavens, where the shadows of men's thoughts lengthen in the afternoon, when the twin suns sink into the lake of Hali, and my mind will bear for ever the memory of the Pallid Mask. I pray God will curse the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with this beautiful, stupendous creation, terrible in its simplicity, irresistible in its truth. A world which now trembles before the King in Yellow.
When the government seized the translated copies which had just arrived in town, of course, became eager to read it. It is well known how the book spread like an infectious disease, from city to city, from continent to continent, barred out here, confiscated there, denounced by Press and pulpit, censured even by the most advanced of literary anarchists. No definite principles had been violated in those wicked pages, no doctrine promulgated, no convictions outraged. It could not be judged by any known standard, yet, although it was acknowledged that the supreme note of art had been struck in The King in Yellow, all felt that human nature could not bear the strain, nor thrive on words in which the essence of purest poison lurked. The very banality and innocence of the first act only allowed the blow to fall afterward with more awful effect.
At noon next day when I arrived, I found Boris walking restlessly about his studio.
"Genevieve is asleep just now," he told me, "the sprain is nothing, but why should she have such a high fever? The doctor can't account for it or else he will not," he muttered.
"Genevieve has a fever?" I asked.
"I should say so, and has actually been a little light-headed at intervals all night. The idea! Gay little Genevieve, without a care in the world, and she keeps saying her heart's broken, and she wants to die!"
My own heart stood still.
Boris leaned against the door of his studio, looking down, his hands in his pockets, his kind, keen eyes clouded, a new line of trouble drawn "over the mouth's good mark, that made the smile." The maid had orders to summon him the instant Genevieve opened her eyes. We waited and waited, and Boris, growing restless, wandered about, fussing with modelling wax and red clay. Suddenly he started for the next room. "Come and see my rose-coloured bath full of death!" he cried.
"Is it death?" I asked, to humor his mood.
"You are not prepared to call it life, I suppose," he answered. As he spoke he plucked a solitary gold-fish squirming and twisting out of its globe. "We'll send this one after the other, wherever that is," he said. There was feverish excitement in his voice. A dull weight of fever lay on my limbs and on my brain as I followed him to the fair crystal pool with its pink-tinted sides, and he dropped the creature in. Falling, its scales flashed with a hot orange gleam in its angry twistings and contortions. Yhe moment it struck the liquid it became rigid and sank heavily to the bottom. Then came the milky foam, the splendid hues radiating on the surface and then the shaft of pure serene light broke through from seemingly infinite depths. Boris plunged in his hand and drew out an exquisite marble thing, blue-veined, rose-tinted, and glistening with opalescent drops.
"Child's play," he muttered, and looked wearily, longingly at me, as if I could answer such questions! But Jack Scott came in and entered into the "game," as he called it, with ardour. Nothing would do but to try the experiment on the white rabbit then and there. I was willing that Boris should find distraction from his cares, but I hated to see the life go out of a warm, living creature and I declined to be present. Picking up a book at random, I sat down in the studio to read. Alas! I had found The King in Yellow. After a few moments, which seemed ages, I was putting it away with a nervous shudder, when Boris and Jack came in bringing their marble rabbit. At the same time the bell rang above, and a cry came from the sick-room. Boris was gone like a flash, and the next moment he called, "Jack, run for the doctor. Bring him back with you. Alec, come here."
I went and stood at her door. A frightened maid came out in haste and ran away to fetch some remedy. Genevieve, sitting bolt upright, with crimson cheeks and glittering eyes, babbled incessantly and resisted Boris' gentle restraint. He called me to help. At my first touch she sighed and sank back, closing her eyes, and then… then… as we still bent above her, she opened them again, looked straight into Boris' face, poor fever-crazed girl! And told her secret. At the same instant our three lives turned into new channels. The bond that held us so long together snapped forever and a new bond was forged in its place, for she had spoken my name, and as the fever tortured her, her heart poured out its load of hidden sorrow. Amazed and dumb I bowed my head, while my face burned like a live coal, and the blood surged in my ears, stupefying me with its clamour. Incapable of movement, incapable of speech, I listened to her feverish words in an agony of shame and sorrow. I could not silence her, I could not look at Boris. Then I felt an arm upon my shoulder, and Boris turned a bloodless face to mine.
"It is not your fault, Alec. Don't grieve so if she loves you…" but he could not finish. And as the doctor stepped swiftly into the room, saying, "Ah, the fever!" I seized Jack Scott and hurried him to the street, saying, "Boris would rather be alone." We crossed the street to our own apartments, and that night, seeing I was going to be ill too, he went for the doctor again. The last thing I recollect with any distinctness was hearing Jack say, "For Heaven's sake, doctor, what ails him, to wear a face like that?" and I thought of The King in Yellow and the Pallid Mask.
I was very ill, for the strain of two years which I had endured since that fatal May morning when Genevieve murmured, "I love you, but I think I love Boris best," told on me at last. I had never imagined that it could become more than I could endure. Outwardly tranquil, I had deceived myself. Although the inward battle raged night after night, and I, lying alone in my room, cursed myself for rebellious thoughts unloyal to Boris and unworthy of Genevieve, the morning always brought relief, and I returned to Genevieve and to my dear Boris with a heart washed clean by the tempests of the night.
Never in word or deed or thought while with them had I betrayed my sorrow even to myself.
The mask of self-deception was no longer a mask for me, it was a part of me. Night lifted it, laying bare the stifled truth below. But there was no one to see except myself, and when the day broke the mask fell back again of its own accord. These thoughts passed through my troubled mind as I lay sick, but they were hopelessly entangled with visions of white creatures, heavy as stone, crawling about in Boris' basin, of the wolf's head on the rug, foaming and snapping at Genevieve, who lay smiling beside it. I thought, too, of the King in Yellow wrapped in the fantastic colours of his tattered mantle, and that bitter cry of Cassilda, "Not upon us, oh King, not upon us!" Feverishly I struggled to put it from me, but I saw the lake of Hali, thin and blank, without a ripple or wind to stir it, and I saw the towers of Carcosa behind the moon. Aldebaran, the Hyades, Alar, Hastur, glided through the cloud-rifts which fluttered and flapped as they passed like the scolloped tatters of the King in Yellow.’
The rest of the pages are completely torn, and all markings of its author scrubbed from its worn bindings.
Spoiler: Second Volume show There is several ripped pages of this volume, but several portions remain.
‘..."I wish they were bound in gold," I said. "But wait, yes, there is another book, The King in Yellow." I looked him steadily in the eye.
"Have you never read it?" I asked.
"I? No, thank God! I don't want to be driven crazy."
I saw he regretted his speech as soon as he had uttered it. There is only one word which I loathe more than I do lunatic and that word is crazy. But I controlled myself and asked him why he thought The King in Yellow dangerous.
"Oh, I don't know," he said, hastily. "I only remember the excitement it created and the denunciations from pulpit and Press. I believe the author shot himself after bringing forth this monstrosity, didn't he?"
"I understand he is still alive," I answered.
"That's probably true," he muttered, "bullets couldn't kill a fiend like that."
"It is a book of great truths," I said.
"Yes," he replied, "of 'truths' which send men frantic and blast their lives. I don't care if the thing is, as they say, the very supreme essence of art. It's a crime to have written it, and I for one shall never open its pages."’
The pages are ripped once more, leading to a small section remaining before it begins a new chapter.
'I had slept through the sermon. Had I slept through the sermon? I looked up and saw him passing along the gallery to his place. Only his side I saw the thin bent arm in its black covering looked like one of those devilish, nameless instruments which lie in the disused torture-chambers of mediaeval castles.
But I had escaped him, though his eyes had said I should not. Had I escaped him? That which gave him the power over me came back out of oblivion, where I had hoped to keep it. For I knew him now. Death and the awful abode of lost souls, whither my weakness long ago had sent him. They had changed him for every other eye, but not for mine. I had recognized him almost from the first. I had never doubted what he was come to do, and now I knew while my body sat safe in the cheerful little church, he had been hunting my soul in the Court of the Dragon.
I crept to the door. The organ broke out overhead with a blare. A dazzling light filled the church, blotting the altar from my eyes. The people faded away, the arches, the vaulted roof vanished. I raised my seared eyes to the fathomless glare, and I saw the black stars hanging in the heavens, and the wet winds from the lake of Hali chilled my face.
And now, far away, over leagues of tossing cloud-waves, I saw the moon dripping with spray and beyond, the towers of Carcosa rose behind the moon.
Death and the awful abode of lost souls, whither my weakness long ago had sent him, had changed him for every other eye but mine. And now I heard his voice, rising, swelling, thundering through the flaring light, and as I fell, the radiance increasing, increasing, poured over me in waves of flame. Then I sank into the depths, and I heard the King in Yellow whispering to my soul, "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God!"'
Spoiler: Third Volume show The final volume of this accursed tome which you consistently continue to find copies of, no matter how it is destroyed, reappears. It holds forth one more tale.
'The day following was a disastrous one for me. While moving a framed canvas from one easel to another my foot slipped on the polished floor, and I fell heavily on both wrists. They were so badly sprained that it was useless to attempt to hold a brush, and I was obliged to wander about the studio, glaring at unfinished drawings and sketches, until despair seized me and I sat down to smoke and twiddle my thumbs with rage. The rain blew against the windows and rattled on the roof of the church, driving me into a nervous fit with its interminable patter. Tessie sat sewing by the window, and every now and then raised her head and looked at me with such innocent compassion that I began to feel ashamed of my irritation and looked about for something to occupy me. I had read all the papers and all the books in the library, but for the sake of something to do I went to the bookcases and shoved them open with my elbow. I knew every volume by its colour and examined them all, passing slowly around the library and whistling to keep up my spirits. I was turning to go into the dining-room when my eye fell upon a book bound in serpent skin, standing in a corner of the top shelf of the last bookcase. I did not remember it, and from the floor could not decipher the pale lettering on the back, so I went to the smoking-room and called Tessie. She came in from the studio and climbed up to reach the book.
"What is it?" I asked.
"The King in Yellow."
I was dumbfounded. Who had placed it there? How came it in my rooms? I had long ago decided that I should never open that book, and nothing on earth could have persuaded me to buy it. Fearful lest curiosity might tempt me to open it, I had never even looked at it in book-stores. If I ever had had any curiosity to read it, the awful tragedy of young Castaigne, whom I knew, prevented me from exploring its wicked pages. I had always refused to listen to any description of it, and indeed, nobody ever ventured to discuss the second part aloud, so I had absolutely no knowledge of what those leaves might reveal. I stared at the poisonous mottled binding as I would at a snake.
"Don't touch it, Tessie," I said, "come down."
Of course my admonition was enough to arouse her curiosity, and before I could prevent it she took the book and, laughing, danced off into the studio with it. I called to her, but she slipped away with a tormenting smile at my helpless hands, and I followed her with some impatience.
"Tessie!" I cried, entering the library, "listen, I am serious. Put that book away. I do not wish you to open it!" The library was empty. I went into both drawing-rooms, then into the bedrooms, laundry, kitchen, and finally returned to the library and began a systematic search. She had hidden herself so well that it was half-an-hour later when I discovered her crouching white and silent by the latticed window in the store-room above. At the first glance I saw she had been punished for her foolishness. The King in Yellow lay at her feet, but the book was open at the second part. I looked at Tessie and saw it was too late. She had opened The King in Yellow. Then I took her by the hand and led her into the studio. She seemed dazed, and when I told her to lie down on the sofa she obeyed me without a word. After a while she closed her eyes and her breathing became regular and deep, but I could not determine whether or not she slept. For a long while I sat silently beside her, but she neither stirred nor spoke, and at last I rose, and, entering the unused store-room, took the book in my least injured hand. It seemed heavy as lead, but I carried it into the studio again, and sitting down on the rug beside the sofa, opened it and read it through from beginning to end.
When, faint with excess of my emotions, I dropped the volume and leaned wearily back against the sofa, Tessie opened her eyes and looked at me....
We had been speaking for some time in a dull monotonous strain before I realized that we were discussing The King in Yellow. Oh the sin of writing such words, words which are clear as crystal, limpid and musical as bubbling springs, words which sparkle and glow like the poisoned diamonds of the Medicis! Oh the wickedness, the hopeless damnation of a soul who could fascinate and paralyze human creatures with such words, words understood by the ignorant and wise alike, words which are more precious than jewels, more soothing than music, more awful than death!
We talked on, unmindful of the gathering shadows, and she was begging me to throw away the clasp of black onyx quaintly inlaid with what we now knew to be the Yellow Sign. I never shall know why I refused, though even at this hour, here in my bedroom as I write this confession, I should be glad to know what it was that prevented me from tearing the Yellow Sign from my breast and casting it into the fire. I am sure I wished to do so, and yet Tessie pleaded with me in vain. Night fell and the hours dragged on, but still we murmured to each other of the King and the Pallid Mask, and midnight sounded from the misty spires in the fog-wrapped city. We spoke of Hastur and of Cassilda, while outside the fog rolled against the blank window-panes as the cloud waves roll and break on the shores of Hali.
The house was very silent now, and not a sound came up from the misty streets. Tessie lay among the cushions, her face a grey blot in the gloom, but her hands were clasped in mine, and I knew that she knew and read my thoughts as I read hers, for we had understood the mystery of the Hyades and the Phantom of Truth was laid. Then as we answered each other, swiftly, silently, thought on thought, the shadows stirred in the gloom about us, and far in the distant streets we heard a sound. Nearer and nearer it came, the dull crunching of wheels, nearer and yet nearer, and now, outside before the door it ceased, and I dragged myself to the window and saw a black-as night chariot. The gate below opened and shut, and I crept shaking to my door and bolted it, but I knew no bolts, no locks, could keep that creature out who was coming for the Yellow Sign. And now I heard him moving very softly along the hall. Now he was at the door, and the bolts rotted at his touch. Now he had entered. With eyes starting from my head I peered into the darkness, but when he came into the room I did not see him. It was only when I felt him envelope me in his cold soft grasp that I cried out and struggled with deadly fury, but my hands were useless and he tore the onyx clasp from my coat and struck me full in the face. Then, as I fell, I heard Tessie's soft cry and her spirit fled and even while falling I longed to follow her, for I knew that the King in Yellow had opened his tattered mantle and there was only God to cry to now.
I could tell more, but I cannot see what help it will be to the world. As for me, I am past human help or hope. As I lie here, writing, careless even whether or not I die before I finish, I can see the doctor gathering up his powders and phials with a vague gesture to the good priest beside me, which I understand.
They will be very curious to know the tragedy. They of the outside world who write books and print newspapers, but I shall write no more, and the father confessor will seal my last words with the seal of sanctity when his holy office is done. They of the outside world may send their creatures into wrecked homes and death-smitten firesides, and their newspapers will batten on blood and tears, but with me their spies must halt before the confessional. They know that Tessie is dead and that I am dying. They know how the people in the house, aroused by an infernal scream, rushed into my room and found one living and two dead, but they do not know what I shall tell them now. They do not know that the doctor said as he pointed to a horrible decomposed heap on the floor, the livid corpse of the watchman from the church. "I have no theory, no explanation. That man must have been dead for months!"
I think I am dying. I wish the priest would…’
//This one was a tough call as we are fans of the King in Yellow original book, but it will not be considered for inclusion. At this time, we will restrict player submitted books to player written content. MAB.
MAB77:
FYI, although it is far off in the future with a totally unknown ETA, we are working on the next HAK update already. Now is the time to submit your entries about your closured characters for the next Vault of Remembrance update. Other kind of books still accepted too.
Please keep it to a single book submission per thread, this makes it easier for us to process.
MAB77:
FYI you have one week left to submit books the next HAK update. The deadline is September 17th. Anything coming after will only be considered for the subsequent HAK.
bloodless:
Title: Magic and its Influence on Society
Icon (book's appearance, if known): iit_book_044
Suggested locations: Houlgraves', Port-a-Lucine library, Society of the Erudite bookshelves
Spoiler: show
I. Introduction
This text is an examination of how the presence of magic and the belief in it, whether founded or not, has affected society ever since our ancient ancestors first started smearing their dead with ochre. To note, I'll be referring to both arcane and divine magic as well as using sorcerer and sorcery as catch-all terms, to reflect how the subject is viewed by the layman ignorant of their technical definitions and differences.
Despite the above qualification, it is important to note the academic definition: "Magic is a belief that the whole world is an ordered, interconnected system and that practitioners can control the relationships between objects to create a desired result." Sometimes the action is a basic application of symbolism known as "simple sorcery" or "mechanical sorcery" - sticking pins in a doll to create pain, for example, or placing a knotted cord under an enemy's bed to cause impotence. Other forms, referred to as "complex sorcery" by scholars, involve invoking a god or compelling a spirit to execute actions the sorcerer is incapable of performing. In both simple and complex sorcery, the magic works through principles of symbolism and power transference, with the action fitting the result.
II. Rare, Mysterious and Magnificent
Modern Dementlieu is well acquainted with magic, it is both studied and practiced to the point of having become another kind of commodity or equipment like the spear or musket. As a result of this proliferation much of the mystique surrounding it has been dispelled over the years. Much, but not all, as evidenced by street performers and shows such as those hosted in the Club l'Artiste that continue to draw in crowds. Clearly its appeal remains strong, and it is only more so in those places less advanced and enlightened, where magic has to be kept secret and unknowable, hiding deep in the earth or resting at the dangerous corners of the world. And who could fault those drawn to the idea of it? It is a rare soul who would honestly not be tempted upon learning that it is possible to call the tides to wash away their enemies, or bend physics and foresee the future, or summon beings so alien and terrible that they can barely be harnessed, or transform into wild beasts.
III. Words and Symbols
As mentioned earlier, magic is by definition a symbolic act. Practitioners perform a representative action and cause a corresponding result. To briefly list the potential components that could into the equation, they are verbal, somatic, material, focus, divine focus, and one's own being. Here I will touch on only the most commonly used of these - verbal and somatic, or otherwise said, magic words and gestures.
Cultures all around the world understand that hand symbols have power, from the simple warding gesture commonly wielded by the people of Barovia, to the sign of the Priestly Blessing, which was mentioned to me as something considered so powerful that congregants are not allowed to see it out of respect for the divine. Even modern, educated people respect and fear hand gestures. Don't believe me? Here's an experiment: Tomorrow, go give your parent or employer the middle finger. Not behind their back, right in their face. What, no? Why not? What's it going to do, hurt them?
No, it won’t, not physically, but that symbol has powerful meaning. It, quite literally, communicates a curse word. Most profanity, in fact, comes from literal cursing. An ever popular one is the simple utterance of "damn you", which condemns its target to an eternity of torture, although I am sure the reader can well think of many others which would shake the serenity of this republic, were they to be shouted in polite society.
And that brings us to magic words. The fact that words carry weight is also something we understand intuitively. You don't swear in class or in front of your grandparents, not because the words themselves are inherently powerful but because of what they communicate, the negative emotions they reveal in the speaker, and the ones they create in the listener. Of course, there are words with quite literal power behind them. The idea of forbidden words, mighty incantations that can sweep enemies aside or calm the skies, is something that speaks to us on a primal level, even in those who have never seen an arch-wizard ply his craft. The very idea of it is something passed down to us from the earliest recesses of memory and pre-history.
IV. Calling the Gods
As mentioned earlier, "simple sorcery" involves causing an effect by symbolic action, while "complex sorcery" necessitates the invocation of a divine or spiritual entity. What's interesting about divine magic is that it always comes with conditions. Priests are often called to be champions of the church's causes, and their blessings came with conditions that are, in effect, a code of conduct. Thus recognizing the heraldry of a priest or a divine warrior remains a front-loaded impression of what one might expect from them. The Wardens of Ezra, for example, are welcomed in Dementlieu, while a Kontor of the Lawgiver from Nova Vaasa would be at best tolerated and viewed with suspicion.
V. Thousands of Things, Sinister and Dark
In this enlightened society there is an effort to present magic as a neutral force, only as good or bad as the person wielding it, although an exception is made under the law for necromantic practices. But there's a general sense that we shouldn't consider magic and magic-users as inherently evil. This, however, is an idea that only seems to arise when the use of magic is widely proliferated. Look to those societies where it is tightly controlled, whether by the chosen few who tower above the rest in the Red Academy of Hazlan, or barely tolerated and even then only in its most benign forms such as in Tepest or Barovia, and you will find the idea of the sorcerer as a servant of darkness deeply embedded in the cultural memory.
To some extent this also explains the enduring appeal of a narrative where non-magical characters face down otherworldly powers is. The story of the monster hunter versus the creatures of the night, for example, will always be a compelling one, whether as entertainment, a moral to pass on, or both.
I mentioned Barovia just now, but that is only an illustrative example of something found across any similarly developed nation, be it today or in millennia past. Villagers fear witches because of their purported ability to blight crops, kill livestock, turn into vicious animals, kill children and cause sickness - in other words, the things villagers fear most. Historically and in literature, magical forces have symbolized society's worries about nature, the ravages of time or our own desires.
VI. Magic as a Corrupting Influence
The message, old as time, is that power can harm the person wielding it if he or she doesn't use it judiciously - and that even possessing such power may be harmful.
There's also the idea of sacrifice. As a prerequisite for attaining vast power, sorcerers often have to give up something equally powerful. Depending on their circumstances it could be years of their life devoted to study rather than love and family. Alternately, it could mean becoming an outcast from society, hated and feared by their fellows. Regardless, anyone who deals in magic is seen as part of something greater, an awesome and terrifying force that requires them to make sacrifices and modify their behavior from what is considered normal. Magic is a ward against danger, a weapon against evil and a river of energy - one that runs deep and dark enough to drown an unwary dabbler, and potentially anyone around them.
Dr. Medb Neasa
//Book added to HAK update 2.30. MAB.
MAB77:
Title: A Merchant's Diary
Icon: Any
Suggested locations: Any
The identity of the diary's author, his current whereabouts, and how this tome found its way to the Core are a complete mystery. The cover of the book seems to have been slashed by claws.
Entry 1 - 1st of Flamerule, 1374 DR
Today, I received an unexpected visitor at my home. Lord Darius, a nobleman of questionable repute, arrived unannounced. I have never liked the man; he is arrogant and secretive. He claims to have business propositions that could benefit both of us. Despite my reservations, I agreed to entertain him for the evening. He brought a fine bottle of wine as a gesture of goodwill.
Entry 2 - 2nd of Flamerule, 1374 DR
The wine Darius brought is exquisite. We shared a bottle over dinner last night, and I must admit, it is the finest I have ever tasted. Darius spoke of opportunities in trade routes and exclusive goods. His words were convincing, but I remain wary. There is something in his eyes that unsettles me. Still, the wine eased my suspicions, and I found myself agreeing to consider his proposals.
Entry 3 - 3rd of Flamerule, 1374 DR
Darius visited again today, this time with another bottle of that remarkable wine. As we drank, he spoke of power and influence, of how our partnership could elevate us above our peers. I felt a warmth spreading through me, not just from the wine but from his words. They seemed to make perfect sense. The more I drank, the more I saw the wisdom in his plans.
Entry 4 - 5th of Flamerule, 1374 DR
I am beginning to look forward to Darius' visits. He brings a new bottle of wine each time, and with it, new ideas. Today, he proposed that we expand our operations to the coastal cities. His knowledge of the market is impressive. I find myself trusting him more each day. Perhaps I was wrong about the man. The wine, too, has a delightful effect, making our conversations seem profound and enlightening.
Entry 5 - 8th of Flamerule, 1374 DR
The wine has become a nightly ritual. I cannot remember the last time I felt so invigorated. Darius's plans are now my plans. Together, we will dominate the trade routes and crush our competition. He suggested a formal partnership, and I agreed without hesitation. It feels as though a fog has lifted, and I can see the future clearly.
Entry 6 - 12th of Flamerule, 1374 DR
Darius has moved into my estate. It seemed the natural thing to do, given our partnership. We spend our days planning and our nights drinking that divine wine. My dreams have become vivid and strange, filled with serpentine imagery and whispered promises. Darius says it is a sign of our impending success. I believe him.
Entry 7 - 15th of Flamerule, 1374 DR
Something odd is happening. My thoughts feel less like my own. Darius's voice echoes in my mind, guiding my decisions. I have started to defer to him in all matters. The wine, which once brought such clarity, now seems to cloud my judgment. Yet, I cannot stop drinking it. Darius assures me it is all part of the process, and that we are on the cusp of greatness.
Entry 8 - 18th of Flamerule, 1374 DR
My servants have noticed the changes. They whisper among themselves, casting worried glances my way. Darius has dismissed several of them, claiming they were disloyal. I did not argue. I find myself agreeing with him more and more. The wine flows freely, and with each glass, my old self fades further away.
Entry 9 - 20th of Flamerule, 1374 DR
I confronted Darius today, demanding to know what was happening to me. He smiled and poured me another glass of wine. As I drank, he revealed his true nature. He is yuan-ti, a serpent in human guise. The wine is infused with a subtle venom, a concoction designed to erode my will and bind me to his own. I should have been horrified, but instead, I felt a perverse sense of relief. Finally, everything made sense.
Entry 10 - 25th of Flamerule, 1374 DR
Darius told me of a secret ritual that would make me more like him, that would give me power and the wisdom of Mersshaulk, the god of the yuan-ti. Though it may be deadly, I cannot imagine returning to my old ways now that I finally see the truth of what should be.
Entry 11 - 30th of Flamerule, 1374 DR
I survived. I was ill and in pain for a few days but I shed my old skin like a molting snake. I am now a faithful servant of Lord Darius. My thoughts, and my actions, are aligned with his desires. The transformation is complete. The wine, once a tool of manipulation, is now my sustenance. I see the world through Darius' eyes, and it is beautiful. Together, we will reshape the trade routes and bring others under our control.
Entry 12 - 3rd of Eleasis, 1374 DR
I had my remaining servants poisoned. Their purpose was spent and I certainly could not have them gossip. There was nothing evil in that act, just simple pragmatism. Our plans are in motion. The cities of the Sword Coast are within our grasp. Darius has begun to introduce me to his other followers. We are a brotherhood, a serpent cult disguised as a trading company. The power we wield is intoxicating. I no longer resist. I embrace my new identity, my new purpose.
Entry 13 - 10th of Eleasis, 1374 DR
A strange fog engulfed my ship today. We should have reached port hours ago but the incompetent navigator got lost at sea. Lord Darius will be angry with this delay. The sky is constantly overcast wherever we look, with lightning scouring the clouds. I've never seen the Sea of Swords like this. It's not raining but a storm will likely hit soon. A lighthouse has been spotted in the distance. It looks like my luck is finally about to turn for the best.
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