Coin's Journal

Entry One, dated Talus Trisaturna (1/21/347)

Some time ago in the aftermath of the Collapse of Solace and our encounter with Gods once forgotten. The numbers dead, injured and missing innumerable. The destruction unfathomable. The Magistery and the Eternal Order itself suffered great losses. Rescued, in a way, was the thousands of years of knowledge and history stored within the Magistery Library. Much of what occurred when Azathoth was ripped from his slumber is a blur. Due to the size, strength and number of fires immolating Solace, the sky was a bright orange hue. I could not possibly tell you if it was night or day.

I remember sinking into a darkness in a sunken temple beneath the ocean. I remember surfacing in the waters off of Solace and seeing a stranger standing in place of the city I knew. I was pulled from the ocean into the sky and could see it all with the perspective of a bird. I will never forget those images of Solace bathed in red. And yet behind us was an infinite blackness, a swirling abyss barely cloaked in shape and form. Nothingness. Oblivion. We stared into the abyss and fought against it. Strangely, I feel no happiness, no relief. I do not feel like a hero. I feel nothing but sadness. I fear Solace is not all that collapsed that day.

I have spent the last several weeks with what books I could scrounge that could help advance my plans, but what I can access is lacking. Everything will have to be accelerated. Tomorrow is no longer guaranteed. It is difficult to have faith in the basic tenets of reality. I often forget that I am not in the Magistery. Shanjiu Castle has become our shelter. This architecture and design is foreign -- alien, even -- to me. As unrecognizable as the profane geometry we called Azathoth. I have largely remained inside, perusing and organizing what knowledge can be discovered with shreds of the library. Shanjiu Castle is not my home, though it is difficult to say as I have never really had one. I can’t stand to go outside. I am afraid that the next time I look at the sky the horizon will burn as bright as it did that day. .

Inugs is loyal and fierce. He has agreed to accompany me as far as possible. I am so proud to see how far Jyx has come, however, his story leads down a different path. I am not proud of it, but I have stolen Pearl’s Cloak of the Manta Ray. I learned in my time at the orphanage that it was often better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission. Hopefully, I will be able to return it before they know it is gone. If I do not return, take my books, sell them, keep the profit. I would hate to know they are collecting dust in a tower somewhere.

To those of The Eternal Order, should you discover these pages, it has been an honor to know you all. I apologize for leaving without saying goodbye, but I know that there are several members of The Order that would not approve of my goals. I have learned something from every single one of you and this knowledge means more to me than anything that can be gleaned from a tome. For most of my life I thought that I could not exist as a part of a greater unit. It turns out I was correct, but thank you for making me believe, just for a moment, that I was not. Together we stared into the abyss and fought against it. But if you stare too long into the abyss, sometimes, the abyss stares back.

Entry two, dated Carneira Premercuri (2/4/347)

File:Coin, Journal Entry 2.mp3 I have returned to the land feeling both triumphant and melancholy.

Yesterday, Inugs and myself entered one of the small fishing villages that dot the coastline on either side of Solace. Few of the older, salt-worn sailors wanted to make a journey with an unknown destination, let alone one with a goblin. Few have felt the urge to venture too far away from shore knowing that the few, scattered remains of Azathoth and its armies were returned to the blackest parts of the sea. One of the younger fishermen was swayed by the prospect of making more gold in a day than he would in a year and we set off the next day at noon. We sailed outward, the young man making slight adjustments in direction at my command as I kept my eyes locked on the Solace coastline and what remained of its towers and spires that once pierced the clouds. Hours later, I saw that sight again - the same image of Solace I saw when I was ripped from the ocean, save the rising fires and polluted skies. Somewhere beneath us was the sunken temple where I first glimpsed the eternal.

Shrouded in the Cloak of the Manta Ray, I found myself lost in the shifting features of the water beneath us. It was in that moment, I hoped that this would be the last time I set foot in the Godless depths. I cannot think of the deep sea without shuddering at the nameless things crawling and floundering on its slimy bed, worshiping ancient stone idols and carving their deities’ detestable likenesses on submarine obelisks of water-soaked granite. I often dream of the day when they rise above the billows to drag down in their reeking talons the remnants of puny, war-exhausted mankind. Of a day when the land shall sink and the dark ocean floor shall ascend amidst pandemonium.

And then, without realizing it, I was descending.

Pushing through a patch of sea plants was not only the temple, but this approach revealed the remnants of a sunken city with its buildings, arches, statues, bridges and colossal temple with its beauty and mystery. Neither age nor submersion corroded the pristine grandeur of the temple, and today after hundreds (if not thousands) of years it rests untarnished in the endless night and silence of an ocean chasm. Upon discovering the opening we entered upon our initial exploration, I retraced my steps to the great underwater cathedral where the tendrils of Azathoth greeted us.

It was within these walls that I first heard the cacophonous rending of instruments both known and unknown to Terra. At the time, as the tendrils pulled us into a vast void, I thought it a ringing in my ears or a steady, alien vibration pulsing through the living walls. But Azathoth is gone, and the dirge reverberates impossibly clearly through the now silent halls. I followed those crooked notes to a second floor, emerging in a dry corridor. I reflexively gasped for air but was instantly choked by the odor of antiquity, and both marine life and death. It was not unlike the smell that pervaded the fishing village at low tide, but it brought with it the stale, corrupted air of a crypt. While normally this assault upon my senses might have overwhelmed me, I could now clearly hear the music and was immediately haunted by the weirdness of it. Knowing little of the art myself, I was yet certain that none of the harmonies had any relation to music I had heard before and could not conclude whether the composer was a highly original genius or a madman. The longer I listened, the more I was fascinated.

The damp hallway opened up, or perhaps opened down, and I found myself peering through crystal clear water at what can only be described as a sunken amphitheater. On the stage, performing now to an audience of one, was an orchestra of aquatic humanoids. In perfect synchronicity, the fish people all raised their heads simultaneously, not a single note missed, and gazed upon my intrusion. Suddenly and wordlessly, my head was filled with dozens of voices speaking as one. Just as they played in perfect harmony, so too did they communicate - an orchestra so in time from eternities of practice - that they have become a sort of hive mind, the type that may be seen in communities of insects. Through magic I could understand their projections and though we conversed they continued playing the spiraling melody, never missing a note.

The exact wording I can not recall but we spoke at length. I learned that these Merfolk were not only undead but cursed and condemned to a lifetime of solitude playing an endless melody. In a time before man as we know it today, these Merfolk raised arms against the ones who lived above the surface in the name of their God. Upon defeat, they were banished to these dark depths, trapped in an unliving and yet undying orchestra, performing a forgotten rite in the form of a lullaby meant to keep the Old One called Azathoth in slumber.

I informed them of everything that had occurred; the theft of Azathoth’s Eye, its awakening, attack and defeat. I described what I could of the Blind God’s amorphous appendages and the oozing darkness deep within its shell. The Merfolk had suspected such a thing had occurred, but this knowledge only intensified their play. For now, they explained, their magical prayers would be even more integral as Gods of both Terra and the infinite cosmos would seek to fill the void which remains in Azathoth’s wake. And indeed, Azathoth, the blind idiot God had not, and perhaps could not, die. It could only return to what it had always been, time and space, waiting for when all of space and time folds upon itself and is compressed into Azathoth at the center of all things, the nucleus of chaos, when the infinite cycle begins again as it always has and always will, and only Azathoth remains.

I inquired further about these existential magics which I had learned from my own research on the boundless daemon. The lingering traces of the knowledge I seek, in remnants of memories from forgotten cities, lay before me. And from within the space and silence between words of the tale told by the Last of R’lyeh, I fear I may have found madness. For what is madness but collapsing under the weight of being the only living creature with knowledge lost to time? Never before have I felt quite so alone as I did when my mind wrestled with the truths I learned. And almost in anticipation of my next set of queries, the conductor of the grand symphony stepped aside and motioned towards his lectern and the grimoire upon it. The exact text which I both hoped and feared would be here, hidden away from the eyes of those who would seek to use this knowledge for personal gain.

“Take it,” they spoke. “Others from above have borrowed it before. Somehow, it always finds its way back here, though its borrowers never do.”

What do we know of the world and universe about us? Our means of receiving impressions are absurdly few, and our notions of surrounding objects infinitely narrow. We see things only as we are constructed to see them, and can gain no idea of their absolute nature. With five feeble senses we pretend to comprehend while other beings with wider, stronger, or a different range of senses might not only comprehend the things we see, but might see and study whole worlds of matter, energy and life which lie just outside of our understanding. Even those at the top of the Magistery, those who have spent their lives dedicated to the mastery of magic do not (dare not?) know of the strange, inaccessible worlds, ideas and laws which have always existed but been misplaced by the ravages of passing time. And now, I believe I have found a way to break down the barriers. Within this text I believe I will see these things, and other things which no breathing creature has yet seen. I will see that at which dogs howl in the dark and which cats prick up their ears after midnight. I will leap over those other creations of Azathoth - time, space and dimensions - to peer to the bottom of creation.

In the time since returning from the blackened deep, the song which lingered for so long within my subconscious has been forgotten. Replaced by the chorus of Merfolk voices as they conferred their knowledge unto me:

That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange aeons even death may die.

Entry three, dated Carneira Diveneris (2/13/347)

File:Coin, Journal Entry 3.mp3

We have traveled some time. Inugs may know how long. In much the same way that we scoff at ancient tribes who revered the sun as a supernatural deity, I no longer wish to bore myself with the acknowledgement of passing time.

The book is many things. A spellbook, a book of prayer, a history lesson, philosophy and science. It is black and forbidden, the type of text only spoken of in furtive paragraphs of mixed abhorrence and fascination, penned by those strange, ancient delvers into the universe's guarded secrets whose decaying texts I loved to absorb. It is a key, a guide, to certain gateways and transitions of which mystics have dreamed and whispered since Terra was young. It leads to freedoms and discoveries beyond the three dimensions and realms of life that we know. Not for centuries had any man recalled its vital substance or known where to find it. I do believe this must be the Libris Mortis.

I transfer key portions of this knowledge to my journal not for passing along, but for my own edification. Often I find myself unsure whether or not I am within a dream. Most of the time upon awakening I frantically check this book to see what I have actually written within its margins. Despite the confirmation, there are still times I fear I am existing in a dream within a dream. I do not know how deep my subconscious can go as a defense mechanism, pushing my conscious self farther and farther away from the things I have learned, buried beneath a mountain larger on the inside than on the outside.

If this truly is the Libris Mortis its information on what we know as natural law is fact. It is history and not myth. It also confirms that which the Merfolk told me of the nature of their curse and the origins of death itself. However, the author is unknown and therefore there can never be a truly authoritative canon.

According to the text, when the universe was unfolded from within the center of chaos, what life escaped from the madness became the Gods we have forgotten. And from the exponential unfolding of time and chaos, eventually man came to exist. Forever, it turns out, is quite a long time and the weight of aeons was most heavy on the newer, smaller, weaker creatures. Both overwhelming and isolating, the acknowledgment of ever-growing units of time would drive them to madness. On a long enough scale, this affliction would expand to infect greater, older beings and to demigods and other entities we would not comprehend. Azathoth could not alter time, change that which is his being, much in the same way we can not alter our own heights or eye color (without relying on temporary magics).

And so the universe received the Eldest God’s last gift: release from the inexorable stagnancy of life. Today, we perceive death as a failure of body and spirit, but it is life that is the error in the grand design. And this new creation needed avatars of its domain. The knowledge of this curse was passed down to them and while the Elder Gods have been forgotten, this knowledge has been retained. This is even more cause to believe my hypothesis is correct, but I must dig further into Nerull, and Pluton.

Entry four, dated Carneira Kiluna (2/23/347)

File:Coin, Entry 4.mp3 What happens when a God dies? Few if any can claim to have been present for the death of a deity, but there are tales and stories of those that have. Several religions reference the “Divine Spark” though it is unknown if it is literal or symbolic. Texts on both Nerull and The Raven Queen state that she usurped not only all within his plane of Pluton but his Divine Spark as well, becoming the new god of death. One story suggests that Nerull was buried at the feet of Yggdrasil. I know I have heard this name before but where? Who is Yggdrasil? It is also suggested that a God can not truly die as long as its name is remembered. One can only finally destroy a God’s memories via the complete purge of all remnants of its existence. Theologians suggest that these powerful memories are easier to bury or hide by the Gods than be destroyed. In their prisons they will slowly rot over innumerable generations until the last creature who remembers its name comes into the service of the Raven Queen.

What a horrific torture it must be to feel your entire being falling away like water through a hand. And what physical form do forgotten memories take so that they can be hidden in the first place. With no form or function to contain and control them, as the last remnants of proof it once existed, would the memories be aware they were once part of a God? Such irony; the God of death being buried alive. Living under the land, under the sea or in a plane of fire. A vague shape bleeding all that once defined it, floating in infinite nothingness. Alone. I have no mouth, yet I must scream.

Entry five, dated Secundus Prilovis (3/5/347)

File:Coin, Entry 5.mp3 Why did the gods create a dual universe? So they might say, "Be not like me, I am alone." And it might be heard.

What we perceive as hallmarks of death: decay, rot, etc are actually the consequences of disobeying the gods, a rot born of the Elders themselves. Death can not be halted or delayed, but simply claimed from others.

The skeletons of haunted graveyards and the ghouls of family tombs are closer to the Gods than the noble paladins and clerics who pledge their lives. Such knowledge could drive one mad.

The necromancers of the North are only scratching the surface of their power and its inherent connections.

Lately, a feeling has come over me the likes of which I can not explain. It not despair for I wish to press on. It is not loneliness for I am with my research and Inugs and will soon be in the home of my friend Gumtoe. It is as though my entire body is drifting, pulled by an invisible thread from one moment to the next. It is the feeling of trying to draw a face that you saw in a dream.

Entry six, dated Secundus Triluna (3/16/347)

File:Coin, Entry 6.mp3 Gumtoe has barely changed since we last met, aside from the face he lives - I had thought for some period of time that he was feared dead. His stores had grown since that time and he was now able to afford a shop supplying him the space to catalog his collection. He has become a sort of star of the rare book trade in recent years, and though his collection is not near the size of that within the Magistery, its troves of knowledge contained undoubtedly rival it. After catching up over tea, I revealed the Libris Mortis

While scanning a relevant text he found a passing reference to Yggdrasil! It led us to a Northern myth, not about a person as I initially suspected, but a tree. In some cultures a version of the myth refers to it as “The Tree of Life.” The immense ash tree that is the center of the universe, its branches extending to the heavens and the roots winding and extending through all of Terra. Where Terra’s gods hold their courts. It is unknown which language Yggdrasil originates but some writers have translated it to "The Bridge of Aether." Others have suggested "Gallows of the Gods." Others still have interpreted it simply as "The Tree of Terror." The stories of The Raven Queen and Nerull suggest he either perished or was laid to rest here.

What if it isn't a myth?

Entry seven, dated Secundus Kimartis (3/24/347)

File:Coin's Journal, Entry 7.mp3 Though I glossed over it the first time, I felt the urge to scribe this exchange from a tale in the Libris Mortis.

I whisper in the dark. Imagine my surprise when the darkness answered back.
"How will I find you?" The man asked the Crawling Chaos.
A voice within the void spoke, "Stare the Gods in the eyes and walk backwards into Hell."

—Libris Mortis 194.5:13-15

Entry eight, dated Tresuna Trisolace (4/15/347)

File:Coin's Journal, Entry 8.mp3 What miracle is this? This giant tree. It stands ten thousand feet high but doesn’t reach the ground. Still it stands. Its roots must hold the sky.

Yggdrasil

Ygg̡dra̴si̶l.

Y̗̩̤̫͚͔g̱̟̜̤̙̕gd̻̜̰̬͜ra͏̱̞͈̝s̥̫̺i̸l̡̞̟̞̲͇͚ͅ.

Y̱͕̖̗͚̜͇ͨ̉g̢̥̼͕̥̭̓͑ͨͧ͛ͭg̡̗͍̩̗͍ͅd̖̦̂̋ͪŕ̯̦̤̳̣͔ͪ̓ͯͫ̓ͪ͡a̡͆̾͋̈ͪ͐ͦs̩̞̤̹̑̔̄į̬͓̍͂ͩ͆͛̆l̄̒ͫ͗͒̄͏͕̻̰̹̻̝̦.̵̲

Ỳ͇͔̙͌̀͢g̵̠͇͍̙̓͊̎͠gͤ̇͋̅̆҉̪̼͖̟̬͔

Dr̶̥̭̘͑ͯͣ̀ͅà̭̝͖̘̟ͯͣͨ.̱̝̺͕͔͉ͧͯ̕͞

Sĭ̶̹̰͉̖͈̣̪̱͆ͥ͛̒͘l̗ͦͧͧ̍͒̍̆ͯͮ͘

Y̛̺͉͍̻͕̭̜ͦͫ̒̇̓̈́͂͠g̷̷͖̘̘͕̭̩̍̉̄̆̀͟ ̌͒̇͂̏͆̚͡͏͚̦̮̳̥̻̩͕͕͔͟ͅ ̴ͣ̉̊̄̽̊͒ͦ͒͐̅̆́͏̱̣̮̗͍͔̘̣̥̫̥͍̻͕̣̹ ̶̵̣̗̣̮̱̯̱͆̅͗ͧ̿͐͑ͦ̽̈̚͟ ͊̐̉͑ͯͧͪ͂̒ͯ̍͋̍͆̓̑ͣ̊͠҉̧͓͇̮̳̯̬̼̘̬͍̱͙͕͘ ̸̡̧̀̊͛͗ͫ͏̴̤͕̼̺͙̫̖̱̪̩̬͚̰͍͚ ̴̡̥͉̞̱͕̣̮ͧ̐́̔̓́ͧ̓̑͊̀͐̆ͦ͒͘ͅ ̡̩͉̤̱̙̘̙̖͋͐͆̊͛ͩ̉ͥ́͘͘͠ ̴̷̛̥͈͚̬̣̯̹̩̃̈͊̅͋͗̌̓̋ͬͪ̇ͨͨ̃ͭ͑͌̕͟ͅ ̢̇̀̀͋̒ͯͧͨ̈͛̚͞҉̡̪̯̪̥̻ ͎̼͉͎͈̙̃̂̌̿̀͠͡ ̡̝͚̟̝̙̜̯̖ͫ͗ͩͭ̿͋͆̇ͣ̚͜͜g̨̢̯̞̞̞̳̱͔͇͚̝̪̱͚͕̐̂̓̒̒̿̇ͨͦ̚̚͢ ̸͕̝͈̠̝͇̥̱̠̯̬͇͖͈̺̻͇̇ͦ̇͒͒̏͒͒͗͢͢͝ ̨̹͕͈͈̰̹ͤ̊̓̐ͫͪͣͪ̾ͧͬ̌ͦ͒ͤ́̚̚͜ ͊͐͛҉̴̝̦̳̞ ̱̬̠̜̰͍̤̳͈͎̼͕ͣͨ̉̌̿̚̕ͅḏ̷̷̵͍̜͖͆͋͑͗ͫ̇ ̷̷̢̛̗̪̫̙ͬͤ̂͂̀̈͠ ̵͔͎̯͎̪̮̗̪͈̹̦͈̬͙̱͆ͮ͛͐̍ͫ͋͆͊͒̐̌̒̐͘ ̸̷̹̻̗͕ͪ̂ͩ͑̈́ͦ̂̎ͭͭ̎͌̈́͟͝ ̷ͤ̓̃̑̀҉͏̰͍̼̗̟̣̰̱̦̬̤̦͘ ̽̃̌̔ͥ͢͏̠̲̹͍̠̯̯̯͖̱͉̮̪̖̻ͅr̷̴̴̛͈̺̘̣̘̖̣͉̮̰͙̒̋̆ͫͤͥ̎͐͐͑a̧̲͉̻̫̱̯̜͔̹̻̠̜͚͒̾̐̍̅ͧ̓̚͟͝s̡̖̠͈̯̖̟̙͓͐ͪͦͤ̋͌̽̌͐ͫͩ̿ͣ͌͞͠ͅ ̸̞̳̣ͬͨ̇̓̄͐̋ͫ̔ͥ̿́ͅ ̸̡̟̭͚̝̺̠̬̱̤̫͖̱̗͍̟̽͛̓ͬ̎̒ͤͥͤͅͅ ͆̓̊ͭ̈́̇͆ͣ̋̐ͫ͋͋ͭ̾ͪͨ͏̬̰̥̯̣̟̭̰̮̗͚͔͜ ̶̧̭̩̘̤̐͒́ͤ̓̂͒̽ͭ͆ͬ̈́͋͞͝ ̴̮̜͓̖͕͚̙ͫͩͪͬ̀̕͡͝ͅ ̷̛͙̝̪̩̙͔̤̫̦͕̫̱͖̫̺̳̣̇̊̎ͬ͒̕͡ͅi̢̟̲͖̳̗̮̭̻͍͖̖̬͍̝̓ͮ̓̐̆̑͑̉ͤ̐̅͟͝͠ͅ ͙̼̠̹̩̋̌͒̍͑̈̒̿ͩ́͟l̪̯͖̬͖͓͇͉͓̺̖̤̳̙ͫͯͫͭͩ̽̀ͭ͟

Entry nine, dated Sexton Prilovis (7/5/347)

File:Coin, Entry 9.mp3 I believe it is done! I believe I can find the Yggdrasil and I believe I can enter it. I do not know if this is brilliance, luck or fate. No, it is definitely not fate. She would not be happy with this.

Over fine mountain wine, Gumtoe told me of a region up in the mountains of Mithaniel Marr that contains a cavern that seems capable of moving. Living at the base of the great crag, he has seen many set off to explore. Their reasons vary: treasure, adventure, exploration, even mages hoping to tap into the converging leylines that reside deep beneath. Very few return. Apparently, it can be found rather consistently under the correct conditions and Gumtoe has reluctantly agreed to discover this information from his contacts within the town. Despite this consistent inconsistency, of those who have returned, they describe a cavern that may be more than rock and mineral. All describe an overwhelming fear wash over them. For some this was enough to trigger the survival instinct and see them retreat back into the safety of Mithaniel Marr's undulating hills. No two describe the same place.

As I lay in bed that evening, unable to find sleep despite the cups of wine coiling through me, I had the revelation.

Before the written word, oral tradition was passed down, re- and mis-translated forgotten and altered throughout generations. What if the Yggdrasil was the victim of this warping? The Yggdrasil is supposed to be taller than anything else in the land, yes? What if the ash falling from the tree was actually snow. And instead of roots it was actually a powerful confluence of leylines diving beneath the earth like magical arteries and veins. It is my belief that Mithaniel Marr IS Yggdrasil and if the tales in the Libris Mortis are correct, the Yggdrasil is where I will find the answers to questions that perhaps should never have been asked.

In the coming days I told Gumtoe of my plans to enter the Yggdrasil. The climb was rocky and made perilous by chasms, cliffs and stones. Later, it grew cold and snowy and we often slipped and fell as we plodded upward with staffs and axes. Finally, the air grew thin and the sky changed color and we found it harder to breathe. For three days we climbed higher and higher towards the roof of the world; then we camped to wait for the clouding of the moon. We were privileged to have clouds upon the second night, a night of the full moon. Thick and majestic the clouds sailed, slowly and deliberately onward; ranging themselves around the peak high above and hiding the moon and summit from view. As the dim light of the moon reflected and refracted through the swirling vapors and screen of clouds, new paths revealed themselves to us. As I write this final entry, we sit at the mouth of a cave that did not exist the two nights before.

I enter after my next rest with enough supplies to last for some time. Gumtoe and Inugs will be returning, the latter with the task of delivering this journal to The Magistery. In saying our farewells, we smoked from Gumtoe's pouch of aromatic leaf. Inugs asked what was in the cavern. "Perhaps a labyrinth," I offered in jest. Another yarn dating back to myth that has proven closer to fact than fiction. "Do you suppose, Gumtoe, that I will encounter a minotaur on my quest?"

Gumtoe didn't laugh. He only sighed and turned his eyes to the ground.

"The only minotaurs in that cave are the ones you carry in with you."

Final entry, dated Septon Trimartis (8/17/347)

File:Coin's Journal, Entry 10.mp3 A brief addendum before my descent: the date of my entry is Septon Trimercuri. I have instructed Inugs to return both this and the Manta Cloak to the Magistery. If you are reading this and I have not returned for an unreasonable period of time, I implore you

I beg of you

DO NOT FOLLOW ME

The last breadcrumbs

File:Breadcrumb 1.mp3 There was a story I remember but I don't remember ever being told it. There was a plague and the parents could not feed the children. Selfishly, they walk the children into the woods and abandon them but the children were clever and left a trail of breadcrumbs behind so they could find their way home. And if memory serves me, they do, but only after setting fire to a beast of the woods.

I enter the roots of this tree in search of purpose which I thought lost on that fateful day. I have learned what it is to be empty. When that hopelessness and futility washes over you, for some reason you can no longer be the person you believed you once were. You detect slow and subtle shifts going on all around you. More importantly, shifts in you. Worse, you’ll realize its always been shifting, like a shimmer of sorts. A vast shimmer only dark like a room. But you won’t understand why or how. Worn down old wizards and kings learn to live with the void. Youth always tries to fill it.

So let these notes either serve as my breadcrumbs back or a map for those who follow in my footsteps.

File:Breadcrumb 2.mp3 Have I slept? Have I eaten or drank? I entered a room at the end of a hallway that stretched what seemed an impossible distance. It reminded me of the orphanage in a way I couldn't put my finger on. Two of my greatest allies are intermittently taken from me. Light - some objects reflect it, others deflect it, but these corridors seem to collect it. I am unsure if my eyes have adjusted to the conditions of Yggdrassil or if it has adjusted to me. The halls are not lit and yet I can see. Some of the rooms as well, but not all. I dare not venture into the blackness. And Magic - it works oddly here. I expected this considering the convergence of the leylines. The forces within give and take but mostly take.

I closed my eyes within that familiar room and opened them with a considerably longer beard and fewer food rations than I had entered with despite having no memory or even desire to use them. My plan was to use that room as my starting point and branch out across any of the untraversed corridors I mapped but when I went to find them, the map I had crudely drawn was inaccurate. When I attempted to return to the room to gather myself, only a wall stood where it was. I placed my hand on the wall trying desperately to find a switch or lever to reveal a hidden passage but all I could feel were subtle movements in the wall that I could swear felt like breathing.

I am alone here. Yet I can't escape the feeling that I am being watched. And today, I thought I heard footsteps.

File:Breadcrumb 3.mp3 I previously hypothesized that light and magic are altered, refracted through the prism that is Yggdrassil and now I know it is so much more than that. We look at this mountain towering over the plane in which we live and yet I am unsure that Yggdrassil exists. At least not how we have come to understand existing. Yes, we know of other planes and spirits but this goes far beyond that. I am unsure Yggdrassil exists within time. I have found writing and carving on walls from times long ago but also from times in the future and times of calendars that do not exist. Yes, these could be the final throes of an explorer lost within hallways and rooms which do not adhere to space but they could also be exactly what they say they are.

I heard the footsteps again. I think they were above me. One of the hallways a few... ways back had a spiral staircase that I could not see to the bottom of. Considering my destination, down seems like a fitting way to go.

Did you find my first note? I mentioned a story about children creating a path out of breadcrumbs. As I said, I don't remember hearing the story but I've always known it. What’s funny is in all of my travels from Terra's most expansive libraries to folk town campfires I have searched and searched but I can not find any evidence that this story has ever existed in our world.

File:Breadcrumb 4.mp3 I have walked down and down and down and down and down. Spiraling this staircase, tracing these walls with my fingers. It feels like days but what does that even mean anymore? I am indescribably tired. Sleep is stalking me. I suppose it is inevitable. I find myself lost staring into the darkness as I encircle it time and time again. Once I stopped and slid right to the edge. My legs were hanging over. And I could feel it too. I don't know how. There was no wind, no sound, no change of temperature. It was just this terrible emptiness reaching up for me.

I hope for a corridor or a door to appear but it never does. Something else has taken their place. Something I am unable to see. Waiting. I'm afraid. It is hungry. It is immortal. And worse, it knows nothing of whim.

File:Breadcrumb 5.mp3 Darkness is impossible to remember.

I lived a dream. I walked upon seconds though I was not moving my feet, not consciously. I was being pulled through a corridor, though I did not remember finding one upon those infinite stairs. I saw the places I have lived. I saw faces of people I have known and one I even loved. I saw a table with six friends. A seventh stranger sat beside them. I knew not one yet I recognized all of their voices. I saw the dawn of time. I saw places beyond the stars and planes on top of planes, interconnected, interwoven. I heard footsteps. I saw a man writing a letter though he took off down a passage before I could call out to him. I picked up his note and it was this note.

And then I was back at the stairs. Still spiraling down down down

File:Breadcrumb 6.mp3 Darkness is impossible to remember. You might try, as I did, to find a sky so full of stars it will blind you. Only no sky can blind you now. Even with all that iridescent magic surrounding, your eye will no longer linger on the light, it will no longer trace constellations. You will care only about the darkness and you will watch it for hours, days, maybe even years, trying in vain to believe you're some kind of indispensable universe-appointed soldier. As if just by looking you could actually keep it all at bay. It will get so bad you'll be afraid to look away. You'll be afraid to sleep. Darkness is an addiction. No one is ever satisfied. Darkness never satisfies. Especially if it takes something away which it almost always invariably does. Darkness is not the absence of light. Darkness is rot.

File:Breadcrumb 7.mp3 To the Order

It is a good night for ghosts. The Queen in the eighth moon is full and waiting to take souls to far shores as it crosses the sky. I dreamt a dream that I was with you tonight. I awoke and my lips were numb from saying your name. I dreamt that we were dreaming a dream together, you and I. We were trapped in a house as big as memory. Countless doors.

You were there. I could hear you speaking but I only caught glimpses of you in the glass. Eventually I gave in and found myself staring at myself, reflected. Looking at myself looking back at me. Both of us trying to decipher the face that was in front of us. My eyes seeing me in mine and countless. I could not reach into that forever as I was already within it.

I wonder, when you look in the mirror, who stares you down at night?

But it is late and my mind is running away with itself.

Sleep well, wherever you are.

It's a good night for ghosts. And between us, we have a pocketful.

File:Breadcrumb 8.mp3 What happens to a house when it is left alone? It becomes worn, and aged. When its paint peels, its foundation begins to sink. It goes for too long unlived in. What does it think of? What does it dream? How does it look on those creatures who built it, brought it into existence only to abandon it when its usefulness no longer satisfies them? They grow lonesome. It stares for long hours into the darkness of its own empty halls and sees shadows. And they jump as they think, here, here is someone again I’m not alone. And each time it is wrong, and the hurt starts over. It may haunt itself, inventing ghosts to walk its floors, making friends with its shadow puppets, laughing and whispering to itself at the end of some quiet darkened lane. It may grow angry. Its basement may fill with churning acid like an empty stomach, and its gorge may rise as it asks itself through clenched teeth, “what did I do wrong?” It may grow bitter. It may grow hungry. So hungry and so bitter that its scruples dissolve and its doors unlock themselves. While a house may hunger it cannot starve. And so in fever and anger and loneliness, it may simply lie in wait. Doors open, shades drawn, hallways empty. Hungry.

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Page 3: One important distinction that must be drawn is between the words dissection and vivisection, a distinction that would appear to be lost on you. Your purpose was to listen, and yet at every turn you have pried, you have prodded, and you have interfered. I think I’ve been paying attention. Did it not occur to you that as an organism existing within a greater organism, your intrusion would be felt? And still you harassed. And now, like the wayward spider who witlessly stumbles across the sleeper’s tongue, you will be swallowed. Because the truth is this: when a house is both hungry and awake, every room becomes a mouth.