Welcome to Cove

((OOC Note: This is the journal of the Cultist Jacob Garrell, a fanatical Guardian Worshiper in search of the Well of Souls. None of this is to be viewed as IC information, unless it has been found out IN GAME through involvement in plot events.))

Third of March

By His Grace we have arrived safely in Cove today. For now, it is a bastion of the Enemy, swarming with the minions of Avatar, crawling with the imperfect. When the Time comes and we find the Wellspring, and at last receive His gift, this will change - these beasts of flesh will be shown that He is the greater.

But we must find the Well first, for it is only there that we may hear the voice of our Master clearly in this forsaken land. Our studies, our long journey, our many years of searching, they have all led to this. It is near Cove, we can feel it. Tomorrow we will resume our search.

In His Glorious name, we will succeed.

Fourth of March

A fruitful day indeed! By His blessing we deceived the vile servants of the Avatar and gained access to the Library, passing ourselves off as Monks. If only the fools knew what we truly sought there. Knowledge is power, Brothers, and we may now walk unmolested in the great Library of Cove.


The knowledge gained in the Library led us into Covianshire. The descriptions and maps acquired during our stay led us to to a ruined, but still mighty, Temple to Him. The altar remained, unbroken, in the center of the ruins. We will use this place to worship him. First, though, the Altar had to be rechristened with the blood of our enemy. We journeys back to Cove, and expertly set our trap.


The Elf was captured with ease, and we bound his hands to the altar with Daggers. For hours we circled, praising our Master and offering the Elf redemption - a chance to be reborn in His holy image. Time and again he refused, and time and again we rent his flesh from his bones and seared his nerves with arcane flame. Yet he persisted in praising the Enemy, and spoke naught but blasphemies against our Master.

Let it suffice to say that he will trouble us no longer. His death is a sign that the Guardian smiles upon our efforts, and that the vile deceiver Avatar, and all of his minions, cannot stop us while we are held in His favour. I still smile when I recall the heathen's screams as the flames crept over his body.

*the entry ends with a simple map of Covianshire, dotted with X's, with the words "We will find it." scrawled at the bottom.*

The Diary of Mordraut.

March the Fifth,

The Master has an insatiable desire for sacrifice.

One of us prepared the altar, whilst His two remaining servants ventured into Cove. We surveyed the crops, and saw it fit to enter the alehouse they call “The Green Goblin.” Upon entrance, the sins of the living were magnified right before our eyes. It took a mere minute to lure the girl away from the gruff woman that accompanied her.

(http://i41.tinypic.com/15oe3p2.jpg)

With a blade to her back, the offering followed our lead. We found a path through the forest, steering the hostage towards His ruined temple. The altar was still caked in the blood of the elf. We lay the girl out, and thrust the daggers into the girl's supple flesh, securing her to the crumbling stone abattoir. Her thick and red fluid mingled with the runoff from the elf.

We subjected her to several methods of torture and dark wytchery in the name of our Lord. We took knives and slashed her dress into forest green ribbons, exposing her naked body to the elements. After hours of tormenting her in His name we departed. The heathen was left bound and gagged. Methinks she will have the opportunity to reflect upon her own impure thoughts as the exposed flesh of her lusty body grows goosepimples. The Guardian's season, winter, shall claim this infidels life.

I still recall the sizzle of the poison as it chewed through her open wounds. May this flawed entity fester and bleed until her last breath.

What my brothers and I do, we do in the name of the Guardian.

Our search for the Well of Souls continues.

The case of Abigail Keres

*Inside the folder are high quality bits of parchment containing sketches of the incidents described in the report contained herein*

(http://i44.tinypic.com/16gis05.jpg)

See Attached medical documentation for report.

*A copy of the following report has been sent to the Commander.*

Name of Patient: Abigail Keres
Title/Rank: Mercenary Recruit
Race: Human
Age: 22
Weight: 120 pounds
Height: 5'4''
Reason for Hospitalization: Life-Threatening Injury
Condition: Stable, Serious

Healers Statement: The patient was brought in the night before last by two other recruits and a civilian, with a variety of afflictions. See below for a complete list. Both recruits and the civilian were rushed from the room while the Healers tended her injuries.
- Shallow, short cut on her thigh.
- Holes in both hands consistent with being stabbed. Both seemed infected with an unknowns substance. The wound on the left hand was significantly wider and more jagged.
- Light burns on her upper arms and torso.
- Wounds on both feet similar to those on her hands, also infected.
- Very slight scratch or cut on her throat.
- Mild hypothermia.

The rescuers reported having found her hands and feet pinned to an altar with daggers in a set of ruins in Covianshire. Her clothes were in tatters and scattered around the immediate area, as was the Ankh she'd reportedly been known to wear on a chain around her neck. Her Cap was apparently stuffed into her mouth as a makeshift gag. The patient was able to recall some very vague details of what happened, including there having been three fully robed kidnappers, who spoke often of "Him" and that she was tortured by these kidnappers for an unknown amount of time before losing consciousness. The last thing she remembers is being found by Recruits Reno Montresor and Leander Le Blanc and being carried swiftly to the hospital.

*The message is signed simply with a small insignia and the words "Hospital of Cove"*

A Missing Entry *Sloppily scrawled in a crimson color on the back of a spell book page.*

---

The Diary of Mordraut

---

March the Seventh

I was abducted by the crops. It is a shameful day for me indeed. The crops stripped me of the last few remaining worldly possessions I had – crust of bread, my money, and my book of black wytchery. I did nay recognize at first, but one of the very same crops was the elf we had offered to Him three eves prior. Had the Guardian refused his fleshy ambrosia? How could this come to pass?

I was hit in the head with the butt of a crossbow. Then an arrow was shot through my ear. I tried to laugh the pain off, and persuade them to have mercy. My hands were then bound and I was shot in the leg. While the two men quarreled amongst themselves, they carried me into the barracks.

Inside they slapped me, punched me, burned me, likely broke several of my bones. I can nay walk any longer. As I turned my head I felt the sickening rip of flesh. Flesh, the most burdensome part of the human body.

I let slip the Master's name, and I made mention of the Well. Surely I will be punished by Him.

I did nay reveal the names of my brothers, nor our ultimate goal.

As punishment for not cooperating, my left hand was severed from my wrist.

Hour One

The weak mortal in me required food. I summoned forth a minion from the words I memorized in the Master's book. The fools called it a demon. The charred elf shot it dead with his bow. The corpse was left in my cell, so I had been provided with an ample supply of food, and a thick and red blood with which I may pen this entry.

Later, the nicer of the two crops provided me with stale bread and cheese. I shall nay starve. How merciful the followers of the Avatar are.

Through the bars of my cell, I managed to retrieve the hand that was cleaved from me. I have pocketed it inside my robe.

Hour Two

I was seen consuming the flesh of the minion. Disgusted, they removed me from my cell. Then the elf shot me in the groin. I will now forever be barren. It matters not. This is an organ we do nay use. Soon we will reproduce in different ways.

I was then transferred to another cell. I fainted from the trauma.

Hour Three

I awoke.

Liquor, bandages, and bread  were arranged at my side. My wounds are unclean, and I am too weak to do it on my own. It is much more difficult for them to monitor my activities from this cell. The Master will come for me, and finish the job that has failed.

I must sleep, though the pain I feel is unlike any I have ever felt before. I pray that one day I shall never feel such pain again. I will continue to keep this parchment hidden within the festering wounds of my body so that when my corpse is found, one of my Brother's may insert this entry into my journal.

(http://i41.tinypic.com/dy15eb.jpg)

Though I will surely perish, It shall nay be long until He is upon Cove.

*An upside-down Ankh is drawn at the bottom of the page in blood*

Noticing the distinct absense of Brother Mordraut this eve, myself and Brothers Travixus and Raziel decided that it would be prudent to begin a search for him. We began our search at the Enemy's nest; their barracks. Disguising ourselves once again as servants of the false god "Avatar" we were able to learn that Brother Mordraut was being held inside, and that the Enemy had not shown leniency in dealing with him. Yet, we learned, he stilled breathed. We demanded to see him under the pretense of dealing with a heretic, and for a time I was in complete command of the enemy.

They trust anyone who can smile and repeat the basic tenets of their faith, the fools.

I was even able to have the higher ranking of the two to demand that the other relinquish his weapon to me, and that they bring Brother Mordraut out of his cell for us. When they least expected it, we struck! One fell quickly, but we were soon set upon by a third. My Brothers lured the heathens away as I dragged Brother Mordraut to the safety of the crypts.

Were we not so close to our goal, I would consider our injuries a grievous blow to our efforts. But we do not despair, for soon we will be reborn, perfect, in His holy image.

By His Will, We Shall Succeed.

*Scribbled hastily on a piece of parchment in messy handwriting*

I write this solely to preserve my last thoughts as a mortal man. Tonight is the night my Brothers and I are to receive His power. The four of us are aware of the finality of our choice and are committed to giving our lives to serve Him. We are to be reborn pure in form, without the burden of flesh and the complications it presents. The air between us is heavy with anticipation, and I know that this evening is the beginning of the end for those who do not submit to His will. The Guardian demands it, and so will it be.

*signed in messy script*
Travixus, Humble Servant
(http://i15.photobucket.com/albums/a398/Travixus/Well_Step4.jpg)


*written below the signature in a liquid that is clearly not ink*
Pure we have become. Shattered they will be.