Cheliax, Empire of Devils

I'm Losing My Mind
Diary of Dr. Grigori Strand

Each one of my trophies has a name. Each one of my trophies has a story. I can look at them all and remember all of them. I feel a sense of accomplishment when I peruse over them. The memories, the intensity, the gratification… My life is wasting away while more trophies are out there. Waiting for me to claim them. Yet I am stuck in Ft. Wilderness, due to some overzealous investigator. There’s a yearning inside of me. It needs to break free. I am within a prison of my own mind. I feel so thin and wasted away. My inner darkness needs to be expressed. I need to act. I need to act now.

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Name: Mary Anne Nichols
Relation: Estranged Wife of William Nichols
Age: 43
Occupation: Prostitute in Westcrown

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Name: Annie Chapman
Relation: Estranged Wife of John Chapman
Age: 47
Occupation: Prostitute in Westcrown

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Name: Elizabeth Stride
Relation: Estranged Wife John Stride
Age: 44
Occupation: Prostitute in Westcrown

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Name: Catherine Eddowes
Relation: Fiancée of John Kelly
Age: 46
Occupation: Prostitute in Westcrown

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Mary Jane Kelly
Relation: Widow of William Davies
Age: 25
Occupation: Prostitute in Westcrown

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Name: Sharon Dismuke
Relation: Sister of Tina Dismuke
Age: 26
Occupation: Sex Slave of Orcs

I am feeling as if my mind has fallen out of my head and onto the street. I am bumbling about my medical office here in Ft. Wilderness. I feel so punch-drunk. I feel so anxious. My mind is rabid. my nerves are on end. The urges are overtaking me. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how long I can control this. I can almost see the rational part of me on the ground, just waiting to be squashed by some innocent passerby. What am I going to do? Gods be damned, I can’t take this anymore.


I feel so trapped in this place. I need to return to the city. I am tied up from all directions. Leashed like an animal. I feel so weak and helpless. Maybe I should just take one more life and be done with it all. Maybe I should just take my life, end it now. No more pain, no more suffering. I can’t. I am not the one that deserves to die. Those filthy scum, crawling through the slime of civilization, ruining the lives of hard working people… they deserve that fate. I am just doing them a favor. If my fucking hands weren’t so tied right now.


I typically do not hunt men. But since you are constraining my life, I believe it is time to make an exception. I am waiting for you. I am watching you. You will make a mistake. I will be there to correct it. Lord Ichabod Crane, I have an empty vial, specifically waiting to be filled with your blood.

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Reanimation Project Status Report (Update 1)
Notes of Dr. Herbert West

Cheliax Medical Association

Research and Development Department

Westcrown Chapter

Project Status Report

Report Date

Project Name

Prepared By

Starday, Lamushan 21, 4716

Humanoid Corpse Reanimation

Herbert West, M.D.

Status Summary

Reanimation of Motor Functions

Project Overview

Task

% Done

Due Date

Driver

Notes

Preserve Vital Organs

100%

N/A

Alchemy

Complete Success

Preserve Muscle Tone

100%

N/A

Alchemy

Complete Success

Preserve Skeletal Integrity

100%

N/A

Alchemy

Complete Success

Reanimate Recently Deceased

90%

N/A

Alchemy

Corpse Successfully Reanimated. Motor Functions Only, No Cognitive Ability.

Budget Overview

 

Category

Spent

% of Total

On Track?

Notes

Preserve Vital Organs

250 gp

68%

Yes

Under Budget

Preserve Muscle Tone

500 gp

75%

Yes

Under Budget

Preserve Skeletal Integrity

500 gp

75%

Yes

Under Budget

Reanimate Recently Deceased

5000 gp

100%

Yes

Budget Exceeded

Risk and Issue History

Issue

Assigned To

Date

Preserve Vital Organs: Possible Contamination with Embalming Fluids, Possible Needle Stick Hazards

Grigori Strand, M.D.

Completed

Preserve Muscle Tone: Possible Contamination with Embalming Fluids, Possible Needle Stick Hazards

Henry Jekyll, M.D.

Completed

Preserve Skeletal Integrity: Possible Contamination with Embalming Fluids, Possible Needle Stick Hazards

Faranell Bornstein, M.D.

Completed

Reanimate Recently Deceased: Possible Contamination with Fluids Draining from Orifices, Possible Needle Stick Hazards, Possible Damage to Lower Back Due to Heavy Lifting

Herbert West, M.D.

Completed

Conclusions/Recommendations

I have successfully reanimated a corpse. My reagent was missing an ingredient, synthesized liquid from a reptile pituitary gland. Reptiles are some of the oldest living life forms on the planet, and have remained largely as they were since the beginning of time. That liquid contains the essence of life that I needed. That along with my personal reagent has reenergized the alchemical properties of the brain.

However, reanimation isn’t successful in the regard that resurrection is the final goal. The bodily functions have been reanimated, but no apparent cognitive ability was seen in the test subject. The test subject had been deceased for several days prior to experimenting. It is possibly, that internal organ decay is a cause of the loss of cognitive ability. Not to mention, the reanimated corpse was extremely crude and clunky; it did not move as people move typically move.

More testing and observation will need to be made. It is yet unknown whether or not the reanimated life form can respond to verbal commands or will perform simple tasks. The reanimated life form, unfortunately, was put down after it violently attacked a laboratory assistant. I believe, it may have a slim memory, since the laboratory assistant was the individual responsible for its death in the first place. Perhaps only memories of events right before death is all the reanimated life form can remember.

I will conduct more tests and note my observations down. This is still breakthrough research. The fact that I can now say I can allow the recently deceased to get back up and walk is nothing to disregard.

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The Craziest Dream of My Life
Notes of Dr. Herbert West
GENERAL JOURNAL ENTRIES
GENERAL JOURNAL Page 1
Date Description
Lamushan 16th, 2016 I had one of the most fucked up dreams of my entire life. I don’t even know how to describe it. I have to write this down. This must have some sort of meaning. I will go over what I have written when I am more fully awake to understand it better. I was looking at myself, but I was multiple people, from above. All three of me were in pieces. I was in immense pain. I was screaming, but nobody could hear me. I actually woke myself up shortly after this. I looked around in a panic. Sweat was falling off of my face. Cold sweat. I had to get a drink of water. I went back to bed.
I was staring at an old abandoned house. It was a simple house, nothing special. But there was this well. Tentacles of shadow wriggled and wreathed about the ground, as if in search of something, but blindly searching. There was an eldritch sort of light emitting from the well. It felt so warm and comforting. It drew me towards it. I have never felt so comfortable in my entire life. So mesmerized by the glow. I was compelled to look into the well.
As I peered over the well, the eldritch energy pulled me in. I had absolutely no fear. I felt, reassurance, in fact. There was no hesitation. No fear of falling. Just pure comfort and relief as the eldritch energy swirled about me while I was in free-fall. I didn’t want to reach the bottom. I wanted to endlessly feel the soft caress of the light as it flickered off my face and stroked through my hair. I closed my eyes to enhanced my sense of touch. I felt a smile form on my face. I opened my eyes and the light was gone. Only ruins stood before me.
Curiosity overcame me. I walked towards the ruins. Why was I here? Where the hell am I? Those were the only things I was wondering. I missed the eldritch energy. I missed the light. As I made my way towards the ruins in hopes of finding more eldritch light, I stepped in something. There was a mud-like squishing sound as my feet plunged into some sort of fluid. I allowed my eyes to adjust itself to the twilight lit darkness. What was this? It was thick. It felt dry. It was viscous, and pliable. I reached my hand into it. It oozed through my fingers, very slowly, as if it were molasses on a cold day. Then I noticed the flicker of it and it dawned on me. Primordial ooze. The beginning of life.
It all began to make sense now. In alchemy, we take substances to their base element. We boil seawater down, for example, to get to the salt within it. We boil urine, for example, to get to the phosphorous. This primordial ooze, is the base element that life sprung from. What is the oldest form of life that archaeologists have foretold? Crustaceans, Insects, and… Reptiles. Yes! Of course, reptiles! They have evolved so little over their existence. Their essence is still primordial. That’s what my reagent is missing.
I awoke after this revelation. My feet landed upon the floor hard. I don’t even know if they rubbed across the bed on their way down. I was so awake. So focused. I had renewed purpose. Frustration was replaced with anticipation. Cold sweat was replace my grim determination. Anxiety was replaced with reassurance. I was awake now. I can see my lab. I can see my research notes. I will conclude this recollection of dreams. I have work to do.
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The Rats in the Walls
The Horrible Horrors of the Secret Cave

I must be very deliberate now, and choose my words.

After sloughing down a few steps amidst the gnawed bones we saw that there was light ahead; not any mystic phosphorescence, but a filtered daylight which could not come except from unknown fissures in the cliff that overlooked the waste valley. That such fissures had escaped notice from outside was hardly remarkable, for not only is the valley wholly uninhabited, but the cliff is so high and beetling that only an archaeologist could study its face in detail. A few steps more, and our breaths were literally snatched from us by what we saw; so literally that Thornton, the psychic investigator, actually fainted in the arms of the dazed man who stood behind him. Norrys, his plump face utterly white and flabby, simply cried out inarticulately; whilst I think that what I did was to gasp or hiss, and cover my eyes. The man behind me—the only one of the party older than I—croaked the hackneyed “My God!” in the most cracked voice I ever heard. Of seven cultivated men, only Sir William Brinton retained his composure; a thing more to his credit because he led the party and must have seen the sight first.

It was a twilit grotto of enormous height, stretching away farther than any eye could see; a subterraneous world of limitless mystery and horrible suggestion. There were walls and other architectural remains—in one terrified glance I saw a weird pattern of tumuli, a savage circle of monoliths, but all these were dwarfed by the ghoulish spectacle presented by the general surface of the ground. For yards about the steps extended an insane tangle of human bones, or bones at least as human as those on the steps. Like a foamy sea they stretched, some fallen apart, but others wholly or partly articulated as skeletons; these latter invariably in postures of daemoniac frenzy, either fighting off some menace or clutching other forms with cannibal intent.

When Dr. Trask, the anthropologist, stooped to classify the skulls, he found a degraded mixture which utterly baffled him. They were mostly lower than the Piltdown man in the scale of evolution, but in every case definitely human. Many were of higher grade, and a very few were the skulls of supremely and sensitively developed types. All the bones were gnawed, mostly by rats, but somewhat by others of the half-human drove. Mixed with them were many tiny bones of rats—fallen members of the lethal army which closed the ancient epic.

I wonder that any man among us lived and kept his sanity through that hideous day of discovery. Not Hoffmann or Huysmans could conceive a scene more wildly incredible, more frenetically repellent, or more Gothic and grotesque than the twilit grotto through which we seven staggered; each stumbling on revelation after revelation, and trying to keep for the nonce from thinking of the events which must have taken place there three hundred years, or a thousand, or two thousand, or ten thousand years ago. It was the antechamber of hells, and poor Thornton fainted again when Trask told him that some of the skeleton things must have descended as quadrupeds through the last twenty or more generations.

Horror piled on horror as we began to interpret the architectural remains. The quadruped things—with their occasional recruits from the biped class—had been kept in stone pens, out of which they must have broken in their last delirium of hunger or rat-fear. There had been great herds of them, evidently fattened on the coarse vegetables whose remains could be found as a sort of poisonous ensilage at the bottom of huge stone bins older than Rome. I knew now why my ancestors had had such excessive gardens—would to heaven I could forget! The purpose of the herds I did not have to ask.
Sir William, standing with his searchlight in the ruin, translated aloud the most shocking ritual I have ever known; and told of the diet of the antediluvian cult which the acolytes of the Great Old Ones found and mingled with their own. Norrys, used as he was to the trenches, could not walk straight when he came out of the archaic structure. It was a butcher shop and kitchen—he had expected that—but it was too much to see familiar implements in such a place, and to read familiar graffiti there, some as recent as 1100. I could not go in that structure—that structure whose daemon activities were stopped only by the dagger of my ancestor Walter de la Poer.

What I did venture to enter was the low structure, whose oaken door had fallen, and there I found a terrible row of ten stone cells with rusty bars. Three had tenants, all skeletons of high grade, and on the bony forefinger of one I found a seal ring with my own coat-of-arms. Sir William found a vault with far older cells below the chapel, but these cells were empty. Below them was a low crypt with cases of formally arranged bones, some of them bearing terrible parallel inscriptions carved in runes. Meanwhile, Dr. Trask had opened one of the prehistoric tumuli, and brought to light skulls which were slightly more human than a gorilla’s, and which bore indescribable ideographic carvings. Through all this horror my cat, Nigger-Man, stalked unperturbed. Once I saw him monstrously perched atop a mountain of bones, and wondered at the secrets that might lie behind his yellow eyes.

Having grasped to some slight degree the frightful revelations of this twilit area—an area so hideously foreshadowed by my recurrent dream—we turned to that apparently boundless depth of midnight cavern where no ray of light from the cliff could penetrate. We shall never know what sightless Stygian worlds yawn beyond the little distance we went, for it was decided that such secrets are not good for mankind. But there was plenty to engross us close at hand, for we had not gone far before the searchlights skewed that accursed infinity of pits in which the rats had feasted, and whose sudden lack of replenishment had driven the ravenous rodent army first to turn on the living herds of starving things, and then to burst forth from the priory in that historic orgy of devastation which the peasants will never forget.

God! Those carrion black pits of sawed, picked bones and opened skulls! Those nightmare chasms choked with the pithecanthropoid bones of countless unhallowed centuries! Some of them were full, and none can say how deep they had once been. Others were still bottomless to our searchlights, and peopled by unnamable fancies. What, I thought, of the hapless rats that stumbled into such traps amidst the blackness of their quests in this grisly Tartarus?

Once my foot slipped near a horribly yawning brink, and I had a moment of ecstatic fear. I must have been musing a long time, for I could not see any of the party but the plump Capt. Norrys. Then there came a sound from that inky, boundless, farther distance that I thought I knew; and I saw my old black cat dart past me like a winged Egyptian god, straight into the illimitable gulf of the unknown. But I was not far behind, for there was no doubt after another second. It was the eldritch scurrying of those fiend-born rats, always questing for new horrors, and determined to lead me on even unto those grinning caverns of earth’s center where Nyarlathotep, the mad faceless god, howls blindly to the piping of two amorphous idiot flute-players.
My searchlight expired, but still I ran. I heard voices, and yowls, and echoes, but above all there gently rose that impious, insidious scurrying; gently rising, rising, as a stiff bloated corpse gently rises above an oily river that flows under endless onyx bridges to a black, putrid sea. Something bumped into me—something soft and plump. It must have been the rats; the viscous, gelatinous, ravenous army that feast on the dead and the living. . . . No, no, I tell you, I am not that daemon swineherd in the twilit grotto! It was not Edward Norrys’ fat face on that flabby, fungous thing! Who says I am a de la Poer? He lived, but my boy died! Shall a Norrys hold the lands of a de la Poer? It’s voodoo, I tell you… Magna Mater! Magna Mater! Atys… Dia ad aghaidh’s ad aodann… agus bas dunach ort! Dhonas’s dholas ort, agus leat-sa… Ungl… ungl… rrrlh… chchch…

That is what they say I said when they found me in the blackness after three hours; found me crouching in the blackness over the plump, half-eaten body of Capt. Norrys, with my own cat leaping and tearing at my throat. Now they have blown up the ruins, taken my Nigger-Man away from me, and shut me into this barred room at Westcrown with fearful whispers about my heredity and experiences. Thornton is in the next room, but they prevent me from talking to him. They are trying, too, to suppress most of the facts concerning the priory. When I speak of poor Norrys they accuse me of a hideous thing, but they must know that I did not do it. They must know it was the rats; the slithering, scurrying rats whose scampering will never let me sleep; the daemon rats that race behind the padding in this room and beckon me down to greater horrors than I have ever known; the rats they can never hear; the rats, the rats in the walls.

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Another Letter to the Surgeon General
Notes of Dr. Herbert West

Dr. Herbert West


Cheliax Medical Association | Westcrown Chapter | Department of Thanatology


Fireday, Lamushan 14th, 4716
Honorable Vassindio Drovenge, Surgeon General
Cheliax Medical Assocation, Westcrown Chapter
Parego Dospera District, House Drovenge

Dear Honorable Vassindio Drovenge, Surgeon General:

I am writing this, since I am being targeted by an underground organization.

Also, I am personally blaming you for these thugs that attacked me and tried to kill me for knowing I was going to be at the Opera. Only you and your staff knew where I was going to be.

I already gave my statement to the authorities, and once again, none of this is my fault. I told them I wasn’t going to be leaving town just in case they needed to question me again. But I am now weary to return to my own residence. I go to a bar to relax, and I am attacked. I go to the opera, and I am attacked.

I am not going to share any details since there are loose lips and prying eyes at the Association.

I am taking a week long leave of absence from work. This is well within my rights as written in my contract.

Remember, I am smarter than everyone else there, and I am on the brink of a major discovery. I will keep you updated as I see fit. Have a nice day, “surgeon.”

Sincerely,

West

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Letter to the Surgeon General
Notes of Dr. Herbert West

Dr. Herbert West


Cheliax Medical Association | Westcrown Chapter | Department of Thanatology


Fireday, Lamushan 7th, 4716
Honorable Vassindio Drovenge, Surgeon General
Cheliax Medical Assocation, Westcrown Chapter
Parego Dospera District, House Drovenge

Dear Honorable Vassindio Drovenge, Surgeon General:

I am writing this, since I am being foolishly penalized for something that isn’t my fault, but that’s neither here nor there; to tell you that I am taking a day off of work and attending the Opera tomorrow. I have been officially requested to watch a private session of a local diva, Natasha Fairskies.

No, we aren’t romantically connected, so don’t even bother asking.

Also, let me tell you what really happened, so I won’t have to keep writing this nonsense every time I want to go do something that doesn’t include your idiocy.

I had a bad day at work. People that actually work for a living have those sorts of days. So, I went to a tavern, which I’ve never been to before, to try and relax a little. As soon as I have a drink ordered and I am going over my research notes, a mob begins harassing me.

I moved to a different table as to avoid conflict. Before I could get comfortable again, that mob holds the entire tavern up. They begin demanding all of our possessions. The keeper of the peace within the tavern, and some woman I was sitting next to, begin attacking the mob. I, of course not wanting to look like a putts, threw an alchemist’s fire into the mob.

Now, those women killed all of those people. I may have caused some fire damage, but you blame them for death and destruction, not me. I don’t take this, “keeping tabs on me,” very lightly and it is inhibiting my research.

And before you think you can simply get rid of me, or my department, remember this, I have tenure and I have a contract. You may be rich and famous, but, I have the law on my side; not to mention smarter than you are. Now that I have that off my chest, have a nice day, “Surgeon.”

Sincerely,

West

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The Dunwich Horror
The Legacy of Wilbur Whateley Dunwich

Yog-Sothoth


Wilbur Whateley Dunwich


Born of Lavinia Whateley and Yog-Sothoth. Described as a “dark, goatish-looking infant”—neighbors refer to him as “Lavinny’s black brat”—he shows extreme precocity: “Within three months of his birth, he had attained a size and muscular power not usually found in infants under a full year of age…. At seven months, he began to walk unassisted,” and he “commenced to talk…at the age of only eleven months.” At three years of age, “he looked like a boy of ten,” while at four and a half, he “looked like a lad of fifteen. His lips and cheeks were fuzzy with a coarse dark down, and his voice had begun to break.”

“Though he shared his mother’s and grandfather’s chinlessness, his firm and precociously shaped nose united with the expression of his large, dark, almost Latin eyes to give him an air of..well-nigh preternatural intelligence,” Lovecraft writes, though at the same time he is “exceedingly ugly…there being something almost goatish or animalistic about his thick lips, large-pored, yellowish skin, coarse crinkly hair, and oddly elongated ears.”

He dies at the age of fifteen after being attacked by several hundred devils, while breaking in to the Miskatonic library. Wilbur was raised by his grandparents, and took their last name as his own. A description of Wilbur’s partly nonhuman anatomy:

The thing that lay half-bent on its side in a foetid pool of greenish-yellow ichor and tarry stickiness was almost nine feet tall, and the devils had torn off all the clothing and some of the skin…. It was partly human, beyond a doubt, with very manlike hands and head, and the goatish, chinless face had the stamp of the Whateley’s upon it. But the torso and lower parts of the body were tautologically fabulous, so that only generous clothing could ever have enabled it to walk on earth unchallenged or un-eradicated. Above the waist it was semi-anthropomorphic; though its chest…had the leathery, reticulated hide of a crocodile or alligator. The back was piebald with yellow and black, and dimly suggested the squamous covering of certain snakes. Below the waist, though, it was the worst; for here all human resemblance left off and sheer phantasy began. The skin was thickly covered with coarse black fur, and from the abdomen a score of long greenish-grey tentacles with red sucking mouths protruded limply. Their arrangement was odd, and seemed to follow the symmetries of some cosmic geometry unknown. On each of the hips, deep set in a kind of pinkish, ciliated orbit, was what seemed to be a rudimentary eye; whilst in lieu of a tail there depended a kind of trunk or feeler with purple annular markings, and with many evidences of being an undeveloped mouth or throat. The limbs, save for their black fur, roughly resembled the hind legs of prehistoric giant saurians, and terminated in ridge-veined pads that were neither hooves nor claws.

While Wilbur died in Egorian, he lived in an unknown coastal cave system, known to the Old Cults as Dunwich’s Cave, in Westcrown. May it’s location be lost to the outside world, forever.


Dunwich’s Cave

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Fire from the Heavens
Tryggvan's Journal Entry

Fire. Pure, and purging. Free, sure and surging.
C’thun’s will, this world cured. Justice served for hells endured.




I met some interesting people today. They set our enemies on fire. This endears them to me.




I can feel the doctor’s madness. Two cards of the same suit.




I’m sure that the fighter is for hire. I’m not sure about the tiefling. Time will tell.




Also, some silly rake tried to snatch our seed money. I’m glad he failed. He has potential, but I need that coin for the moment.




I wonder why these people pursue my new friend, but I am beginning to get annoyed.

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The End of My Logia
Last Testament of HP Lovecraft

This is my 114 logion, which will complete my logia. I have to face my persecution. The world around me is confined by the laws of angels and demons. They flaunt their laws as logic. I shall not wane. 114 shall rebirth my work. I shall beckon to my sovereigns as my saviors. True power is to be obtained as influence upon those not weak enough to submit to the inferiors rule. The greatest power is fear. The greatest fear is that of the unknown. By erasing my name and my work from history, the generations to come will be unbeknownst to me. Their ignorance will be their undoing. My masters call. So it is written, here, that only 20 18 25 7 7 22 1 14 shall rise after I have fallen. I bid him well.

Heed the call, young one.

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