Ancestor's Journal

A strange note, written on bloody human flesh.
You examine the ragged piece of flesh, it reeks of sweat and tears. A series of crude gouges in the skin pulsate and seep blood. They seem to form a pattern! You can just make out the following: "We at Red Hook Games, are deeply grateful for your support and your time spent in the Darkest Dungeon! Good luck in the coming battle..."

Journal of Darius, Highwayman 1/6
Day 1 - Rare are travellers on the roads this autumn, and rather than starve I pressed my last coin into the hand of one who dealt in rumours and shadows. Ravens carried cryptic notes that there was a person, or persons who was pledging coin for services best left unmentioned in a hamlet I had never heard of. I am packing to leave immediately.

Journal of Darius, Highwayman 2/6
Day 4 - The road to this damned hamlet was a tricky one, both to find and to travel. When it revealed its ruined face, I swore had never seen such neglect, some buildings collapsed, and uncaring residents fidgeting uselessly. I went swiftly to the tavern - others with similar interests had gathered there and I was assembled into an expedition. We leave at first light on the morrow.

Journal of Darius, Highwayman 3/6
Day 6 - As we travelled from the hamlet, an eerie dread grew. We all felt it but did our best to shrug it off. Sleep was difficult until Raeven, one of my companions, passed me a bitter concoction. The most devout of us, Therion, prayed softly for our safety, superstitious but well intentioned I suppose. I am already falling asleep..

Journal of Darius, Highwayman 4/6
Day 7 - We tangled with some unruly louts. Raeven called them cultists. They were ferocious but clumsy.

Journal of Darius, Highwayman 5/6
Day 8 - Moira has been afflicted with sickness, it must have been some rotting air from a coffin she insisted on piercing with her spade. As terrible as this place is, I know I will not fall for any trap nor crazed idiot. I wager my lucky coin on it.

Journal of Darius, Highwayman 6/6
My End - I scrawl this, victim of cruel Fortune, who took me up on my wager for I have lost my lucky coin and I now lie helpless as my blood flows swiftly from my ruined body. My fingers are cold… It was no trap, nor raving cultist that sealed my fate. We were ambushed by strange undulating shapes, 2 small entities that I cannot hope to describe and a third, much larger beast. Poor Moira was crushed into a pulp as Therion defended her - he soon lost his arm and his wits left him, “Shambler! Shambler!” he kept shrieking as Raeven yanked him to flee. I tried to play hero, to buy them a few moments...blew away one of the smaller monsters...last shot...then smashed into the wall...the big one...maybe they made it out...

The Blackest of Fates 1/5
Our purpose was to desecrate their animalistic shrines and thus disperse the swine-folk. But soon we came across an artifact. This was far beyond the crude fetishes crafted by the pig men. It looked as if obsidian had been grown and twisted into a dark symbol of worship. It cradled a pulsing red orb, glowing with malevolent light. Cuthbert, Boleyn and I hesitated, but thrice-damned Mizir, driven by crazed impulse, thrust his torch in a hidden receptacle and thus sealed our fate!

The Blackest of Fates 2/5
In that same instant we found ourselves in a place of suffocating dark, facing a creature that defies description and whose recollection causes my quill to jump and shudder! It is merciful only fragments of our battle remain in my psyche... I see Cuthbert hacking at the quivering appendages of the monster. I recall how a piece of its flesh sloughed off and of it’s own twisted accord sprang onto Boleyn, piercing her stout plate! The occultist, as if to offer himself as tribute was torn apart by its writhing limbs!

The Blackest of Fates 3/5
The assault was overwhelming. With Cuthbert slain and as Boleyn fell, I was driven by rage. I leapt and drove my axe into the creature’s many eyes. Purple ichor splashed my face and my very soul shook as it bellowed. The only thing I can recall after was falling swiftly into blackness.

The Blackest of Fates 4/5
I now find myself back in the warrens, among the remains of my companions. My wounds are too severe to allow the completion of our - my task. Thus the desecration must resume another time. Curious, there is a ring in my pocket. Where it came from, I cannot begin to guess, though it bears the sigil of the estate’s ancestral owner. Very curious.

The Blackest of Fates 5/5
I will return with Cuthbert’s banner and Boleyn’s crossbow so as to honor them with a proper burial. I will leave what is left of thrice-damned Mizir and his trinkets to the swine-folk. Perhaps they will build him the memorial he rightly deserves.

A Trampled Journal 1/4
Sebastian’s watch was his last. We were jolted during our evening’s repast, the best we could make in these murky halls of our once great house, from the roar and flash of black powder. We dropped our bowls and hurried to him. All we could find was his spent pistol and a trail of blood leading into a maze of shadows. We press on.

A Trampled Journal 2/4
We fought in the East Gallery, filled with portraits of our ancient lineage, uncaring witnesses to the slaughter. Alhazred, the fiery heartbeat of our retinue, wrought keen havoc in our enemy’s ranks. I keenly feel his absence even as I remember voiding myself upon seeing his lifeless body fall, blood pouring from his screaming mouth, some cruel knife having rent his lungs to gore. Yet we were victorious, and thus we press on.

A Trampled Journal 3/4
Hewell, dear friend, exemplary warrior, a survivor of the King’s wars, and many sorties in these halls, met an ignoble end. We were weary, Hewell and I, as we searched for sanctuary. Weariness, it appears, has a murderous streak: it blinded him to the mechanism that tripped the spikes which eviscerated him. I held him as his essence slipped away, another giant fallen in our mad pursuit. I am alone now, weary, but unbowed. I press on.

A Trampled Journal 4/4
I AM BECOME VENGEANCE! All cultists will feel my mace, brigands fear my roar! I am outnumbered, ‘tis true - I am starved and half-mad, but as long as there is breath in my body, I will press on. I will wreak unbearable agony on those who would seek to despoil my great manse! And now they come! I dowse my torch. I DO NOT FEAR THE DARKNESS! THIS IS MY HOUSE, AND WOE TO THE UNINVITED!]]

Blood Soaked Pages Torn From A Journal 1/6
These dark caves drip with an overabundance of humidity, beyond my threshold of comfort. I nearly broke my ankle on the rocks, made slick with some ubiquitous slime. The pools stir and slosh with no visible cause and the shadows beyond torchlight seem to grow and shrink of their own accord.

Blood Soaked Pages Torn From A Journal 2/6
My fears are confirmed! With our torch doused by an errant spray of seawater - we were ambushed! Strange fish-like homonids ambushed us in the sudden darkness! The pitch of the torch caught quickly and I glimpsed scaly appendages swinging crude weapons, glistening and barbed. They didn't last long with our torch rekindled. Alas, one bit me on the neck before I gutted it. The wound stings and tingles strangely. Our physic told me to keep it clean and covered...

Blood Soaked Pages Torn From A Journal 3/6
The wound is starting to fester. The flesh around it is grey, flaking and ridged, almost scale-like. As I write this, my breathing has taken on a hollow timbre and is more laboured. My compatriots are laughing, and tell me not to worry, it’s just the salt mist in the air that pervades these caverns.

Blood Soaked Pages Torn From A Journal 4/6
They are are sleeping. I am kept from slumber by a distinct stream of whispers, as if carried by the currents and waves of the sea. I have not told them that most of my flesh has sloughed off, revealing a strange silvery membrane, I keep myself covered. They questioned me when I ate the meat raw at campfall and found my response difficult to understand. I suppose it would be best to explain my condition when they awaken, then they would be convinced of my urgency to leave and find aid in the hamlet.

Blood Soaked Pages Torn From A Journal 5/6
The others are gone. They were victims of a malevolent transformation! Their scales had rotted to soft, vulnerable flesh. Slowly suffocating without gills! The worst was their eyes! Close-set, and forced to squint through fleshy slits! I shudder recalling the horrific and unclean warmth of their blood as I rinsed my talons. I nearly retched. May Death grant them soft mercy!

Blood Soaked Pages Torn From A Journal 6/6
I cannot recall why we ventured onto land. Why did we leave when Mother Ocean provided all we needed beneath her tender waves? I will now return home, back to Her embrace… [indecipherable scratchings fill the remainder of the page].