Journal of Mafol
I and six others have come to a new place.
It is a good place, our fortress. Others come. With us is one who calls himself a Voidgod. I think him mad, but he carries the sacred metal. So be it.
We have broken a path to the deep caverns. In them are monsters. We will conquer. The Voidgod-who-is-mad-yet-sacred is terrible to behold in battle.
My knee has been hurt. I will endure.
Dwarves in masks which concealed their selves took me from my bed and placed me in a cell, but they did not take my book. If I am found, know that this was not caused by my own foolishness.
Someone comes!
Journal of Amperzand.
My body carried a journal of his own. I shall take it for mine until a better book can be found. His words are foolish, I have scratched them out.
Truly, the Voidgod is glorious, as He has granted me a form.
The ritual chamber is crude, and hidden, not displayed proudly, and yet still it called. This will suffice!
And yet I feel strangely, as I attempt to sleep in a body and a bed. Something within my mind dislikes my thoughts.
I wake in my own bed after nightmares most terrible to find nonsense in a hand not my own scrawled within my journal most private. My soul feels heavy within me, and I cannot seem to think with clearness.
Another mind, colder than ice, hates me, and yet I see what it knows. Machines and tongues and other realms and a long, long nothing.
It hates. I am nothing, and yet I am everything. My physicality is of worth.
I must get help.
I woke to find my new body had gone mad and scrawled in this journal. I was barely able to calm it before it forced open the door to our sleeping chamber.
The rituals of calling have failed, incompetent bastards. My binding was not perfect. This primitive, material cretin's sapience still clings to being.
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Topic: Slaughterhelm: Fortress of the Void (Deathgate III) (Read 49774 times)