Tales from the Shifting Archives
-Father Grimoire-

Among Stone Figures

The evidence of my greatest success is also the scene of my gravest sin. Within the ruins of this husk of a cityscape lie scattered the remains of my flock. Frozen in time and space they stand as monuments to the final step of my ambitions and the first step to infinity. When the years of my magics and dark sciences came to fruition, they were the first to be sacrificed. The process drew from them the very energies I needed to actualize my immortality, casting them like marble trophies. Their faces as masks, turned toward the heavens, screaming my victory.

On Obsidian Sands

When the detritus of humanity filled the oceans, clogging the life force of our realms, “The Source” rose from the sea, unlatching itself from the depths as a final defense against mankind. It breached as a monolithic beast, a landmass of writhing, bellowing a call to war into the minds of all. We met it as we often do; with a spitting, frothing madness. We unleashed our cataclysmic weaponry, leaving nought but silence and irradiated viscera. The lifeblood of The Source bled into the waters, providing me with the resource I would need. The substance carried properties that I was determined to exploit. A dark viscous ichor that stained the sands.

In Fetid Fields

My flock and I retreated deep into our hidden laboratoriums where we could perform the necessary experiments that would unlock the potential of the potent resource, which the more inspired among my followers dubbed “The Seed”. While we were buried in hypothesis and theory, the rest of civilization settled distribution of The Seed by simple acts of national warfare. The inhabitable land that remained was host to great and devastating movements of opposing forces and the bodies that were left, fertilized the fields. As the years passed they blossomed into glorious and fervent flowerings, dusk red petals with stems of pitch.

Below the Visceral Realm

My sleep became fitful and the dreams my mind conjured bore little resemblance to reality. I was birthed into pools of shifting prismatic oils, surrounded by a sickly light that I could never locate the source of. The skies would seem to bleed in and out of my vision, at one time holding an endless sea of shimmering luminescence, at others a pulsing organic film stretched from horizon to horizon. All the while a sound like a perverse mating call would pierce the otherwise soundless air, causing my flesh to ripple and vibrate. Waking was damp, and more then once my bed sheets had a dark tinge to them. My ambition was the only thing to stave off my fatigue. In retrospect, I can only conclude it was due to a near constant exposure to The Seed. Some of my flock were more susceptible than others, and the effects proved more adverse. Those that did not perish outright, became almost catatonic in mind.

Above the Weeping Cathedral

Many men pursue no more than peace of mind. A sharp man can bend this desire into a congregation. As a man of the cloth, I was more then familiar with the power that the fervent proclamations of end days has on the minds of the susceptible and ignorant. When The Source appeared I weaponized fear into an army. My cathedral was one of tears. Men, women, and children seeking that fleeting promise of salvation in the face of futility. I was a beacon, offering succor and guidance. I once felt shame at moving so many like pawns on a board. You live as long as I and shame loses its sting.

Along the Wizards Path

An anomaly? My Observers report on a force that seems to cloud their gaze. Even more troubling, this figure has damaged some of my wandering eyes. Most reports come second hand from the populace. Tales of a woman moving through the uninhabitable lands, wielding a sword of prismatic light and a writhing organic stave. I can not rely on the testimonies of these seed addled peasants. Illusions and visions among the people are as common as corpses on the side of the road. Still, I haven’t had inconsistency in the Observers quite like this.

Before the Endless Door

These reports are becoming too numerous to ignore. The Wizard in the Waste? The White Witch? She moves through the Endless Door, an emissary of the Visceral Realm, or so they say. The lifeless husk of my Observer was strung up in some hovel, a display meant to raise my ire. The populace, more lucid than usual, would not offer information on how they managed it. I could not let that stand. They made a healthy batch of heretics for the Scouring Halls. All offenses aside, these events have captured my curiosity. Could there be truth in their words? It may be time to move with intent.