(Music) Sixth of Zephus is the year 220 after Deadhaus. This will be the last that is written in the Chronicles of the Grand Inquisitor. I am writing with all the strength that remains to me, but there is not much left. Thacia has fallen. The Emperor is dead, though he may at least rest with the knowledge that he knew what truly threatened us. I have no such solace. I spent my life fighting a war against a lesser enemy. If anyone should recover these writings, know this.
Deadhaus was not the true foe. The blow that struck us down came from within. It was the Crimson Sign. It was The Awakened. By the light of the Blood Moon, I wrote of my nightmare. Visions of gods and monsters. Since that night, I have not dreamed. I focused on my work, constructed more wights in secret, until the day I led them south and retook Fort Zaestra. The dead there were no match for us.
Between the wights, my explosives and a crossbow full of silver bolts, we carved a path through them until the tread of armored feet approached us. It was the revenant that took the fort so long ago. The wights fell upon him with their inhuman strength, but his was greater still. He tore them asunder, cleaving limbs and crushing skulls with his warmaw. But I had come prepared, sadly. "Hold him still!" I shouted to the wights. They obeyed as best they could, clinging to his arms and legs.
I saw the violet fires rising in him, saw him begin to break free of their grasp, strengthened by the conflict. The crucible hummed into high pitch and released a torrent of shrieking wraith fire. Two of my wights and a portion of the fortress wall were destroyed in the blast, and all that remained of the revenant was a pair of armored legs. The crucible strum fell as it closed. The fort was ours. As I suspected, this act impressed the Emperor to the extent that my crimes
against Thacia were pardoned. I was given his full support in the construction of more wights, as many resources as I required, and a team of alchemists at my command. Full production began immediately. We refined the process, no longer constrained by having to work in secret. We learned we could construct wights beyond the constraints that nature had
intended as well. After all, the anatomical proportions of human limbs were suited to the needs of the living, but the dead were unfettered by such limitations. We began to construct wights for specific purposes. Those intended for the front lines could be grafted with heavy metal plating. Those sent to the mines could wield pickaxe and shovel apparatus instead of arms. And when their tasks were complete, they could be disassembled and reconstructed to fit the needs of their next assignment.
Soon, wights began to appear on every battlefield. Living troops were wary of them, of course, having known the dead only as enemies for so long, but the results were undeniable. Need to storm a gate and break it down under arrow fire? Why risk human lives when a wight could do so without fear, without hesitation? Heavy supplies need to be carried with the troops? Why expand their energy when wights possess far greater strength and endurance?
Even when struck down in battle, a wight could be repaired so long as its core remained intact. So as much as they were feared, hated even, still they were called upon to serve, and serve they did, for each of them was constructed with a hollowed head full of chimes. We began to push the dead back. Territory by territory, province by province, we reclaimed what was ours. Every battle replenished the supply of components. Arms, legs, torsals, heads, ever more wights were constructed.
I was so hopeful then, joyous even, to see my hated foe crushed and driven before me. I could never have suspected that the end was so near, that as my wights marched farther south, they marched away from the true foe. The Awakened... That is what they called themselves. Madmen. They worshipped one called Islirith. The name means nothing to me, nor did the Ashen Priests know of it. But I had so little time to investigate before they struck.
When the fighting broke out, I was speaking to the Emperor. I was reading from a scroll when his blood spat upon it. I looked up to see a dagger through his neck, held by his own wife. She just smiled at me. The blood vessels had ruptured in her eyes, flooding them with crimson. And she just smiled. The Praetorians cried out. Several of them knelt and threw their blades,
plunging them into their own hearts. In the suicide their order demanded of them, should they fail to protect the one they were sworn to. But others did not kneel. They turned to face me with eyes full of blood. I fled from the palace and into the city, where madness prevailed. The cultists were in every district. They were our smiths and cobblers, our farmers, our poets. Men and women, young and old. They were our neighbors, our sons and daughters, friends and wives.
They were among us all along, lying in wait, hiding just before us. We were too blind to see. The only commonality between them was their eyes, primming over with blood. A sea of crimson eyes and grinning faces. They set upon those who were unlike them with knives and clubs and makeshift weaponry. Chaos surged through the streets. Buildings were set ablaze. By the time the attack broke out, I suspect they were at least half the population of Thacia. How? How could this have happened?
There was word of a cult. Even two years ago there was word of a cult of fanatics with bloodied eyes. But they were said to be no more than 20. I took no notice of it then. 20 cultists next to Deadhouse. How was I to know the dead were less of a danger? It is madness. Utter madness that has claimed Thacia. A mob of them pursued me down an alley. With no way out, I reached into my satchel, retrieved a flask and shook it.
It burst against my pursuers in a plume of green fire and they fell to the ground, shrieking in voices that were not human. And as they writhed in the alchemical fires, I saw their bodies distort. Bulbous pockets of flesh protruded like fleshy dough set to bake and burst open to reveal gaping holes lined with gnashing teeth. I did not hear my own scream over theirs. I retreated to my estate. Twice more requiring a flask to cut a path through the throngs.
I thought I would be safe within my own walls but they were waiting for me there too. The servants, their eyes were filled with blood. One of them moved briskly toward me as I entered the room. I pulled my chimes and struck but he just smiled. The knife struck me beneath the sternum, piercing the liver. I threw him off me and fled to my laboratory, barring the door behind me. They started striking it soon after and I stumbled backward, slumping over a table.
There were no wights in the capital. They had all been sent to face Deadhaus They could have turned the battle. We still would have suffered terrible casualties, got off guard as we were, but the wight could have regained order. Or maybe the cultists would not have attacked if wights were present. They are clever enough to hide after all. The crucible, that would have been useful. I could have brought the city down with it, left nothing for the cultists but ash and rubble. But I left
it... No, I shall not say. It is beyond my reach now. It must remain beyond the reach of all. I regained my footing, inspected my wound. With medical attention, it might not be fatal. An Ashen Priest could close it, no doubt, but the temple district swarmed with cultists just... just like all the rest. Even if I could make my way there, would anyone be left? You are wondering if you will die. You will. The ghoul startled me from my thoughts. How do you know this? Death ripens in your mind.
We can smell its nectar dripping. The city has fallen. There was an enemy within, I said, not knowing what else to say. We know. It turned its head to face the door, where the blows on the other side began to fall with greater force. They will be with you soon. Will silver harm them, I said, retrieving my crossbow? One or two, if you are quick enough, but there are more. How many? In this house. Fourteen. You will not stop them, Alaric von Beller. Then I will die trying.
You think they will kill you? You will pray for death. But death does not dream. It will not find you. I won't ask you what that means. I won't understand if you try to explain. I am... I do not see clearly. But now you see that you do not see, and that is the path to seeing. Then tell me. Tell me what I can do. Open the cage. So you can give me the merciful death that they won't? We cannot kill the Grand Inquisitor. No, it is against the rules. Who? You said that before. In the sewers.
We have told you only truth. Always. Why? Why can you not kill me? Why must I open the cage? The time for questions is past. The door began to splinter inward. Make your choice. But what choice was there at that point? Grievelsly wounded and cornered. Flasks were no longer an option, and the crossbow could not deal with fourteen assailants. Chimes were ineffective. No wights. No crucible. Nothing.
Only the ghoul and its cryptic words. I unlatched the cage and stumbled towards a small closet, pulling myself inside. The door broke in soon after that, and the lab was filled with cultists. I watched them from my hiding space as they overturned tables and rifled through things. They were looking for me. Just as my father had so many years ago. The ghoul's cage stood empty. A flicker of movement then, from above. A blur of ground.
It fell from the sea, punching its claws through one of the cultists' heads as it landed upon him. The others shouted, whirling to face their new foe. But the ghoul skittered backwards on all fours, disappearing towards the sewers. Doubt like an escape it cannot read! One of the cultists shouted. They chased it into the dark tunnels. I heard them shouting to one another, coordinating their hunt. They had no idea what they had brought
upon themselves, but I did. For the first time, I felt a sense of gratitude for how clever that creature was. One by one, their shouts fell silent as they were snatched into the darkness. Time for the tunnels were utterly silent. I stayed in the cramped closet until I saw the ghoul slinking back to the lab from the sewers. Its gaping maw was caked with blood and viscera. I climbed down from the closet, slumping back against it and sinking to the floor. The ghoul sidled up and sat beside me.
Such a feast we've had. Such a feast, yes. They both stared ahead into nothing for a time. They're dead then? All of them? Dreams do not die, but they will trouble you no more. What will you do? The dreamers will take time to claim the city. Enough time for some to go missing. It clicked in anticipation. And you're still hungry? Even after 14? It did not answer me, but merely cocked its head in my direction for a moment. Then rose to leave.
I suppose you won in the end. Your captor lies dying, Thacia undone. Deadhouse was victorious. It paused for a moment, then turned. You were not the enemy, no. Not the enemy? We've been at war for 200 years. You know not of our war. It turned to leave once more. What does that mean? Come back! Face me! I struggled to rise, but the ghoul kept crawling. I did not see it again. And so now I sit here in the ruins of my laboratory. Blood seeping from my wound. Strength fading.
I never understood most of what the ghoul said to me. I realize now I never understood so many things. I tried. I studied. Never gave up. Sacrificed. But it was all in vain. I could not protect Thesia. And now I die with it. I take one last look at the work around me. The tools. The materials. The blood. The blood. Vampiric blood. I never wrote of it after the initial experiments, but I continued to feed my supply with the blood of livestock.
I wanted to test the upper limits of its ability to reproduce, but I could never find them. I ended up with a vat of the stuff, unsure of what to do with it. I stopped growing it, feeding it only enough to maintain its volume. But there were always so many other tests and excursions that required my attention. It simply fell into the background of my laboratory. Yet there it is, ringed by salt, leading. If I were to let my own blood spill into the vat, it would be transmuted, no longer human.
But what if... What if I were to carry out a transfusion of this vampiric blood into my own body? Would it kill me? I'm dead already. For one last experiment. I have enough strength for that. I will gather the materials. The process is begun. The needle is in my vein. I can see the blood moving through the tubes now. Part of me wants to tear the needle free. There is still time. Why am I doing this? It's entering me now. It burns!
The blood is room temperature. I can feel that if I grab the tube. But it's like fire when it hits my veins. It's spreading, gnawing up my arm, my shoulder, my heart. Heart rate is rising, hammering, burning inside. I must record as much as I can. Pain... entire body. If I rise... will... avenge, My... heart... visions... visions... a woman.