Tales of the Unknown:
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Long have I awaited thy coming of age. Our town of Skara Brae doth slowly wither under the cursed sorcery of Mangar, spawn of demons. Many hath challenged his power, only to encounter their doom.
One man didst nearly succeed. Lord Garrick, the viscount of our sister city Hamelon, became imprisoned here through Mangar's evil spell of winter. He failed, but in his failure lies the way to thy victory. Lord Garrick did keepeth a journal, and Mangar is either unaware of its existence, or believes it to have perished along with the impudent viscount. But the tome didst survive, and came into my keeping.
Thou art a brave warrior in thy fashion, and a scholar passing fair. Yet if thou wouldst accept this quest thou hast need of assistance. Look to the following pages for further counsel and aid.
The path thou must follow doth with danger abound. Go, and take with thee the journal of a brave knight, and the prayers of an old man.
It isn't to be tolerated! I refuse to kneel to the evil that has made its home in Skara Brae. All of the brave knights who protect this town have vanished, leaving frightened serfs, women and children to face unprotected the hordes of strange beasts and ruffians that now inhabit the streets. My brave party and I can do little to reduce their seemingly infinite numbers. We must destroy the wizard Mangar, surely the source of the evil invasion, and of the ungodly and impenetrable winter that imprisons Skara Brae.
My old friend Pellis tells me that my servants, however valiant, are yet no match for Mangar, and advises me to let them gain battle experience before we enter any of the dungeons. I am further advised that to enter a dungeon prematurely is to court destruction. I accede to the wisdom of this counsel, and will seek out the innkeeper of The Scarlet Bard, who may be able to assist me in my quest. The inn is convenient to my lodgings at the end of Rakhir Street.
The barkeep requires gold to loosen his tongue, and delights in pouring forth cryptic drivel. I knew already the importance of the Review Board, and its location. Journeying south on Trumpet Street, it is the second building on the left. As for gates that cannot be stormed, it is a well known habit of wise men to have concealed entrances to their strongholds. But I thank the gods that my taste in drink is of a higher nature than that of my companions. Had I ordered ale instead of wine we would be there still, carousing and wenching in the Inn until Mangar himself came to join us. But the barkeep is overworked, and sent me down into the cellar after my own wine. No mere cache of fine drink in dusty bottles and skins in this cellar -- 'tis rather an extensive maze of corridors oozing niter and slime. We will return with our gear, and the remainder of our party.
Ah, the rising stench of blood mingles with the cries of our fallen foes! We were set on immediately by groups of dwarves and kobold, and acquitted ourselves with honor. It is difficult to put pen to vellum, the only illumination being that from enchanted weapons.
One of our knights has been slain by mad dogs, but our party continues in a sobered states, our blood lust diminished. We will exact full recompense, Mangar!
There is a set of descending stairs in the northwest section of the cellar. The magician's spell "Scry Site" caused the walls to speak, revealing to us our location in the labyrinth. Here we rest, and prepare for the morrow.
We are in a muck-drenched stinking sewer, and the beasts and blackguards who attack us here are too numerous to be described. Here we gain much wealth, and our skills are honed like fine steel blades. As we explore, we discover strange writings on the walls of this foul hole. I will record them faithfully here -- their value will perhaps become clear later in our travels.
This sewer abounds with sorceror's tricks. We were teleported to different locations and spun about unknowing, all at the whim of foul magic. I am told that we are indeed fortunate to have among us the last of the great sage-sorcerors, for he can divine our location at all times, and has even provided us with rough maps of each wretched dungeon as we enter it.
We have found our way through devil darkness that no spell or flame can penetrate. There is a stairway in the midst of this darkness leading down into further stench and blackness.
Cunning and deadly traps have claimed the lives of two gallant paladins. We have been constantly besieged since our entry into this noisome pit, and have borne many injuries. Corfid op Orfin, our noble bard, stepped into a ray of light, burning both of his hands and one side of his body. I feel responsible, for now the meaning of the inscription, "Pass the light at night" becomes clear. We waited until the setting of the sun and the beam faded, allowing us to pass unharmed. Corfid will, under the protection of two warriors, retire from these dungeons to seek aid for his injuries.
There are scrawled messages here:
"Heed not what is beyond understanding."
"Thor is the greatest son of Odin."
We encountered filthy sorcery in the form of a vile set of disembodied lips which speak to us these words; "Know this, that a man called Tarjan, thought by many to be insane, had through wizardry powers proclaimed himself a god. His image is locked in stone until made whole again." I forbade our magician to take the obscene thing with us, as it would serve no purpose.
The only apparent means to descend to the level below is through the use of portals that reek of sorcery. The magician will levitate our party down through the portal.
More inscriptions:
"The hand of time writes and cannot erase."
"Seek the snare from behind the scenes."
There is an evil place here at mid-point along the eastern wall that we must eschew as if 'twere the Plague. Men pass and vanish, condemned to haunt an endless void till life itself begins anew. Ghaklah, our magician, scryed it as he meditated, proving yet again his usefulness.
We came upon a long set of stairs continuing on to further upward passages, but battle and trickery have rendered us too weary to go on. We will return to the light, and Skara Brae.
We emerge at last into fresh air and open space, which is welcome, and into night, which is not. The priests in the temple exacted usurious fees to attend to our wounded. They care not that we risk our lives for their unworthy skins as well as for the rest of Skara Brae. I am grateful that their doors were open to us, e'en at night. Such was not the case with the Review Board and