Darkest Dungeon 9

JOURNAL 9

At sunrise, I am to go into the weald surrounding the hamlet with Maxwell, Blacksmith, and Cole as my companions.

The young Master Clarke and Raziq have only deciphered a small portion of the notes recovered from the library, but they have already revealed much. It seems that the elder Clarke long held a fascination with the old magic, and for many years before he learned of the thing lurking beneath his estate and began his ill-fated expedition, he used his considerable wealth and influence to collect strange devices wrought with dark enchantments. One of the very first was the dreaded monkey’s paw, a wicked artifact that originated deep within the southern continent. As Raziq explained it, an old shaman had given it the power to grant three wishes to who ever held it, with the warning that no one can escape their fate. The paw had belonged to many owners, but eventually had worked its way into the ownership of the elder Clarke. The notes made mention that he had gifted it to someone who had lived within the manor, though there were no specifics as to who. In a later note, there was a singular mention of the “Hag Of The Weald” who seemed to be in possession of the paw, but they could find no further information on it.

Speaking with his customary authority, the young Master Clarke said that the weald was a result of corrupted growth, the source of which could be traced to his family’s ancestral cemetery. His father had made mentions of sprawling overgrowth, how it had taken over the ancient mausoleums and spread into the pristine hunting grounds upon the estate, and the young Master Clarke believed that the corruption festering below the surface had fueled it further, bubbling up and driving the gnarled roots farther and deeper. He believes that the source of the growth may rest with the Hag, and even if she is merely a denizen of the weald rather than the cause, recovery of such a dangerous artifact as the monkey’s paw is to be one of our highest priorities.

Maxwell and Anselm will prove useful, having spent many years as trackers for the royal family they once served. Surely they will be able to find a lone woman who lives in the woods. Blacksmith is of sure heart and steady hand, a stalwart companion if there ever was one. I am leery of Cole, however. The man has been in his cups since he returned from the ruins of the manor, and while he is seasoned veteran of many campaigns, I cannot help but wonder if the young Master Clarke has depended on him for too long and for too much. Cole will be unable to bear the weight of this campaign alone, and if he is not allowed to rest, I fear what may become of him and those he leads.

My preparations have been completed. I have packed away my physician’s supplies, and I have sufficient quantities of the concoction I had prepared with the help of the alchemist’s library. Maxwell has volunteered to personally prepare our equipment and rations, which we will receive from him in the morning. The young Master Clarke has requested that, if we are afforded the opportunity, to reclaim any lost heirlooms scattered throughout the weald.

I must rest. I do not believe that this will be a short journey, or an easy one. I have asked Blacksmith to pray to the Goddess for the safe return of all four of us.

Darkest Dungeon 8

JOURNAL 8

Another day has passed, and much has happened.

The party returned from the ruins in the dark of the night, loudly calling for my services as a physician.  I had at first disregarded it, thinking someone to be merely drunk, but a startled Maxwell pounded on my door, requesting my presence downstairs where I was greeted by a gory sight.  The sister, Catherine, had been laid out on a table, barely conscious and her robes soaked in blood. The other three were wounded but able to stand, allowing me to focus my immediate attention on her.

She had endured multiple slashes by cruel blades, the edges of her wounds looking much more ragged than if cut by a regular sword.  Her arms and her legs had been hacked at badly, and she had one nasty laceration that had exposed her ribs, though her interior anatomy had been spared any damage.  She was still conscious and receptive to pain as I examined the wounds, though a small amount of ether was sufficient to render her fully unconscious.  Her skin was clammy, possibly from fever already setting in, so I have applied maggots to the worst of the cuts.  She rests in my quarters now, and once the maggots have done their healing work I shall pass her to the church to continue her rest.  It is unfortunate that she had suffered so much and rendered so helpless, for the healing abilities of the Order are revered for their efficacy.  If she were more able, there was much she could have done for herself.

The bounty hunter was much better off, his only wound being a crossbow bolt that had passed through his shoulder.  The weapons wielded by the enemy seem engineered to ensure much suffering, as his wound was also ragged and torn around the edges.  His clothes were covered in some strange green ectoplasm, the likes of which I could not identify despite its pungent odor.  His wound will heal with no intervention on my part, but I have leeched both sides of the wound as well as his arms so as to ward off fever.

The leper, who I would later learn was named York before his illness, had taken his fair share of blows as well. The leprosy had ravaged him some years past, rendering his skin cracked and useless while also making him immune to pain.  In a strange twist of fate, his illness had possibly offered him the best protection against those malicious weapons.  Unfortunately, he was just as immune to all my healing efforts.  The leprosy did not take his life, though if he is not careful, he may die an even slower death within the estate.  He may feel no pain, but the flesh is finite.

Clarke’s man Cole bore no injuries from these cruel blades, though his body was battered and bruised.  There was not much I could do for him, in that case, and he seemed much more interested in seeking whisky than healing.

The story, as it came to me from York, was that immediately upon entering the ruins they were beset on all sides by the undead.  Unable to fight their way through, they sought a route to the library.  The buildings have fallen into a state of disrepair, and the only way to the library was through caved in, claustrophobic corridors, which Cole navigated them the best he could with the map they had been provided.  Cole was relentless, pushing them well past the point of exhaustion and forgoing all rest with the intention of reaching the library and its trove of knowledge as quickly as possible.  York said that once inside, it was impossible to track the passage of time, but he estimated that within a day they had reached the library.  Tomes and scrolls were stacked amongst shelves, along with more occult devices that Cole strictly forbade anyone from touching them.  The party quickly gathered everything they could, shoving whatever they could reach into their packs.  York uncovered a small alcove within the library that showed evidence of men living there, and recently.  Within the alcove, there were grisly tomes in a strange cipher he claimed not to understand, though the pictures indicated they were texts of necromancy.  With no mention of rest, Cole drove them to depart, leaving the ruins as quickly as they had come.  It was upon their exit that the undead had fallen upon them with more intensity than before, perhaps because their presence had been noted in the library.  Whatever the reason, it was during these assaults the party sustained their worst wounds and when Catherine had been most grievously injured .  To his credit, Cole rallied the members and acted as an enraged berserker, carving a swath through the undead that stood in their way until they were able to exit and return to the hamlet with Catherine unable to walk.

The sun was rising as I finished my treatments, and by the time I was done the travelers had all assembled, along with the young master Clarke.  Cole passed over what they had retrieved from the ruins, which Clarke received warily.  With barely a mention of what had taken place in the library, he simply summoned Raziq to his side and instructed the travelers to assemble at sundown in the tavern.

I must sleep, and try and recover the rest I lost the night preceding.  I can only assume that the young Master Clarke and Raziq are poring over the documents recovered from the library, seeing what sort of sorcery the elder Clarke had partaken of.  I assume that another party will be sent out shortly, within the next day or so, as the extent of the corruption and the way to cleanse it become more apparent.  I have no desire to expose myself to danger, but I do not know if I can tolerate simply sitting and waiting as another group goes out to face whatever foul things wander the estate.

Darkest Dungeon 7

JOURNAL 7

It has been a full day since the party set out for the ruins of the manor, and the mood amongst the travelers has soured.  What was before an anticipation of future riches has become a brooding upon the monstrosities that fester within the ruins of the manor, the results of some sort of foul necromancy.  The old magic has always existed within the cracks of the world, and whatever it is the elder Clarke opened has acted as a beacon for those unspeakable things. Having realized this, my fellow travelers have begun to imagine the nature of what we may be about to face.  The corruption is extensive, and it amazes me that this squat hamlet has somehow been spared.  Even the woods have a stink of corruption about them, the trees and branches all twisted and gnarled, warning off anyone who may think of entering.

While they have been gone, plumbing the ruins for the library, another traveler has wandered into the hamlet.  This new stranger wears the garb and speaks with the accent of the southern continent, and he is laden with pouches and packs that bulge with scrolls and odd devices.  He gave his name as Raziq, and requested the young master Clarke by name upon his arrival.  There is a certain sect of scholars within the southern continent that dedicate their lives to studying the old magic – I can only assume that he belongs to such a sect and a thirst for knowledge of the forbidden has brought him here.  Perhaps the young Master Clarke sent for him to help decipher what horrible machinations have been set in place, but I did not inquire any further than necessary, leaving him in the company of Maxwell and Blacksmith.  The old soldier seemed uncomfortable around the student of this occult, but Maxwell did not seem to mind.

Fortune has smiled upon me in the form of the kindly old apothecary and his wagon.  Within the hamlet proper, there is little in the way of scholarly works, and I would not be surprised if even the clergy proved to be illiterate.  However, the apothecary and his wagon have proven to be most useful, having alchemical texts and medical scrolls along with a wealth of ingredients.  He allows me to peruse his library of information for the small of fee having someone to talk to, and he has proved to be the one bright spot in this shadowed town.  While I have followed the plague and only have stories of death and destruction, he has spent his life traveling the continents, occasionally serving famous alchemists and physicians.   His stories were joyous ones and allowed me a moment to forget what abominations are festering under the very earth.

Within his wagon, I found a scroll detailing an alchemist’s quest to discover Alkahest, the universal solvent.  He had ultimately failed, much like those before him, but buried within the formulas I found one that may prove useful against whatever abominations await me throughout the estate.  The alchemist had discarded it as useless, but I believe it may help destroy and rot whatever I may encounter.  I was able to purchase the ingredients from apothecary and they are brewing as I write this.  I know not how I will be able to test it, but I can only hope that when that time comes it will be effective.

I hope that those four in the ruins return quickly and safely.  No one has seen the young Master Clarke since he left the tavern, shaking with disgust over the obscene mockery of his family’s house.  He may be exploring his ancestral homeland further, mapping out the extent of the corruption, though the task seems foolhardy without his man-at-arms.  He is the only thing providing direction and unity to the travelers gathered here.  If he were to perish, that all would be lost, allowing the thing his father pulled into our world to grow unchecked.

Darkest Dungeon 6

JOURNAL 6

As I write this, four of our number are walking the treacherous path to the ruined manor that sits upon the hill, casting its shadow over everything below it.

We all gathered this morning at sunrise in the tavern, as instructed by the young Master Clarke.  Himself and his man Cole were already present when I arrived, and I couldn’t help but notice he looked particularly hollow eyed, as if something had robbed him of his sleep.  Cole looked much the same, though he did appear unusually absorbed in his tankard of mead for such an early hour.  Once the travelers were assembled, Cole distributed the initial payment for our service from a sack of gold.  The paltry sum that was greeted with grumbles of dissent, mine included, though the young Master Clarke quickly placated us with promises of future riches.  He detailed his plan of recovering long lost heirlooms and valuable artifacts that were lost over the estate, promising substantial wealth to whoever helped retrieve them.  This calmed the travelers, allowing him recount his expedition from the night before.

After departing the tavern the previous night, he and Cole had set out to explore the estate so he may learn the extent of the corruption stemming from the subterranean cavern deep below the manor.  The dark of the night proved challenging to navigate, he claimed, but the two men were able to at least approach the ruins enough to see the foul things stirring within.  The undead, he claimed, in staggering numbers and still wearing finery emblazoned with his house’s crest in some obscene mockery.  At this, he began to visibly shake, overcome with some emotion between revulsion and anger, and the gathered travelers murmured to each other in disbelief.  I have had some experience with the undead, in cities where death caused by plague twisted and corrupted Nature, but I can not speak for everyone.  After he regained his composure, the young Master Clarke thanked providence that the undead seemed chained to the manor, sparing the small hamlet of their horror, and then excused himself from the tavern.

His man Cole took over, detailing the plan.  The young Master Clarke had inherited a map of the ruined manor from his father, the likes of which indicated a vault deep within the manor that served as his father’s library.  Cole was to lead 3 others into the manor in an attempt to reach that vault and recover everything they could, so as to shed some light upon the corruption that had taken hold, and perhaps how to defeat it.  Picking the sister Catherine, the bounty hunter Achus, and the nameless leper as his 3, he stated that they would leave that afternoon, giving them enough time to obtain supplies and perform whatever rites they needed to steel themselves for the horrors ahead.  The rest of us were dismissed, with explicit instructions to be available at all times.

Clarke’s man Cole wears the scars of multiple military campaigns proudly, and his choice of companions show he is a competent tactician.  The ruddiness in his cheeks reveal a man who is too fond of the bottle, but nevertheless, I trust that those 3 are in good hands even against such Unnatural horrors.  I do find it curious, however, that the Order has only seen fit to send one lowly sister despite such reports of the undead.  Perhaps there are things their matriarchs fear, even in their far off monastery.

While they are away, I must find some manner of weapon for use against the Unnatural abominations.  Some alchemical formula, some potion that may destroy their rotting visages, anything that will afford me some distance from those monstrosities.  I am no stranger to using my dirk, though I harbor doubts that it will prove to be effective.  I must make myself useful in other manner.

Darkest Dungeon 5

JOURNAL 5

The young Master Clarke has finally arrived.

While I was downstairs eating my morning meal with Anselm and Maxwell for company, a traveler unknown to me walked into the tavern.  He was unmistakably a knight in the employ of some nobleman, his swaggering gait and well-groomed appearance instantly giving away a lifetime of service. An eye patch wrapped around his head to obscure one wounded eye and a scar ran down his neck, disappearing under his plate mail.  A mace hung menacingly at his side and a shield was strapped to his back, bearing a crest unknown to me- an octopus with one large eye and 6 appendages, each dreadful tentacle grasping a candle.  The paint upon his shield was cracked and fading with age, revealing a pattern of diagonal stripes under it.  With barely a glance at me or my companions, the stranger took a seat next to Maxwell and ordered a pint of mead.  Anselm growled at the knight, though Maxwell quickly calmed him.  As he was soothing Anselm, Maxwell asked the stranger if the crest he bore was that of the Clarke house.  The stranger nodded, identifying himself as Reginald Cole, a man at arms in the employ of the young Master Clarke who was due to arrive in the next few hours.

Word travelled like wildfire throughout the town, despite myself and Maxwell never leaving the tavern, drawing all travellers to our door.  While I had observed most of them at various points, I don’t believe I had seen them all assembled in the few days I have been here.  As the tavern became a hive of activity, I found myself focusing most of my attentions towards Anselm, who was more than happy to reciprocate.  I was pleased to see that the wound from last night’s altercation did not seem to be bothering him much at all, and already showed signs of healing well.  I was careful to note the travelers present, and I will attempt to list them here to the best of my memory:

The woman from the pagan East, the one Blacksmith complained at length about, a wildling by the name of Wolfswift.  A rowdy woman, to be sure, clad in naught else but furs and face paint.

Blacksmith, the soldier who was not a soldier, who arrived at the tavern in plate mail and a tabard bearing the symbol of the Goddess and seemed to enjoy the company of those around him less than I do.

The sister from the Order of the Mended Chain, a vestal virgin named Catherine. An unbearably pleasant sort, she made an effort to speak with all the travelers present, though she was intelligent enough to keep any sanctimony to herself.

To my surprise, a body snatcher who was well-known to the physician’s college and much reviled by the nobility was present.  She had a reputation for recovering cadavers for the college, infiltrating the most well-guarded and heavily trapped mausoleums in search of such morbid treasures.  I had only ever heard her referred to as Sorain, though I held doubts it was her real name.

The man who had injured Anselm the night before, sitting by himself in a shadowy corner.  Later on, I learned the man’s name was Achus, a bounty hunter well-known throughout the continent for his successes as well as his cruelty, employing hook and chain during his captures.

There were several others present, though they were not remarkable enough for me to commit their traits to memory.  A leper who was well past the risk of spreading his illness, a fool with his lute, a rat of a man strapped with dagger and flintlock.  We all waited together in the tavern for several hours, when over the din of all the talking, the unmistakable sound of a horse galloping was heard outside.  We all fell silent, watching the door of the tavern intently, and after an eternity of waiting the young Master Clarke walked in.

A shock of black hair rested upon his head, and threadbare clothes bearing his family’s crest hung on his gaunt, emaciated figure.  He was abnormally tall, having to stoop while walking into the tavern, and his eyes were mismatched, with one iris being a bright blue and the other a deep, vibrant green.  Upon his entrance, I saw the tavern owner flinch as if someone had struck him, and he hastily left the building.

The man at arms unseated himself for the first time since he arrived and formally introduced the young Master Clarke to the tavern, the heir to the estate, though there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who he was.  Despite his diminished frame, the young Master Clarke spoke with the voice of a man born into power and authority as he addressed us.  He wasted no time with pleasantries, informing us that he cared not why we had come to his estate or what we may have been before, he only demanded our obedience and skills and in return we would receive gold and glory.  Speaking in no uncertain terms, he informed us that his father had been a man intelligent and curious enough to study and understand the old magic, but too weak to resist its temptations.  He had discovered an ancient conduit for the old magic that had been long sealed within the subterranean depths beneath the castle, and had learned the rite to harness its immense power.  He led the men of the town in an excavation beneath the castle, squandering the family’s reputation and fortune, to find it.

His father had never spoken of what had happened next, he claimed, though it was enough to drive his father half insane and ruin his mind and spirit.  What was known to the young Master Clarke was that the rite had only been half completed, allowing some foul thing to enter our world but unable to leave its subterranean cavern. Regardless, its awful influence spread and corrupted the lands, acting as a beacon for all manner of Unnatural things.   If were to be under his employ, we were to cleanse his estate of these influences, restoring the Natural order of the world to it and purging the power in that subterranean cavern.

Abruptly, he said that he wished to tour the estate, summoning Cole to his side.  Addressing all of the travelers, he instructed us to be downstairs at sunrise the next day so we may receive our initial payment of gold and our first instructions, and if we were not up to the task, we were to leave the estate that night lest we find ourselves at his mercy as trespassers.

After he departed, the tavern exploded with excited chatter over the tale he had told.  I returned to my quarters, mulling over the details of his story.  Even now, I feel a twinge of nervousness when I reflect on the things that may be growing under the estate.  I must consult my texts for these unspeakable things borne on the old magic, for I will not be caught off-guard!

Darkest Dungeon 4

JOURNAL 4

This evening, while I was engrossed in a very detailed account of the medicinal properties of silver dust ground together with nitrate, I was torn from my study by a loud shout from downstairs, immediately followed by the sound of shattering glass and a hound’s deep, booming barking.  Over the commotion of it all, I heard someone cry out for a surgeon.  Knowing that the people of this sad hamlet probably haven’t so much as seen a surgeon in many a decade, I reluctantly set my scroll aside and went downstairs to see what the urgency was.

The main floor of the tavern was in quite a state.  A large man wearing the garb of a houndmaster was straining to hold back a massive, bleeding mastiff from mauling another traveler, who was barely out of reach of the beast’s maw.  Blood was springing from the hound’s head and his ear was hanging by a mere shred of skin, as blood mixed with shattered glass below it.  The story was explained to me later, but at a glance it was obvious what had happened: the hound had attempted to steal the traveler’s dinner and had been smashed with a glass for his trouble.

I will confess to not being the most altruistic of physicians, with some saying that my avarice would be my eventual undoing, but I have always harbored affection for the Natural beasts of the world and it pained me to see a well-bred hound in such a state.  His master had been the one calling for a surgeon, recognizing that the ear was in danger of being lost.  The rest of the travelers looked on mutely as the hound strained at its collar, but once the master was able to pull him back the offending traveler found an opportunity to make a hasty exit.  To the master’s credit, whose name was Maxwell, he seemed far more concerned about his hound’s well-being than exacting revenge.  He was looking to me desperately for help, and I informed him that I might be able to offer it if he could calm the hound, whose name was Anselm.  With no small effort, Maxwell was able to calm Anselm from his deep, booming bark into a pitiful and pained whimper, which endeared me even more to the beast.  At this point, Anselm’s fur was matted with blood, congealing with his fine hair.  I directed Maxwell to lead him up into my quarters, where I was able to prepare for a minor surgery.

The hound was well trained and obeyed Maxwell’s commands despite its injury, lying down when directed.  I tried to examine the wounded ear but Anselm flinched away from my touch, presumably due to pain, so I retrieved a rag and damped it with ether.  I spoke soothingly to Anselm, both for his and his master’s sake, as I held the rag to his snout, watching the ether take hold.  Once I felt that he was suitably unconscious, I touched the ear again with no reaction from Anselm.  The blood had coagulated inside the wound, but the glass had nearly sliced the ear off the hound’s head at the base, barely leaving it attached.  The ear canal was free of injury, leaving his hearing unimpaired, and there did not appear to be any other significant wounds to his head.  I retrieved a bone needle and line of cattlegut from my surgeon’s bag, and set to work.

I have not had much experience with animal surgery, only treating livestock when I was a young physician, and Anselm’s skin proved to be incredibly thick and loose, making it difficult to force the bone needle through.  I was simultaneously gentle and firm, mustering all my experience as a physician to avoid damage to the ear, eventually feeding the needle through and successfully suturing the ear.  The length of the wound required 6 passes with a needle to ensure that the ear would be flush with the skull, while will hopefully result in healing well.  To prevent fever taking hold later, I took a small smattering of honey and rubbed it over the wound.

Anselm had remained unconscious throughout the entirety of the procedure, and remained that way for some time after.  Regrettably, this entailed Maxwell remaining in my room, though he proved to be an apt conversationalist.  To my credit, I did very little talking, allowing him to fill the silence.  He spoke at length of his time as a Master of Hounds for a royal family in one of the southern provinces before a civil war deposed them, requiring him to flee with Anselm.  During his time there, he had heard many rumors surrounding the Clarke family, tales of the elder Clarke dabbling in the old magic and pulling the young master Clarke from the belly of a demon, who had corrupted the estate as a part of some foul deal.

It all sounded impossible and ridiculous, though in the shadow of the castle on the hill, I could not help but feel there was a grain of truth to it.  Eventually, Anselm started to stir, finding the strength through the lingering ether to stand up.  While waiting for the hound to gather his wits, I asked Maxwell if he had plans to avenge his hound’s injury.  A dark look fell over his face but he remained silent, tending to Anselm.  Worryingly, Anselm tried to paw at the sutures, but Maxwell was able to soothe him enough that he stopped.  He thanked me for seeing to Anselm and left, presumably to his own quarters.

I can feel exhaustion start to take hold now, and the tavern seems to be blessedly quiet tonight.  I hope that by the time I wake, this young Master Clarke will have appeared so I may know if this journey has been a waste of my time.

Interlude 4

XCOM HQ
SITUATION ROOM

Ravenshaw stood with her arms folded, flanked by Talana and Maxwell. The big screen in front of them was showing multiple live feeds from Tokyo, where an alien terror attack was taking place. One particular feed offered an aerial view from a new helicopter, which Ravenshaw was focused on. The helicopter was flying above a freeway in Tokyo that the aliens had blown two ends off of, trapping what appeared to be hundreds of cars in between.

She felt her mouth dry out as the civilians panicked trying to get out of their cars, some of them packed together so tight that the doors wouldn’t open. She watched the civilians crawl over their cars as they ran towards both ends of destroyed freeway, seeming ignorant that there was nothing left but craters on either end. Suddenly, the camera panned along the highway and Ravenshaw saw a squad of Mutons on one end, firing plasma indiscriminately at the civilians, and she saw the blue exoskeletons of Chryssalids racing ahead of them.

“Oh, no,” said Talana.

The tide of civilians suddenly shifted, flowing away from the aliens. Ravenshaw winced as she saw a Chryssalid pin a civilian to the ground, while the Mutons gunned down several more fleeing civilians. The camera suddenly panned again and revealed a Sectopod deploying at the opposite side of the bridge, firing its cannon and destroying several cars in one go. She tore her eyes away and looked over the rest of the feeds, all of them showing a similar story.

“Turn it off,” said Ravenshaw. The screen suddenly went black, killing the feeds. She turned and stepped away, feeling bile crawl up her throat as Maxwell muttered, “Looks like things are still bad everywhere.”

“We should’ve gone,” said Talana.

“No we shouldn’t have,” replied Maxwell.

“We should’ve been there to protect those civilians!” exclaimed Talana. Ravenshaw turned and said, “No, Maxwell is right. Lose the battle to win the war.”

“But-“

She shook her head and said, “Enough. Both of you, go see to your squads. We’ve only got 5 days until we attack the command ship, be sure they’re ready.”

The two squad leaders nodded and departed the situation room in silence. Once she was alone, she pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed, trying to push the images of the slaughter out of her mind. Not wanting to see the other soldiers for the time being, she decided to head over to mission control.

As she walked the passageways towards the mission control, she found herself mulling over the scenes happening in Tokyo. She wasn’t entirely sure if calling the mission off was the right thing to do. She turned the alternatives over and over in her head, wondering if there was something else she could’ve done. Could she have sent Siren or Chimera? She didn’t want to tell them, but the risk of losing a squad leader was too great when victory felt so close. She could have allowed the one of the Bogeymen to lead a squad, but she held doubts about their leadership abilities, though their technical abilities were beyond reproach. And while she held great respect for the soldiers under her command, sending a squad without their squad leader against a Sectopod was out of the question.

“ATTENTION ON DECK!” someone shouted, startling Ravenshaw, when she realized she had wandered into mission control. She looked around the room, still seeing the scars from when the base was attacked, and then addressed the skeleton crew of technicians.

“At ease, everyone,” she said, allowing them to get back to work. She walked towards the hologlobe in the center of the room, looking up at the small symbol that denoted alien activity, when the technician asked her, “Anything I can do for you ma’am?”

“Can you focus on the command ship?” she asked.

“Absolutely, ma’am,” replied the technician, and the globe spun to reveal the purple outline of the alien command ship, still flying off the eastern coast of South America.

“Has it moved at all?” she asked.

“Negative, ma’am. It’s staying in the same exact spot, no activity in that area as far as we can tell. It’s just sitting there.”

Ravenshaw nodded, leaning on the railing in front of the globe. The scenes from Tokyo crowded into her brain once more, and she hoped that the gamble would pay off.

Mission 43

OPERATION VENGEFUL FATHER
OVERSEER UFO RECOVERY
UNITED STATES

Blacksmith leaned forward and fired the mortar on his back, watching to detonate between the 2 Mutons Elite. The explosion peppered them with shrapnel and destroyed their cover, scattering the UFO debris. Despite their wounds, they continued to exchange fire with the squad while moving to a new position, though Ravenshaw was able to cut one down, before the second dug in behind a particularly resilient piece of UFO hull.

“Blacksmith, Vincent, keep it pinned! Gray, Paddon, move up and flush it out!” shouted Ravenshaw. Blacksmith raised his particle cannon and fired at the piece of hull as Vincent laid down continuous fire while Gray and Paddon started to creep around the side. Suddenly, a volley of plasma streamed out from behind the hull and impacted against Gray’s armor, throwing him backwards. Another volley of plasma streamed over Paddon as he flung himself to the ground, and Ravenshaw shouted, “Get Gray to cover! Blacksmith, knock it down!”

Blacksmith called out to Vincent, “Get your rocket ready!” and leaned forward, feeding power into his proximity mine launcher. They Muton was still peppering the ground with plasma all around Paddon, who was attempting to drag Gray to safety, and Blacksmith launched the mine, watching it land directly in front of the alien’s cover.

“NOW!” shouted Blacksmith, and he heard the scream of Vincent’s rocket as she launched it. It impacted directly on the front of the Muton’s cover, obscuring it in dust and smoke, when a second detonation immediately followed as the proximity mine was triggered by the blast. The Muton’s weapon went silent as the entirety of the front of the UFO was hidden by the smoke. Blacksmith kept his particle cannon trained on the UFO, wary of any more contacts. As the minutes passed and the dust started to settle Blacksmith spotted the alien’s body lying 20 feet away, sprawled amongst the debris, as well as Paddon crouched over the body of Gray next to the UFO hull.

“Contact down!” shouted Blacksmith, and immediately Ravenshaw called out over the radio, “Is he alive?”

“Yea, he’s alive,” replied Paddon, “His shoulder is banged up pretty bad, plasma went straight through the armor.”

“Blacksmith, Vincent, maintain the perimeter, Dead you’re with me,” shouted Ravenshaw, standing up and dashing over to the wounded medic. Blacksmith held his position and scanned the forest, his eyes glancing over the Sectopod wrecks. He looked down at the scorch mark the giant robot had left on Vulcan, and was quietly thankful that the engineers had taken the plunge on upgrading to Paladin armor. The area around the UFO was completely still, and Blacksmith guessed that whatever enemy forces remained where holed up on the UFO bridge.

He glanced back to where Gray lie, and saw him standing up with Paddon’s assistance. One of his arms hung limply and his shoulder was mangled mess of metal and blood, though he seemed otherwise uninjured. He awkwardly slung his plasma rifle over his shoulder and unholstered his pistol. They started to move towards the UFO entrance, and Ravenshaw waved Vincent and Blacksmith to their position.

Both soldiers moved towards the entrance as the rest of the squad moved inside through a narrow hatch, and Blacksmith allowed Vincent to go ahead of him. Once she was through, he managed to barely squeeze Vulcan after her, avoiding any damage to the suit or the UFO.

Once he was inside, he was surprised to see decorations adorning the bulkhead, which was a first as far as he knew. It looked to him as if the aliens had mounted a stained glass image inside the UFO that was interiorly lit, depicting some sort of tall, thin alien that didn’t look familiar to him. There was unmistakable air of royalty surrounding the picture, bordering on religious worship, when Vincent said, “What a creepy looking thing.”

“No kidding,” muttered Ravenshaw. Blacksmith looked around the darkened UFO, thankful for the light provided by the strange pictures. It looked different than the typical large scout layout, and he wondered if the bridge was still in the same place. As he tried to wrap his mind around the geometry of the place, Ravenshaw said, “We’ll need to split up. Gray, Blacksmith, and myself will wrap around the left side. Dead, Paddon, Vincent, go around the right path. Call it out if you find the bridge.”

————————————————————————————————

Blacksmith took a deep breath, steeling himself for the breach. Vincent and Ravenshaw had placed themselves on opposite sides of the door while the remainder of the squad gathered behind him. There was only one way in, and it was up to Blacksmith to go in first. As he readied his flamethrower and the rest of the squad made their final preparations, he felt a twinge of trepidation and silently thought that Mendiola would’ve been better suited for this.

Ravenshaw gave the signal and Vincent held up three fingers, silently counting them down until she had a closed fist which she slammed against the energy door. The door started to recede from the bottom up, and immediately a volley of plasma soared through it, narrowly missing Blacksmith.

“GO GO GO!” shouted Talana, and Blacksmith charged forward. He saw 2 Mutons Elite, bearing down on him with their heavy plasmas, flanking a tall, robed alien that looked eerily similar to the pictures in the passageway. The center of the bridge was commanded by large pedestal, holding up a blue orb, and Blacksmith suddenly found himself within flamethrower range. He raised his right fist and sprayed flammable jelly over all three aliens, coating the bridge in it. The jelly stuck, steadily scorching the aliens, as the rest of the squad engaged with their plasma weaponry, cutting down the 2 Mutons quickly. Despite the apparent frailty of the new alien, it proved to be surprisingly resilient, standing under the flaming jelly as well as absorbing a plasma volley. Its robe started to burn away, and Blacksmith caught a glimpse of 4 thin arms before another plasma volley struck the alien, knocking it backwards. To Blacksmith’s untrained eyes, it appeared lethal, but before the alien fell to the ground it suddenly levitated and convulsed, and Blacksmith felt a wave of pain shoot through his head. He heard some other members of the squad shout in pain, and then the new alien fell to the ground, clearly dead.

A few moments passed as the squad recovered their bearing, and Ravenshaw shouted from the rear of the squad, “Anyone hurt?”

No one rogered up, and Ravenshaw muttered, “Good clear.”

The squad moved out of cover and through the bridge. Blacksmith quietly engaged the positive pressure system on his helmet to vent out the smell of the flaming jelly as he looked over the 3 smoldering corpses, watching the flames slowly die out. Ravenshaw and Gray approached the pedestal holding the strange blue orb, and Gray asked, “What isthat?”

“Could be some sort of communication device, like in the base,” replied Ravenshaw.

“Wasn’t that pretty big, though? This doesn’t look like it’s on the same scale as that…”

“Alien black magic, probably,” called out Vincent. Blacksmith and Paddon chuckled, but Gray and Ravenshaw seemed enraptured by the glowing orb. Worryingly, Ravenshaw started to raise her hand up to touch it, and Blacksmith said, “Uh, boss, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She threw Blacksmith a dirty look, and said, “I know what I’m doing.”

She raised her hand up towards the orb, her fingers hesitating just above the surface of it, before she plunged her hand inside of it down to her wrist. Blacksmith’s eyes widened and Paddon yelled, “Holy &$%#!”

Her hand was only inside for a moment before she yanked it out, screaming and clutching her head as Gray jumped to her side. She fell to her knees, moaning in pain as the squad converged around her. Gray waved them off, kneeling next to her, and Blacksmith stood uselessly aside as watched the scene play out. She grew silent but stayed on her knees, with her eyes clamped shut. The squad stared in concerned silence, waiting for her to move or speak, when she finally muttered, “…in my head.”

“What was that?” asked Gray. She shook her head and said, “It felt like something. Was in my head.”

“That’s not great,” muttered Dead.

“Jesus, that hurt,” said Ravenshaw. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and finally opened her eyes. Blacksmith grimaced as Paddon exclaimed, “There’s blood in your eyes!”

“What?” asked a concerned Ravenshaw, bringing her hand up to her face. She pulled her fingers away, not seeing anything, and then looked accusingly at Paddon, saying, “There’s nothing-“

“It’s inside your eye, Colonel. Subconjunctival hemorrhage, looks like. Turns the sclera red,” said Gray. “It’s not a big deal, though I’d like to check it out at base. Are you feeling well enough to stand?”

“Yea, yea. I think so,” she said, allowing Gray to help her up. He helped her stand up and Blacksmith saw she was uneasy on her feet, though she managed to stay standing. She clutched her head and said, “Man that was a mistake. I think that thing is best left to the psionics. Felt like something was crawling inside my head.”

She walked a few steps, staying on her feet, and then turned to address the rest of the squad. “I’m fine, now, so don’t worry about me. Someone needs to get on the horn with HQ, get the salvage team out here. Let’s wrap this thing up and go home.”

Mission 42

OEPRATION LOST FOG
ALIEN ABDUCTIONS
MACHESTER, UNITED KINGDOM

“Watch the left, watch the left!”

“They’re moving around the shack!”

“Incoming!”

Ran listened to the shouts from the squad as he scanned the area around the shack. It had become the focal point of a pitched battle as the squad engaged two Heavy Floaters and 3 Mutons, though they appeared to be sporting significantly improved armor and weapons. Suddenly, Ran caught a flash of movement from the roof of the shack and saw a Heavy Floater rocketing to a higher altitude.

“Floater, Floater!”

“Take it down!”

The alien brought the full force of the squad, plasma and laser piercing its armor until it was a twisted mass, and it fell to the roof of the shack with an audible thunk. The second suddenly dodged from behind the shack, but was quickly dispatched by a shot from Oranis’s railgun.

“Reloading!” called out Oranis. Taking advantage of the brief reprieve, Maxwell tried to get the squad to fan out amongst the cover provided, saying, “Keep your weapons topped of. Stay alert.”

Ran quickly loaded a fresh plasma battery into his rifle, and he heard the click from Man’s laser rifle as he did the same. Suddenly, one of the Mutons in red armor thrust himself out of cover and attempted to cross the short gap between the shack and the train, but was intercepted by the squad’s fire. Ran watched his plasma bolt connect with the alien, boring a hole through its torso armor and dropping it, but he heard the rapidly fire of a heavy plasma and Oranis shouted, “2 on the right!”

Instinctively, Ran ducked, but saw Burning Man absorb the volley a few feet away. His Titan Armor crumpled under the force of it, small rivulets of metal flying off as he fell to the ground.

“MEDIC!” shouted Ran, adjusting his rifle to get a view on the new threats. He saw 2 of the Mutons on the right side of the building, firing down at the squad, before Ran could retaliate Topnotch had already fired a rocket in their direction, detonating directly on one of the Mutons. For all their armor it clearly stunned the Mutons, allow Comrade to sprint back towards the snipers’ position. Ran fired a plasma bolt at the lead Muton, but was horrified to watch it go wide as the aliens collected themselves and started to reposition themselves behind cover. Thankfully, Maxwell was able to lob a grenade under them, keeping the pressure on. With their cover shattered, Oranis lumbered in front of them and sprayed his flamethrower, dousing the area in flaming jelly. The jellied Elerium stuck to the alien armor as they staggered backwards, screaming as the flames quickly consumed them. They fell to the ground, smoldering corpses inside their armor, and Oranis called out, “Contacts down!”

Ran glanced over towards Comrade and Burning as the squad’s medic pushed the medikit into the wound, injecting the medical compound into it. Burning gasped and started to stir, though he didn’t sit up.

“Chimera 7 is stabilized,” reported Comrade over the radio, “Though he won’t be able to continue on the mission.”

“Roger that. Make sure he’s in a safe place, we’ve gotta continue sweeping the AO.”

Comrade looked up at Ran, confused, and replied, “Sir, I don’t think it’s safe-“

“You’re a soldier first and medic second, Chimera 4. Get him in a safe place and rally on the squad.”

“Roger that.”

Ran dashed over to Comrade and helped him pick up Burning, before moving him into a position behind a stack of pallets. He was barely conscious, muttering to himself, and Comrade placed him gently on the ground, leaving a canteen next to him. The two soldiers ran over towards train tracks where the rest of the squad had gathered and Maxwell made a gesture to be quiet, signalling 3 contacts nearby. Ran quietly slipped into a nearby boxcar that offered a view of the highway that ran under the tracks, and saw 3 Mutons spread out among the cars below. They were obviously alert, having heard the battle that had taken place, and Ran kept a low profile as the rest of the squad moved into position. After a few moments of quiet, he heard the Oranis’s mortar fire as it landed in between the 3 Mutons, spraying them all with the shrapnel. Ran fired with his plasma rifle and dropped one of the Mutons, while a flurry of laser fire dropped another. The remaining Muton sprinted deeper into the highway, trying to flee the squad, but suddenly stopped, dropping its rifle and clutching its heads, before falling to the side.

Ran kept his rifle trained on the alien, waiting for it to get up, before asking over the radio, “Hey, uh, we’ve got a Muton down there playing possum down there, I think.”

“It’s down. I nailed it my, uh, mind, I guess. Psionic stuff,” replied Comrade.

“Right,” muttered Ran, scanning the rest of the highway. He looked for any more signs of movement, but saw nothing. “Anyone see anything else down there?”

“I got nothing,” replied Maxwell. “I think this may be it. Small AO. Chimera 4, collect Chimera 7 and get him back to the Skyranger. We’ll sweep the rest of the site, but I don’t think we’ll find anything.”

Darkest Dungeon 3

JOURNAL 3

The townspeople are of a curious sort.

I prepared my concoctions and medicines, surprised by the high quality of the ingredients the alchemist was peddling.  It was still the early afternoon when I had finished, and finding myself overcome with boredom, I decided to explore this ramshackle hamlet.

I went downstairs, finding it mostly empty though restored from the destruction visited upon it the night before.  The owner was the only one present, a one eyed man with horribly twisted back.  He quick with food, though he only spoke in barely audible sentences when he spoke at all.  His daughter was around, doing most of the cleaning up, and she proved to be much more useful, even if she was a mere country bumpkin.  I asked her what she knew about the Clarke family and she was more than willing to indulge me, but fell silent under the withering glare of her father.  Not wanting to risk his wrath, I let the subject quickly drop until he wandered off to take care of some other business.  Once he was out of earshot, she started to speak quickly, divulging her secrets as if I were an older sister.  She was young and didn’t say much that was useful, simply that she had always been warned to stay away from the Clarke castle, and that she was forbidden to travel to certain parts of the countryside and had to stay on the road.  In a hushed voice, she told me that she had tried to sneak off to the nearby coast to see if mermaids lived in a cove there, but she had seen strange things moving in the woodland and didn’t get very far.

I asked her what she knew about the Clarke family, and she told me that the elder Clarke had returned to the estate a few months ago , but he had hidden himself away until his sudden passing several weeks ago.  She seemed unsure how, she said she had heard a pistol shot the night he died but no one wanted to talk about it.

Once the subject of young Master Clarke came up, she became unusually quiet and averted her eyes.  I asked her what she knew about him, and she stammered out that he had been brought into this world without a mother.  I asked her to explain, but she muttered something about an evil mouth and then grew quiet.  Efforts to get her to explain what that meant proved fruitless, but anyway, her father had returned and was glaring at me with his one good eye.  I paid for my meal and left, thanking both of them.

It has been 8 long years since I graduated the physician’s college and chased the plague across the continent, healing and profiting in its wake.  While death and disease were aplenty, I had also seen much fouler things arise from locations where the plague was particularly devastating.  So much death in one place would twist the energies in a place, corrupting it and allowing other things to arise that could only be cleansed by non-scientific means. Those locations had a particular air of corruption about them, where darkness seemed to seep into even the brightest spots.  This whole estate has a similar air surrounding it, and the focal point of it all seems to be that damnable castle upon the hill.  The feeling of being in its shadow constantly is unshakeable, and it amazes me that life is somehow able to flourish under it.  Though this can hardly be described as “flourishing”, merely surviving.

I saw some more of the townspeople outside, and all of them seemed to be in a similar state as the tavern owner, all diminished and twisted it seemed.  I found myself wondering how these people lived in such a harsh landscape.

The travellers were easy to spot, in comparison to the townspeople.  There is a certain vitality about them, a worldliness.  By my count, there are maybe 8 of us present.  I’ve seen some coming and going from the church to keep the faith and others seem to only hold the faith of the bottle.  I encountered the soldier I had met on the first day outside of the tavern, and we exchanged pleasantries.  He introduced himself simply as Blacksmith, stating that his name was of no consequence, his trade was what he was.  When I asked if he had been an armorer for the army, a brooding look came over his face and denied it.  He is lying, clearly, though to what end I am unsure.  He informed me that the rumor was that the young Master Clarke was due to return tomorrow with a wagon full of gold.

Since it seems that he had interacted with the others more than I have, I asked him what he thought of our companions.  He complained at length of a woman from the Pagan East that was staying at the tavern, proclaiming that her surname was Wolfswift but may as well be hellion, but the rest seemed to be of a solid sort.

I thanked him for the information and we parted ways, returning to my room.  As I write this, I can hear the rabble returning downstairs, consuming their ale and creating a racket.  I will do my best to become absorbed in my work and ignore it, hopefully getting a better night’s sleep than last night.  I hope that the rumors are true and the young Master Clarke returns to his homeland tomorrow, and that this venture will not prove to have been a waste of time.