Palaeomacrometer logbooks - Revision history

WikiBurnAdmin: /* Extract 6, Death in the Swamp. Unknown date of recording */

2022-03-21T20:39:26Z

Extract 6, Death in the Swamp. Unknown date of recording

← Older revision		Revision as of 20:39, 21 March 2022
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	==Extract 6, Death in the Swamp. Unknown date of recording==		==Extract 6, Death in the Swamp. Unknown date of recording==
			'''Final moments'''

			The feeble afternoon Sun cast its dim, heatless light over the clouds of vapour and gasses that rose up from the stinking pools of stagnant water in the swamp. Millions of tiny bugs and blood-thirsty insects crawled and buzzed around, and untold many things swarmed under the surface of the water. Each pool of rotting water – some the size of a halfling footprint, others big enough to engulf an entire village - was alive, a pocket universe teeming with bringers of death.

			Near one of these fetid pools lay the giant. He was dying. He lay on his back, staring without seeing at the sky overhead. His large dark brown eyes were beginning to cloud over as his life slipped away. A dim expression of happiness seemed to play on his cruel face. His thick brutish lips, wet with blood, curled into a soft smile. He did not feel the pain of the heavy iron collar magic-welded around his neck, or the abrasive cutting of the shackles around his ankles. He wasn’t even aware anymore of the agony from the gaping wound in his back. His purple-brown blood oozed from the gash into the hungry soil, which soaked it up like an unquenchable vampiric sponge.

			As his vision faded, he saw his wife and their young daughter, smiling at him. And standing around them, the other members of his tribe, companions who had loved him and amongst whom he had felt at home and at peace.

			The surface of the water in the nearby pool rippled. Something moved below. A deep green, almost black, jelly-like tentacle flowed out of the pool, oozing across the wet ground, dividing into multiple strands, growing thicker and stronger. The disgusting tendrils flowed all over the fallen giant, engulfing him, some entering his nostrils, others forcing his lips apart and slithering into his mouth and throat. Another twisting, thrusting mass, attracted by the blood seeping from his deep wound, penetrated the giant’s body, spreading rapidly amongst the vital organs, diffusing into the sluggish blood stream. In his last moments, the giant smiled, seeing only the beautiful face of his child.

			'''Defeat'''

			A few weeks ago, and a hundred miles away, a band of about a dozen ravenous hill giants were making their destructive way through the outer parts of the swamp. They had travelled down from the hills, their ancestral home, in search of blood, slaves, and treasure. Their leader, driven by the frustration and humiliation of being beaten by a larger tribe of giants, was plotting revenge.

			At the edge of the swamp they had tracked down an ogre clan and had located their underground lair. Ogres would make excellent cannon fodder.

			Ogres are formidable opponents, incredibly strong and vicious. An adult can be 10-foot tall and weigh as much as two men. Ill-tempered and nasty, these evil-natured beasts with their fondness for human flesh were once thought to have been exterminated in Kalderesh. But high in the Barobur Mountains, and more recently in the wild Baro Hills, ogre numbers have been increasing.

			Ogres prey on the weak and favour overwhelming odds to a fair fight. Even nasty trolls kept well away when ogres are about. With a single blow, an ogre can kill an adult bear. And their sharp sword-like teeth would tear a grown wolf into pieces in a matter of moments. They move with surprising speed and some of them use weapons made of sharp metal.

			But ogres are no match for giants. If cornered, a giant will eventually succumb to the attacks of four or five ogres working together. But a giant, more than twice as tall as the tallest human ever, would crush the bones and shatter the spine of an ogre with a single blow from its tree-sized club. Brutish, stupid and evil, giants are best avoided at all costs.

			Not all giants, however, are entirely stupid. The strongest and brightest are natural leaders. And so the leader of the defeated hill giants formulated his plan. They would acquire an army of slave warriors, whose lives could be easily spent as a distraction, weakening the enemy, making them soft for the giant’s savage attack.

			They would wait until the ogres went hunting, raid the lair, slaughter and brutally crush one or two of the younger ogres, and capture the rest. When the adults returned they would be made to understand that they now served the giants. The lives of their children would be spared and in return, the ogres would join the giants in an assault on the competing giantish clan.

			The raid was a violent, bloody success for the giants. The ogres, caught unawares in their underground home, were easily overwhelmed. Most were sub-adults, or elderly, or wounded. Many were children. The giants massacred anyone who offered any resistance, and terrorized the survivors.

			When the hunting party returned, it was to a scene of carnage and horrific bloodshed. The smell of blood drove them into a frenzy. But the threat of violence to their young was like a steel trap that snapped shut and cut off any thoughts of retaliation. And when the leader of the giants grabbed one of the youngest and beat it to death with a large rock, throwing the battered corpse at their feet, all resistance was extinguished.

			Defeated and broken, the ogre chief, having no other choice, agreed to the leader’s terms. They would accompany a raiding party of giants back to the hills, defeat the enemy, and their kin would be released.

			'''The Elder Ogre'''

			The giants and their coerced army set off through the swamp and into the hills, to do battle with the enemy and to conclude this horrific chapter of their story. Things did not go well.

			The ogre chieftain realized that the giants, although supremely dangerous, could be misled. Using guile and trickery, the chieftain subtely changed the course of their travel through the swamp, diverting their route to a secret location. He knew he was taking a gamble, and he understood the dangers should his plan fail. But with his kinfolk at home in mortal peril from the giants, and a looming battle with an even larger giantish force that was unlikely to go their way, he had no other choice.

			The chieftain led the contingent to a hidden place known only to a few leaders of the ogres, and never willingly visited by anyone. Known in the ogrish tongue as “the place of death”, it wasn’t marked on any map, and there were no sign posts, warnings, or even a pathway leading to it.

			The approach of the giants and ogres did not go unnoticed. The giants could not sense it, but they were entering a dread place. The ogres, too, except for the chief, were oblivious to their perilous surroundings.

			Like all regions on the outskirts of a swamp, the wildlife is vibrant and the air clean and fragrant. Butterflies flit from one wild flower to the next, dragonflies skim and hover over the waters, birds are abundant, and the tracks of deer are obvious to the trained eye.

			Despite these beautiful surroundings, they were marching to their death. The chieftain had led them to a secluded glade surrounded by craggy hills. These particular hills, and the area around it as far as a hawk could see, were the domain of an Elder Ogre. Having trespassed, their fate was sealed.

			The Elder’s retribution was swift and devastating. Half of the giants lay dead when the first incantation was completed, echoes of the words of power bouncing off the surrounding stony hills as if in mockery. As the first giant crumpled to the ground, the ogre chief drew his axe, roared the command to attack, and assaulted the giant nearest him. The battle was swift, brutal, and of epic proportions as enraged ogres and huge giants traded titanic blows.

			Amidst the chaos of battle, the Elder Ogre appeared. Moving rapidly through the air on invisible wings, the Elder targeted the leader of the giants, causing him to rise up off the ground, flailingly wildly but unable to do anything but watch his companions below being slaughtered.

			In less time than it takes to sever a head, the fight was over. Many ogres were killed or lay dying. Except for one, each and every giant was dead. The surviving ogres looked up at the pathetically floating once-proud giantish captain. They howled for his blood, but a single disapproving glare from the Elder silenced them immediately. The ogres dropped to their knees to show their obedience and respect.

			The Elder made an arcane hand gesture, and a thick metal collar snapped shut tightly around the helpless giant’s neck. The creature grasped uselessly at the collar with its powerful fingers. Another gesture from the Elder caused two lengths of chains to materialize, bound to the iron collar. Turning to the chief, the Elder spoke, in a remarkably calm almost human-like voice. Then, with a dismissive motion, the Elder cancelled the magic keeping the giant in the air and it crashed to the ground, howling in pain. Immediately the ogres rushed to grab the chains. The giant was now their helpless captive.

			The Elder glided to the giant, inspecting it with an air of disdain. Reaching towards the giant, a flash of red energy sprang from the Elder’s clawed hand and arced through the air, striking the metal collar and turning it red-hot. The giant roared in agony. The smell of burnt flesh and hot metal scalded its nostrils.

			Leaving the ogres to watch over the giant, the Elder and the chief spoke briefly. The Elder asked a question, listened carefully, thought for a moment, and then spoke again. After a few such exchanges, the Elder turned, and vanished, leaving the chief momentarily startled. But he had his orders. The ogres and their giantish prisoner were to march back to the ogre’s home immediately.

			After several days travel, making their way along an easy path, the Elder Ogre appeared, as if out of thin air. The ogres at once knelt respectfully, hauling on the chain to bring the giant down, too. That the giant survived the torturous journey so far was a testament to the beast’s incredible fortitude and stamina.

WikiBurnAdmin: /* Extract 5, A time in Malanthea. From notes recorded 4689 October 17 */

2022-03-21T20:38:23Z

Extract 5, A time in Malanthea. From notes recorded 4689 October 17

← Older revision		Revision as of 20:38, 21 March 2022
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	==Extract 5, A time in Malanthea. From notes recorded 4689 October 17==		==Extract 5, A time in Malanthea. From notes recorded 4689 October 17==
			Balcarr’s spires and towers, perched on cliff walls and deeply rooted behind thick crenelatted walls, looked down on its ancient harbour below. The city's ocean portal was sealed off, beseiged by a dark pounding storm that made even the most seasoned sea captain turn away and seek shelter behind shuttered doors. Distant flashes of lightning ringed the harbour in angry light, briefly illuminating the gigantic ships heaving at anchor. Between bursts of brilliant light, the ships were reduced to indistinct looming shapes, floating like bloated corpses in a dismal swamp.

			The dull, aching roar of the ocean, beating incessantly against the sea wall of the old harbour, felt to him like a throbbing tooth ache. It left him unable to concentrate, deadening his mind, just like the dark clouds overhead turned the Sun's light into impenetrable gloom.

			His slender figure stood alone and defiant on the outer sea wall. He brushed the locks of wet curly hair out of his pale gray eyes as he turned to face the wild ocean. He licked his pale lips, tasting the salty sea spray, then bowed his head and closed his eyes slowly.

			Instantly, the clouds vanished. The writhing ocean fell silent. The water in the harbour became mirror-like, reflecting a silvery-blue sky. The screaching calls of the seagulls overhead were cut short as they plummeted out of the sky, some crashing into the ocean, others dashed to a bloody pulp on the rocks. A lifeless bird splattered onto the ancient stone of the harbour wall a few paces from where he stood, splashing his red storm cloak with dark blood.

			The sudden sharp silence was as deafening as the ocean's quenched tantrum. He raised his head, opened his eyes, and surveyed the world. Shimmering figures rushed past and through him. Silent voices with a thousand stories and questions flowed around him. He raised his right arm slowly and then lunged out, grabbing a thought, fingers curling claw-like into a fist of undeniable power. He studied it intently, his bright blue eyes focussed keenly. His mind searched and probed, lancing precisely until he found it.

			Like at the moment of death, his hand relaxed, his slender fingers unfolding. Unfettered, the dismissed thought fled. He turned sharply and made his way back along the sea wall, his comely features distorted into a grim rictus.

			Making landfall, he gestured with his left hand, thumb pressed against his middle finger. The storm returned in full force, enraged and invigorated, angry and filled with desire to destroy. An impossiblely massive wave breached the wall, crested the stony barrier and crashed down on the defenceless ships skulking at anchor.

			Ignoring the devastation behind him, he continued on his way.

	==Extract 6, Death in the Swamp. Unknown date of recording==		==Extract 6, Death in the Swamp. Unknown date of recording==

WikiBurnAdmin: /* Extract 4, Gaunt's watch. Date of recordin lost */

2022-03-21T20:37:55Z

Extract 4, Gaunt's watch. Date of recordin lost

← Older revision		Revision as of 20:37, 21 March 2022
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	The dagger followed a perfect trajectory, as if guided by the Seven themselves. It pierced the base of his skull at the exact point where the spinal cord exits the brain. Kahn was dead before he hit the ground, and the dreams of the Lord's Mark died with him.		The dagger followed a perfect trajectory, as if guided by the Seven themselves. It pierced the base of his skull at the exact point where the spinal cord exits the brain. Kahn was dead before he hit the ground, and the dreams of the Lord's Mark died with him.

	==Extract 4, Gaunt's watch. Date of ~~recordin~~ lost==		==Extract 4, Gaunt's watch. Date of recording lost==
			Lord Gaunt pulled the cloak tightly around his broad shoulders and turned to stubbornly face the icy wind. His chiselled features, carved by age and care, seemed to reflect the hard lines of the hostile mountaineous environment he now surveyed through narrowed eyes. Despite being nearly noon, the skies had darkened to deepest twilight. The approaching storm would reach the Keep in less than an hour.

			Emergency preparations had been put in place three days ago. Status reports had been sent to Coth-Rom and Daernbeck. Guard posts along the road had been warned and no travellers would dare the treacherous terrain for at least a week. Supplies of water and food had been brought into the Keep and placed in storage.

			As Gaunt ran through his mental checklists one last time, the howling of the wind grew fiercer. He turned towards the southern tower and waved. A tall, slim figure in an upper window of the watch tower waved back and then ducked away into the stairwell. Gaunt looked up at the spire of the tower and waited. Moments later, the flag of the Duke of Toreen was lowered. It whipped viciously in the wind, like a wild animal, defiant to the last, and then was gone.

			Gaunt turned and ducked into the low entrance of his tower. The cold stone walls seemed warm and welcoming. Outside, the storm raged.

	==Extract 5, A time in Malanthea. From notes recorded 4689 October 17==		==Extract 5, A time in Malanthea. From notes recorded 4689 October 17==

WikiBurnAdmin: /* Extract 3, The Lord's Mark. Unknown date of recording */

2022-03-21T20:32:51Z

Extract 3, The Lord's Mark. Unknown date of recording

← Older revision		Revision as of 20:32, 21 March 2022
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	He watched, mesmerized, as one of the cultists, a lanky bald-headed male, moved towards him, and then erupted into furious movement and assaulted him, landing painful blows that almost made him black out. His last reservoir of adrenaline shocked him into desperate action as he tried first to defend himself, and then to flee. But the cultists ganged up on him.		He watched, mesmerized, as one of the cultists, a lanky bald-headed male, moved towards him, and then erupted into furious movement and assaulted him, landing painful blows that almost made him black out. His last reservoir of adrenaline shocked him into desperate action as he tried first to defend himself, and then to flee. But the cultists ganged up on him.

	The dagger followed a perfect trajectory, as if guided by the ~~Gods~~ themselves. It pierced the base of his skull at the exact point where the spinal cord exits the brain. Kahn was dead before he hit the ground, and the dreams of the Lord's Mark died with him.		The dagger followed a perfect trajectory, as if guided by the Seven themselves. It pierced the base of his skull at the exact point where the spinal cord exits the brain. Kahn was dead before he hit the ground, and the dreams of the Lord's Mark died with him.

	==Extract 4, Gaunt's watch. Date of recordin lost==		==Extract 4, Gaunt's watch. Date of recordin lost==

WikiBurnAdmin: /* Extract 3, The Lord's Mark. Unknown date of recording */

2022-03-21T20:31:55Z

Extract 3, The Lord's Mark. Unknown date of recording

← Older revision		Revision as of 20:31, 21 March 2022
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	==Extract 3, The Lord's Mark. Unknown date of recording==		==Extract 3, The Lord's Mark. Unknown date of recording==
			'''Prelude'''

			In the foothills between Shadowcastle and Nomden, the Black River cut a route through the mountains as it drained into the Grey Plains to the west. At one point, a sheer cliff rose up to the south while a gentle plain fell away to the north. A short distance from the river the Cult of the Red Hand had built a fortified hideout, a safe house for their members who needed refuge while travelling to Keserel, Londesh, and beyond.

			'''The present'''

			The air was warm and scented with summer's pleasant smells: dried grass, sweet malone flowers, and ripe jubu fruit. The babbling stream that flowed through the countryside fed a creaking water wheel. Its peaceful cycle of splashing water measured out a pastoral heartbeat. Now and then, a sheep would bleat, calling for its young. But for the most part, the flock was grazing peacefully in the field.

			The boy lay in the shade of the wheel house, munching on a hunk of sweet cheese and juicy berries, staring at the bright blue sky, searching for the thin sliver of the Moon he had seen at sunrise.

			These memories swelled in Kahn's mind as he lay dying under a hot summer Sun. He no longer felt pain, nor the sticky wetness of his blood-soaked clothes. Some part of him was worried about this apparent lack of distress. But, all things considered, this was a relief. The gaping wounds in his side and chest, hacked open by powerful blows with a too-blunt sword, had broken bones, ripped his flesh apart, and spilt his blood. The pain had been almost unbearable and he had possibly passed out for a time.

			His mind drifted to the events at the brigand's fort. Ricardo perished first, barely a minute into the assault. The flamboyant illusionist was struck from behind, a wickedly sharp blade taking his life. The enemy then swarmed against Pax, the soft-spoken Cleric of Salaah, attempting to disrupt his sustaining incantation. Their violent efforts were thwarted by Sir Kaiden, the formidable knight and leader of their group, who rushed the attackers and flung them back with the sheer force of his charge.

			Pax kept up his melodic litany. For a moment the evil-doers wavered, giving Kaiden the opportunity to regain his balance, swing his sword, and cleanly decapitate the nearest villain.

			What happened next, Kahn could only guess at. He was suddenly rendered blind. His years-long guild training kicked in as he ducked, rolled for cover, and then listened carefully for the sounds of spell casting. Perhaps the mage had turned her attention to Kaiden; he could certainly hear the fierce warrior's battle grunts as he hacked at their enemy.

			Suddenly, Pax's chanting was cut off. Kahn heard his body slump to the ground, and guessed at the wise cleric's fate. He deftly unclipped a small glass bead from his belt and crushed it. Although he couldn't see the result, he knew he was now surrounded by a midnight-black cloud. Gritting his teeth he attempted to staunch the flow of blood, and somehow made his escape.

			The sole survivor of the Lord's Mark, as Sir Kaiden had insisted on calling their group, slowly and painfully made his way through the rocky foothills. He headed north-west, for the road, as best as he could estimate. Somehow he survived the night, sustained by a few precious sips from the ornate water skin his wife had given him years ago and whatever edible plants he happened upon. Eventually he made it to the road, and then deliberately kept off the trail, to avoid pursuit. He guessed he was now less than two days from Nomden, where his oldest godson was the innkeeper. It was slow going, and his wounds had started to bleed again. But he was certain the Cult of the Red Hand would be hunting for him, which meant certain death should they succeed.

			His paranoia was unfounded. The Cult had given up the chase long ago, knowing that he would die from his wounds. But in Kahn's inflamed mind, poisoned by infection from his wounds, there were agents of the cult of the road, hounding him.

			Shortly after midday, he paused to rest briefly, fitfully stuffing a handful of half-ripe but succulent black berries into his parched mouth. A complex expression flashed across his face as he was suddenly taken back to his lazy childhood days, guarding his father's flock of sheep. Some of the dark juice dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, like a trickle of blood. He was snapped back to the here and now by the sounds of talking coming from the road. He froze, holding his breath, listening intently. He could make out several riders, moving slowly in his direction. He leant back against the tree for cover, and waited, trying to suppress his ragged breathing.

			The riders were speaking loudly, their horses and equipment making enough noise to frighten the little forest creatures. He was shocked by how brazen these cultists had become. He weighed his options, and made a quick inventory of his remaining equipment and special items. It was looking grim. But the cult's nefarious plan had to be exposed, and with his friends dead, the task was now his alone.

			The riders reigned in their horses and dismounted, seeking shelter from the summer Sun beneath the shady boughs of the large tree behind which he sheltered. They were taking a break. He could smell water, and his dry mouth and throat spasmed at the thought of a cool drink. They spoke a strange language which he couldn't understand. It consisted of distorted, stretched out sounds, sonorous and slow. He recited a prayer to Qidra to protect him from their magics.

			After a time – he couldn't tell exactly how long because his dizzy spells were increasing – the travellers got back on their horses and turned for the road. He almost collapsed with relief. Keeping to the patchwork shadows, he carefully moved around the tree to catch a glimpse of the cultists. He risked a quick glance, noting three horses with two riders. Unexpectedly, the third, a dangerous-looking female, stood next to her horse, checking the saddlebags. She seemed to be looking directly at him. His heart pounded as he snapped his head back, listening intently. The riders had gone silent. He could sense their minds bent on sniffing him out. His heart was pounding so loudly he could barely hear their approaching footfalls. He froze, the dappled light filtering through the tree hiding him in plain sight.

			He watched, mesmerized, as one of the cultists, a lanky bald-headed male, moved towards him, and then erupted into furious movement and assaulted him, landing painful blows that almost made him black out. His last reservoir of adrenaline shocked him into desperate action as he tried first to defend himself, and then to flee. But the cultists ganged up on him.

			The dagger followed a perfect trajectory, as if guided by the Gods themselves. It pierced the base of his skull at the exact point where the spinal cord exits the brain. Kahn was dead before he hit the ground, and the dreams of the Lord's Mark died with him.

	==Extract 4, Gaunt's watch. Date of recordin lost==		==Extract 4, Gaunt's watch. Date of recordin lost==

WikiBurnAdmin: /* Extract 2, Following the path of the Moon. From notes recorded 4681 November 11 */

2022-03-21T20:31:07Z

Extract 2, Following the path of the Moon. From notes recorded 4681 November 11

← Older revision		Revision as of 20:31, 21 March 2022
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	==Extract 2, Following the path of the Moon. From notes recorded 4681 November 11==		==Extract 2, Following the path of the Moon. From notes recorded 4681 November 11==
			They’d been following the Moon for the past week, moving with an urgency that reminded him of his younger days. The last colour drained from the sky as twilight surrendered to nightfall. He looked up, noting grimly the thick clouds ahead, gathering as if to block their progress. In the distance, the jagged horizon line was suddenly visible as the nearly-Full Moon rose, backlighting the peaks and valleys they would have to cross.

			In a short while, the Moon would provide ample light to guide their nocturnal journey, despite the looming clouds. With only a handful of hours rest, they were tired, and wished that things were otherwise. But rest would come later. Now, it was time to press on.

			They made their way across the shrub-filled plain, which swept off to the ocean in the west, and as hours became days, felt the ground rising and the mountains approaching almost imperceptibly. Each evening, the Moon rose later and later, frustrating their journey, until they were forced to stop and to idly mark time.

			Then, on a cold, windy evening, he sighted the lunar crescent shortly after sunset. They sat in silence, watching it set. It would not be long now.

			Now they were making good time, travelling during the hours of sunlight, straining to make up for lost time. They had breached the curtain of mountains the previous day, and for the first time could make out the lands beyond. The valley that was their destination could be made out in the distance.

			The Moon was growing each day as they travelled, its waxing form apparently mimicking their sense of anticipation as they closed in on their target. Late in the evening, with the Moon high above them, they could pause and look back, over the terrain they had covered. Anxiously scanning the expansive plains now far below them, they saw no signs of pursuit. With stubborn determination, and a skyward glance at their celestial lightgiver, they picked a route through the treacherous rocky ground ahead, and moved on in silence.

			Days and nights passed, sprinkled with fitful sleep and unsatisfactory cold meals. And then, with the gibbous Moon at the zenith, as if to declare their journey over, they stood at the sharp, narrow entry to this final valley. Overhead, oppressive clouds, thick and black, seemed determined to snuff out the Moon and shroud their journey in blackness. But then, the clouds would break and roil, momentarily permitting moonlight to show them the way.

			The night air was cold and damp. In the distance, gossamer sheets of the faintest light possible seemed to hug the ground at certain places. In that direction, the sounds of a burbling river could be made out.

			They drew together, leaning closer, whispering guardedly. They were standing on a broad, well-travelled but long neglected road, which could be seen cutting a discernible ribbon through the plantgrowth, a vein leading to what one can assume was their final destination. Their huddled cabal, an obscure dark spot on the landscape, would certainly be revealed if anything was paying attention to the old trackway.

			If, indeed, something was watching them at that very moment, it would respond with surprise, because the group dissolved into the night, melding into the underbrush.

			The sounds of the river guided their footsteps. In not too long a time, they reached its edge. It was more of a stream, really, and in the cold moonlight its rough course reflected a silver pathway, up into the valley. As if beckoned, or perhaps summoned, they followed its route, moving with some speed, any scrabbling footfall masked by the sound of the water.

			In short time, they were deep into the valley, the walls closing imperceptably as they made their dogged way. The mountain ridges conspired with the clouds above to dim the moonlight which guided their feet. And then, with attention, unnatural shapes could be made out. Looming up ahead, along the steepening sides of the valley, lurked sharp, angular, outlines, fashioned by the hand of man. They were finally within the city.

			They knew that untold centuries had passed, but had not expected that the buildings, temples, and monuments of Anachron had been reduced to a mere patina of brickwork clinging fitfully to the valley sides.

			Above them, the Moon was rapidly descending to the horizon, with perhaps an hour of grace left to them. Sensing the urgency, feeling the moment of completion slipping away, they recklessly pushed ahead into the moonlit darkness. More and more decrepit structures, broken by time, came into view as they moved between the once-proud buildings. If this was once the centre of the city, it was now the atrophied heart of a long-dead corpse, desiccated by the aeons. Ruins of potent buildings, now meaningless shapes in the dark, was all that remained of the city.

			And then, as if one, they saw it: a single light in the darkness ahead, less than 50 paces away, obscured by the shattered masonry of an battered tower.

			It was as if they were robbed of all other senses. Sound shut down, the cold air was as if nothing, only this singular light was salient. As they watched, baited, the glow seemed to flicker, or throb, growing slightly dimmer, then slightly brighter. And it evinced the subtlest of shifting colours, now yellow, now mild blue.

			A surge pulsed through them, anticipation, the keenness that dispels reason and urges action. With little care for what may be waiting for them, concealed in the darkness, they rushed closer.

			The shimmering glow came from the inside of what must once have been an imposing tower, thick, broad and powerful at the base, with massive doors regulating entry. Now, gaping holes in the walls of the tower rendered it useless as a refuge. The source of this singular light was, for the moment, hidden behind these fragmented walls.

			The throbbing of the concealed light, and the cycling of colours from yellow to blue to red, quickened as they rushed up to the decayed structure, searching for the entrance.

			As they had long known, a set of double doors, taller than even their mightiest, awaited them. They huddled together in front of the final obstacle. Beyond lay their ultimate goal. At this moment, the clouds momentarily opened, and the comparatively brilliant moonlight, thick and yellow, illuminated the doors. Now was the time for fortitude.

			As yet unseen to them, beyond the pair of formidable doors, he lay. Oblivious to the cruel hardness of the cold, black stone which supported him, he waited and watched, eyes closed. Arms raised, fingers curled, as if caressing or grasping, threads of twisted light, some tinged yellow, others coloured blue or red, wove together or unravelled, as his sightless eyes reviewed past and future. What was a gentle pulsing of brightness now became a flickering, like a heart, pounding with excitement or apprehension. With an upwards gesture, his fingers played through the light as the individual strands converged, seemingly inexorably, to a single point. His eyes opened in surprise.

	==Extract 3, The Lord's Mark. Unknown date of recording==		==Extract 3, The Lord's Mark. Unknown date of recording==

WikiBurnAdmin: /* Observing logs of Archmage Alfred Gouranis, with the Corrington Palaeomacrometer, CoL. */

2022-03-21T20:30:30Z

Observing logs of Archmage Alfred Gouranis, with the Corrington Palaeomacrometer, CoL.

@@ Line 13: / Line 13: @@
 =Observing logs of Archmage Alfred Gouranis, with the Corrington Palaeomacrometer, CoL.=
-* Extract 1, from notes recorded 4688 June 03
+* Extract 1. The Archmage of Nubanon.
-* Extract 1, from notes recorded 4688 June 03	532
+* Extract 2. Following the path of the Moon
-* Extract 2, from notes recorded 4681 November 11	533
+* Extract 3. The Lord's Mark
-* Extract 3 (undated)	535
+* Extract 4. Gaunt's watch
-* Extract 4 (date of recording lost)	537
+* Extract 5. A time in Malanthea
-* Extract 5, from notes recorded 4689 October 17	538
+* Extract 6. Death in the Swamp
-* Extract 6 (undated)	539-541

WikiBurnAdmin: /* Observing logs of Archmage Alfred Gouranis, with the Corrington Palaeomacrometer, CoL. */

2022-03-21T20:24:07Z

Observing logs of Archmage Alfred Gouranis, with the Corrington Palaeomacrometer, CoL.

← Older revision		Revision as of 20:24, 21 March 2022
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	=Observing logs of Archmage Alfred Gouranis, with the Corrington Palaeomacrometer, CoL.=		=Observing logs of Archmage Alfred Gouranis, with the Corrington Palaeomacrometer, CoL.=
			* Extract 1, from notes recorded 4688 June 03
	Extract 1, from notes recorded 4688 June 03		* Extract 1, from notes recorded 4688 June 03 532
	Extract 1, from notes recorded 4688 June 03 532		* Extract 2, from notes recorded 4681 November 11 533
	Extract 2, from notes recorded 4681 November 11 533		* Extract 3 (undated) 535
	Extract 3 (undated) 535		* Extract 4 (date of recording lost) 537
	Extract 4 (date of recording lost) 537		* Extract 5, from notes recorded 4689 October 17 538
	Extract 5, from notes recorded 4689 October 17 538		* Extract 6 (undated) 539-541
	Extract 6 (undated) 539-541

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			[[File:Palaeomacromter.jpg\|thumb\|The palaeomacrometer in the tower of Corrington Sorcerer Academy]]
	The palaeomacrometer is a large, cumbersome but delicate device conceived and constructed by Professor Liben Corrington, founder of the Corrington Sorcerer Academy of the College of Letters, to further his researches. The device took some 18 years to complete, and is said to have over 1 million working components.		The palaeomacrometer is a large, cumbersome but delicate device conceived and constructed by Professor Liben Corrington, founder of the Corrington Sorcerer Academy of the College of Letters, to further his researches. The device took some 18 years to complete, and is said to have over 1 million working components.

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The palaeomacrometer is a large, cumbersome but delicate device conceived and constructed by Professor Liben Corrington, founder of the Corrington Sorcerer Academy of the College of Letters, to further his researches. The device took some 18 years to complete, and is said to have over 1 million working components.

At its heart, the palaeomacrometer uses crystal eigenesis (with sulphur banoxide as a microaggressant) to hyper-experience points in space and time. The observer starts from a known point in space and time, and then experiences (through movement in space and/or time, at a vastly accelerated rate) an adjacent point in space and/or time. Depending on the skill of the observer, observation rates of 1,000 to 1 million have been recorded. This means that 1 second of observation can slip through 240 hours (10 days) of time, or 500 km of distance. The observer can stop the spatio-temporal movement at any point, and carefully study the surroundings. This allows for hyper-sensoral input - smell, taste, feeling, etc. of the object being observed, as well as for the time to make notes and drawings of what is observed.

Continued observation with the palaeomacrometer is physically and mentally draining, and not totally without risk. Since there is only one such device, and it has been used by perhaps only two people, safe constraints are not known, and the side-effects or damage potential is likewise unknown.

During the first few years of the palaeomacrometer's operation it was heavily used. None of Prof. Corrington's observations, however, were published. After about a decade of use, the professor stopped using it, for unknown reasons, and the device was essentially abandoned.

Several years later, during a congress, one of the dosents at the College of Letters, Archmage Alfred Gouranis, heard about the palaeomacrometer. He convinced Prof. Corrington to give it a good cleaning and to teach him how to use it.

In short order, A. Gouranis was taking regular observations. Several of his sessions have been published, and are reproduced here. Note that because of concerns about salangrity (temporal calibration of the device) the virtual dates of these recordings are not given, but only the dates on which the observations were made. Further research is needed to determine the former.

=Observing logs of Archmage Alfred Gouranis, with the Corrington Palaeomacrometer, CoL.=

Extract 1, from notes recorded 4688 June 03
Extract 1, from notes recorded 4688 June 03 532
Extract 2, from notes recorded 4681 November 11 533
Extract 3 (undated) 535
Extract 4 (date of recording lost) 537
Extract 5, from notes recorded 4689 October 17 538
Extract 6 (undated) 539-541