The Omen
This book can be found in a chest underground in the ruins of Old Elvett. It was written by a barkeeper about an ominous, hooded figure wielding a scythe in the bar, who the author calls "an emissary of the empire's end."
Coordinates¶
| X | Y | Z |
|---|---|---|
| -3178 | 62 | 1341 |
Transcription¶
There was a stranger at the bar last night. It was late, nearly midnight, and only one table of party-going Foundry laborers remained alongside the regulars. I was polishing the old Tharhan granite countertop, admiring my reflection and minding my business, when I noticed the tall purple-hooded figure sitting quietly in the corner.
And then I could look at nothing else. The noise of the patrons faded in my ears and all I could do was trace the fabric of the cloak, its rumpled folds and smooth lines, down and up again to the weapon the stranger carried, a scythe with a strange lustrous gleam. I opened my mouth to ask Tamus and the others if they had seen the stranger, but the words caught in my throat. There was just a sliver of beguiling shadow, though the cowl of the stranger’s hood faced away from me. And then that shadow crept up my shins, uncomfortably up through my torso, and into the back of my neck. I locked up, and dread began to twist around my face to pry open my mouth, as if dozens of grimy fingers were forcing their way into my throat. I stood there, and my heart plummeted as the figure slowly began to rise to its feet. There was something so wrong, but so enticing about it. I imagined how it would feel to wear the purple cloak and feel it envelop me in soothing depths of endless sorrow.
And then it disappeared. Light and life came rushing back. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I realized I was gasping for air, hunched over the bar and coughing. My cheeks were flushed, and my eyes were unfocused.
Even now, that figure continues to haunt my thoughts, beguilingly familiar and yet unspeakably alien. An emissary of the empire’s end.