A stained journal page written in shaky cursive lettering
As the third bell struck, Satyre wheezed a high-pitched, barking laugh, likely in relief at hearing such clear evidence of nearby civilization. Marten spat in the sand, for what reason, I do not know. Petru’s dark bushy eyebrows furrowed even more th...
The Undead 页面 A stained journal page written in shaky cursive lettering - New World Guide of Lore资料库
As the third bell struck, Satyre wheezed a high-pitched, barking laugh, likely in relief at hearing such clear evidence of nearby civilization. Marten spat in the sand, for what reason, I do not know. Petru’s dark bushy eyebrows furrowed even more than before, set bold and stark against the skin of his now blanched face. After whispering “strigoi” once more, he stumbled and ran, plowing across the sand and into the shadowed wood beyond, before any could stop him. I stood and called after him, though my cry went unheeded. Then Edward rose shakily to his feet, but he did not turn to Petru. Instead, his eyes grew wide, almost comically so, as he pointed toward the water. As if to punctuate his movement, the sixth bell, as if accounting our doom, tolled. As my back faced the relentless churn, I did not immediately see what caused Edward’s legs to buckle, nor what Talbot vented his fury toward. Fear shot through my veins, filling them with a heavy quicksilver that urgently stifled my will to move. It grasped me close with clawed fingers, and whispered in my ear, “Silly one. You thought you had escaped me, but I shall never leave your side.”
When I finally managed to turn about, I knew our lives to be forfeit. That which came from the sea toward us was not of this earthly realm. The word “Mermen” brazenly trudged to the fore, before it shrugged and slunk back to the routed tangle of my thoughts. For these creatures were clearly no progeny of land nor of sea. These were things which could only have been conceived in Hell. An instant was enough. Too long, our eyes gorged themselves sick on the endless nightmare splayed out before us. An army of clambering, sea-tangled limbs and gurgling, fish-gnawed faces clawed themselves free of sea foam, as the last echo of the final bell retreated past the shoreline. We fled as one, making a mockery of our hours-long debate, as fast as our five bodies and four spirits would allow, we ran on in Petru’s wake. We ran, not caring who was with us or in what condition, we ran only to preserve ourselves in a kind of mad, breathless race.
It was then that our troubles began in earnest.
