Tome VII - Forsaken



 is the Tome''' that accompanies the Seventh Rift in ' and released on 5 May 2021.

Overview
The Characters chosen for this Tome are and Adiris (The ).

Memory 776
''Overbeck staggers out of his house with a canvas bag still trying to process the last few hours of his life. Everything's a blur, nothing makes sense, and his veins are still pumping with a tingling concoction of anesthesia and adrenalin. Feels like Nam all over again. One minute you're drifting off to some faraway dreamland, the next you're fighting off the surgeon in a strange, foggy, half-nightmare. He remembers seeing the nurse, twitching, convulsing, changing. Changing into something he didn't quite understand and still doesn't even though they're everywhere. He remembers sensing something was off. Way off. He remembers his gut churning, twisting, fighting against the weight of his eyelids, trying his best to keep them open as bloody hell erupted all around him. He remembers falling to the ground with the nurse, the tray clattering, the knives and tools scattering. He wanted to sleep, just sleep, but he ordered his eyes to stay open and spotted the syringe rolling over the antiseptic floor. He remembers jerking his arm out, grabbing the syringe and smashing it into his heart. Or was it his arm? Or maybe both? He doesn't remember anymore. Doesn't matter. All that matters is he made it out of that hell alive. He shakes his throbbing head and clambers over a barricade blocking an alley. Winds his way through the burning city toward the market. Most of the city has been reduced to shit. Smoke and fumes seep through the streets. The air reeks of burning civilization. Burning humanity. He recognizes the smell. Brings him back to places he'd rather forget. Emergency sirens keen endlessly over the echoing shrieks of the infected. Flames erupt from the ruins and barricades making Philly look like a smoldering wasteland of death and destruction. He had read articles about the so-called green flu. It had only been a few days and it already felt like it was bringing us all back to the goddamn Stone Age. This is worse than Nam. Way worse. Philly in chaos and overrun by the infected. It was more than a common flu. No kidding. Dozens of conspiracy theories and now it doesn't matter. It just doesn't matter. All that matters is surviving. Been here before. Many times. He hears someone shout out a curse and spots a young woman clobbering an infected hoard by the market entrance with a rake. Impressive. Up and at em, soldier! Mind if I cut in. They slash through the infected until all that's left is writhing flesh and gore. He stares at her. She approaches him. Not bad, old man. Name's Zoey, last woman on Earth. Not really but it feels like it. She laughs and wipes chunks of putrid flesh off her arm. She reminds him of a kid he knew in Nam. Strong smile and beaucoup funny… beaucoup fierce… just like her.''

Memory 777
''Hello! Anyone out there! I need a hand over here! Bill hears the cries for help above the agonizing groans of the infected. He spots a cage in the middle of all the chaos surrounded by the infected. He grabs his rifle and fires, splitting infected heads like watermelons. He approaches the cage with Zoey where he sees a man covered in blood. Out of the frying pan and into the cage. He laughs to himself. How'd you end up in this shit hole of a thing? The man sighs. Quit yapping and get me out. Zoey looks around. Something ain't right about this. She's got good instinct. Bill's feeling the same knot in his belly. The man smashes the cage. Just get me out of here before they come back! Bill lifts the butt of his rifle and smashes the padlock off the latch with a mighty clang. Merry Christmas, kid. The man smirks. I like that one, gramps, and I ain't a kid. Call me Francis. Francis steps out of the cage repeating... Merry Christmas... Merry bloody Christmas… Bill spits over an infected corpse sprawled over the rubble. That's my line. Find your own. Francis' smile grows. No copyright on a line like that. Bill knows what he's doing. They're kind of a pack and this ain't about a line. This is about who's calling the shots. A lot of brass for a civilian. Truth is no one is really in charge in this shitstorm and we all gotta take the lead in some way or another and he's too stupid to understand. He oughtta break him now before things get stupid. Set him straight. He inches closer to the man. Zoey sighs. Boys… it's just a goddamn line. A sudden clicking sound behind them and Bill senses they're screwed. They turn to face three men with guns trained on them. Out of the cage and into the blazing, goddamn fire. Francis sighs. Shit... Canadians. Bill looks'em over. A group of men in make-shift hazmat suits and rifles. We ain't Canadians, now move! Bill looks to Zoey and Francis and goes sotto-voce. They're survivalists. Francis scrunches his face. So what are you saying... you saying they're worse than Canadians? Bill doesn't know how to respond to this. He fought with Canadians. Damn good soldiers. What's your beef with Canadians? Francis shrugs. What isn't?''

Memory 778
''An idiot prods Bill into a room with some kind of make-shift electric poker. Watch that thing CEDA! The idiot prods him. We ain't CEDA. He pushes Bill into the corner with Francis and Zoey. He sees they got a geek on a computer. They're telling him to hack into the machine but he's telling them he can't. He's tech-savvy but he ain't no hacker. After a few tries they push him aside. They call him boy. He says his name is Louis, not boy and that gets him a gun shoved in his face. Geek has spunk and attitude. The survivalists talk amongst themselves. One of them sits in front of the laptop and hacks his way in. Bill overhears bits and parts. Search the computer for the locations of the safehouses. The flu took hold faster than anyone expected. Those who prepared the safehouses turned before they could use them. These assholes are mapping a path through the city using the safehouses as checkpoints like the old underground railway. Fitting for Philadelphia. They probably got hundreds of ideas on how they're going to use us. One of them grabs Zoey and has his own idea. Bill jackknifes to her side despite his restraints. Get your filthy mitts off her. The brute inches up to her and she gives him a kick he ain't ever gonna forget. Bill didn't think anyone could scream like that. He stares at Zoey with wide approving eyes. The brute continues to scream something terrible and collapses to his knees holding his gonads. His buddy rushes to his aid. Helps the screaming man up but… he looks different… real different... something in his eyes. Or rather something lacking in his eyes. Shit. Louis leaps back from the man like he were the plague. Francis panics. Get us out of this. Louis grabs a knife from the floor and frees Bill as the survivalists turn pale. Screams and yells echo around them as Bill frees Zoey and Louis frees Francis. They step back. Zoey gasps. What do we do? Bill shrugs and sighs. Nothing we can do for them. An infected suddenly charges Zoey. Francis clubs its head off. Merry Christmas! He looks to Bill for a reaction. Bill shakes his head and seems unimpressed. Find your own line, kid, if you've got the grey matter to do so. Francis scoffs. Louis adjusts his tie. Francis makes a face and nudges Louis. Lose the tie… Lose the god damn tie. Louis ignores him. Zoey motions for the boys to shut the hell up and follow her. Let's find an Island where we can rot on and then fight over ties. Bill raises an inspired eyebrow. That sounds like a plan. He actually likes the idea of rotting an island while the world goes to hell. Kid's right! Grab some gear and let's get outta here!''

Memory 779
''Bill leads the ragtags as he calls them through a city he doesn't recognize anymore. It's crazy how fast the flu changed everything. Change. It's the one thing that never surprised him. The one constant in his life. Change and surviving in the new normal. But this new normal… could take some getting used to. Ain't like they're gonna tear each other apart, apologize, then be friends again. He stares into the gloom and goes over the last few hours of his life in his mind. He didn't catch anything. They didn't catch anything and by all accounts they should have. Then it dawns on him… they're immune… they're asymptomatic. Ticking bombs just waiting to spread the flu. I brought the flu to them. Poor bastards. Louis steps up beside Bill. What now, Pops? Bill contorts his face. Don't call me pops. Old Man I don't mind, but not Pops. Bill marches on. I tell you 'what now'… Now we find a safehouse and get some rest. But not before you punch Francis in the mouth for talking more shit than a sewer. Bill laughs. I'm messing, kid, but I see you getting pissed with all the tie jokes. Don't let him get to you. His way to cope with all this shit. I knew guys like him in Nam. They're just scared to die and distracting themselves by messin' around with others. But what really gets me is he stole my goddamn line. Louis laughs. Bill doesn't find it very funny. I know, I know… Imitation is the sincerest form of compliment. But that civilian using my line. That just ain't right to me.''

Memory 780
''Safehouses are abandoned but they're still treasure troves of supplies. This beast of a flu hit fast and took no prisoners. Bill sighs and doubts evacuations are still running counter to Zoey's belief that the government actually still gives a shit. World has gone to hell and the government don't care but he ain't saying anything. Last thing he'll do is rob them of hope as they creep through the bowels of the fallen city. He liked Zoey's other idea about finding an island to rot on. That was a good idea. If you're gonna rot anywhere, an island, any island, ain't half a bad idea. Especially one with coconuts. But if she wants to hope for the government she can go right ahead. He ain't gonna take away her hope. Even if he knows enough about the government to know they ain't worth a second thought let alone a second chance. But he'll shut up for a civilian that still believes in the system… a system that was broken long before the flu spread. Besides, while she hopes for the government he'll figure something out. He always does. Zoey regards him. There's gotta be more like us... areas that have be protected… quarantined. It can't be that all cities are like this. Bill supresses a cynical remark. There's something in Zoey he respects. She reminds him of someone he used to know. Someone he used to be. Someone who had all kinds of ideas and ideals before he had seen the true face of governments… of humanity… it's nice to see that in her. Real nice. He hopes it lasts and this hell doesn't stamp it out of her. A heavy wind moans dreadfully and carries with it an all too familiar smell... the smell of rot... the smell of filth... the smell of death. The infected. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Bill acts on instinct. Eyes open! Guns ready! Before he can say another word the infected close in on them. Gunshots clap through the dead city. Heads crack open like rotten, festering melons and the infected lay strewn all around them. One lashes out of the shadows toward Bill. Without hesitation Francis blows its face off and turns to him. Merry Christmas! Bill sighs deeply. Bastard saved my life and now he's trying to rub it in my face. He gives Francis a stern, grizzled look. Alright… the line's yours, now shut the hell up and shoot! Bill curses under his breath and continues to shoot dark silhouettes charging through the deep, orange dusk. Damn, I missed this.''

Memory 4097
''May your voice reach the beyond; may your voice reach the beyond; may your voice... Adiris speaks this line until it becomes a single word, babbled in harmony with her fellow emissaries in faith. Ma-ya-voy-rethebe'on... Ma-ya-voy-rethebe'on... Thirteen women stand in a circle around a stone altar. Adiris' chant falters as time passes, her raw throat the only indication she contributes. Each enunciation, agony. She's nearly forgotten the naked man writhing face down on the altar, leather straps binding him. The high priest Haban raises a hand. Adiris, along with each of the emissaries, stops, bows her head. She reminds herself: Cherish the pain, a sacrifice to the sea goat, the God of Water and Creation. The emissaries disperse, and Adiris wanders to the man on the altar. Tears stream from his bloodshot eyes. She wants to lend comfort, assure him the gods love him, perhaps even pull him from the altar, away from the coming pain. She smiles at him as she would a child. If only you understood the importance of your sacrifice, you would laugh with joy. Tenderly, lovingly, she kisses his forehead. May your voice reach the beyond.''

Memory 4098
''The Invokist comes forward: small, wrinkled man, buried under a scarlet—no, white but bloody—cloak. Adiris bows her head, joins the whispers around her. May you swim through sea and stars. The Invokist stands over the man bound to the altar. Nods. Pulls a sleeve back. Reveals a spear gripped in hand. Raises the weapon and... plunges! The tip pierces the bound man's lower back. He arches upwards and screams, shakes, convulses, lower body remaining immobile, bladder emptying onto the altar. The Invokist hefts his leg onto the stone slab, pushes the spear until—a gruesome snap. Shrieking... howling... pleading? Something beyond that—indescribable. A vertebrae bursts from the gaping wound. Blood gushes. Bile rises in Adiris’ throat as she turns away to stop herself from retching. Her fellow emissaries look upwards. Praise! Glory to the gods! Nothing is heard over the screams of the man. His voice will surely reach the beyond. Adiris composes herself, recites sacred text in her mind: The plans of the gods shall not be questioned, for they know beauty the human eye cannot perceive. The plans of the gods shall not be questioned, for they know... Trust in them, Adiris, trust in them! She relents to her faith, joining the others to celebrate, but notices—Haban. He covers his face too late and she sees it: a tear spilling from his eye. A face that seems... heartbroken.''

Memory 4099
''Adiris splashes water over the altar and scrubs. Red circle, swirling, bright... like the sun the day she was left at the temple door. Stifling heat, painful steps on burning sand. Mother and father... a missing piece in the memory, unfocused, replaced by... Haban. A crowd of imposing high priests, and only he peers warmly. She cries so he lifts her, removes his hood. In the courtyard he lets her touch the statues of the gods—Rishan, keeper of the stars; Ortares, sentry of the desert; Atil-Alara, mother of humanity—deities who would watch over and protect her. Haban becomes teacher. Father. He tells of their religion: formed by exiles who believed other faiths had become corrupted by politics. They brought new insights to the afterlife and unified all gods beneath the great creator, the sea goat. She finds guidance in his teachings, meaning in servitude, comfort in knowing suffering is love. She may shudder at connecting compassion to bloody sacrifice, but she works continually to overcome her doubts. Yet, over the years, as her faith grows, Haban changes in a different way. She sees heaviness in his walk. Hears his voice trail off when he reads the sacred texts. While he once stood energized by generous sacrifices to the gods, today he shows anguish. What darkness could snuff the desert sun?''

Memory 4100
''Adiris sits in the courtyard, Haban seated across from her. Eyes are fixed on a game board between them. She rolls a wooden die, moves a black disc over the board's squares, lands on Haban's piece, places it to the side. No reaction from Haban. Adiris looks to him, sweet expression of concern. A joyous sacrifice this morning, would you say? The gods rejoice, praise be. Haban hardly lifts an eye. Mhmm... praise be. A cool breeze, birds chirp, unseen. Haban seems to scan the courtyard. Upon seeing no other occupants, looks Adiris in the eyes. He was a good man. A friend. And the world is darker without— Adiris wonders if she’s being tested. She knows what to say, interrupts him with the line that’s been delivered to her thousands of times before: It was commanded by the gods; he swims in the wake of the sea goat now. Haban turns his attention to the game board, flicks away Adiris' disc and positions his at the end. It seems I have won... as was commanded by the gods. Adiris pushes her chair back, objecting. Haban sweeps the board off the table. I shall write the rules of Ur anew. I shall include decrees, punishment, theft, and sacrifice. And should anyone object, I shall preach those momentous words: It was commanded by the bloody sea goat and his damned gods. Adiris shakes her head, the shock of words she never thought she’d hear rattling painfully in her mind. This is... blasphemy! Deep bags under Haban's eyes seem to swell. Yes, the truth often is.''

Memory 4101
''The Day of Virtue arrives, a monthly ceremony to purify the congregation of dire sins. A bell tolls. Adiris and the rest of the temple's crowd drop to their knees. Forehead touches cold stone. She peeks up, sees the Maiden Guard arrive, stepping through the crowd, guided by faith to seek out sinners. She waits, counts the scratches in the floor until—a scream. A woman pleads and... coughing, choking. Adiris looks up, sees a commoner dragged from the temple by her throat. She hardly notices two olive-brown feet step in front of her. Rise. Rise! Adiris shrinks under the Maiden's gaze, notices the hint of ripened dates from her open mouth. Under the eyes of the sea goat, speak of the evil you have witnessed. Deliver us thieves, adulterers, and blasphemers, so we may purge them. Shoulders stiffen. Adiris sees the face of Haban, the face of the man who raised her. She hears his gentle voice... and the agitated voice of a blasphemer. Indecision knots in her chest, tightening, twisting. I have witnessed... no evil. By the gods, my eyes are pure. The Maiden examines Adiris. Seconds trickle by, ever-slowing, stretching reality to its seams, until—the Maiden nods. May you swim through sea and stars. She turns away, and Adiris summons every bit of strength to keep herself from collapsing.''

Memory 4102
''Adiris sweeps dust from the altar floors. A set of hurried footsteps click along the stone, marching closer. She turns to see Haban, gentle face tensing. He hushes her. My daughter, curse the man I once was. I took you as a child and tainted you with notions of divine judgment and punishment. Now I see you struggle, as these thoughts nearly take hold. I beg you, cast my teachings aside and see the blood spilled in this temple. No cleansing can purify the horror perpetrated here. The doctrine overflows in her mind: The will of the gods is law. No man shall question the divine. He who battles the tides will perish. But she surprises herself by remaining silent, and Haban seizes the moment. I am old and have wasted this life, but I cannot bear to destroy yours. Meet me here at nightfall in a fortnight's time, and we shall escape the clutches of deceit. If you have doubts, I ask you to consult with your gods. My daughter, may their silence be your answer.''

Memory 4103
''Though Adiris' heart beats, she feels emptiness where it should reside, a hollow space dripping acid into her churning stomach. Knees bruised, she prays to the gods, pleading, silently screaming for an answer. Nothing. The wind remains calm. She is alone, surrounded by stone, looked down upon by statues of gods unmoved. Dust floats through the air, settles on her skin, more real than anything she ever believed. A lifetime of faith, security, crumbles. She feels unsteady, the only certainty in her mind that she must leave this place. She rises to her feet, turns her back to the temple, only then— A whisper! The hushed chitter in her head is unclear, inarticulate words passed through a forked tongue. But she feels it, understands a remarkable truth: she will never be alone. Ever.''

Memory 4104
''Shame washes over Adiris as she retreats to her room. She dared doubt the gods. Within their chaotic whispers: pain, anger, bloodlust. ATONE! She removes her robe, reaches for the lash, a crude whip of thorns and bronze spikes. ATONE! She swings with great force. Spikes pierce her back, hooking into flesh as she pulls away. Through gritted teeth, she screams, keeping the sound in the base of her throat so no one can hear. ATONE! She swings, droplets of blood sprinkling to the floor. Spasms of pain, as skin tears off, hanging on pale threads. Braces herself and whips again, again, till the crimson pools. ATONE! How much blood is enough? Her body screams in agony. She thinks to drop the lash, run from these walls, but remembers the doctrine Haban taught her: Suffering is the heart of love. She tightens her grip and swings again.''

Memory 4105
''Sweat weeps from Adiris' pores onto her bedsheets. Thick scabs tear from her flesh as she shifts. With great effort, she lifts her head, looking to the sound behind her. Haban. He kneels over her, wet cloth in hand. She's too feeble to speak, but the whisper does it for her, hissing, thrashing, communicating a hurried feeling in her mind. BLASPHEMER! He washes the blood from her back, bringing his mouth to her ear. Is this the doing of the Maiden Guard? What has their blind faith wrought? She slips between consciousness, as the blasphemer takes her hand. I have failed you, my daughter. But no more. Have strength, and we shall soon escape.''

Memory 4106
''Though Adiris' movements are met with pain, she lifts her head to the sky, thanking the gods for their guidance. Their whisper remains, further away, dissipating, yet still commanding, influencing. She opens her heart, allows the whisper to seize her body. She strides to the quarters of the Maiden's Guard and takes a uniform, confident no one will discover the violation, knowing the gods are on her side. A censer of sweet frankincense sits atop a table, compelling her to it. She allows her hands to move as they will, filling the censer with oil and glowing embers. She does not question the will of the gods, knowing all threads shall be woven and someday the tapestry complete. Trust in them, Adiris! She steps into the moonlight. Nightfall. Smoke dances around her body. Bare feet carry her along a stone path to the mouth of the temple. As she peers inside, she sees through the shadows to the slight, shivering figure of the high priest Haban—the mentor, the father, the blasphemer. May his voice reach the beyond.''

Arcus 03
''Spent the entire day doing unnecessary, mundane tasks like sweeping the floor, dusting statues and furniture, and polishing silverware all in a fairly successful attempt to keep my mind busy. I imagine once I have the Auris working as it should be, I'll be able to keep myself distracted with was seems to be dreaming black fog. Toward the evening, I tinkered with the Auris, and when this proved frustrating, I worked out mathematical equations and theories while talking to myself and engaging in stimulating debate and what I believed to be meaningful discourse. One of the lessons of those on assignment within the boundaries of an Ancient is to keep to a rigorous routine of writing, reading and self-talk to not let the pillars of the intellect crumble under the weight of laziness, alienation and boredom. Thinking and speaking are skills, and like any skill, they can decay and wither away if not practiced regularly.''

Arcus 04
''Stories and journals are scattered everywhere. So much to read… and yet I find myself drawn to the scribblings and renditions of the unknown creator I'm calling the Mad Designer. Journals filled with the wild sketches and musings of people I imagine are caught in other parts of this living dimension--people juxtaposed with other Terra worlds and timelines that make little or no sense to who they are or where they come from. The illustrations and notes are foolish, absurd and quite contradictory, and yet they bring moments of levity to my life which does the soul good. I suppose it's a form of absurd escapism I turn to when I'm not reading the more traditional stories. Interestingly enough, I found seventeen versions of a story featuring a killer named Evan written by seventeen versions of the same author from the omniverse. Seventeen similar stories with sometimes subtle, sometimes significant differences. What I find particularly interesting is how the stories are written as fiction in one world and non-fiction in another. It reminds me of Universus Alveo… a theory that suggests that the human mind might very well be equipped with a powerful networking mechanism that reaches out to other worlds for wisdom and knowledge from our other-selves. Some can use their minds in this way and others can't. The theory suggests that those who have experienced trauma in their formative years detach from their reality, allowing them to explore other realities and worlds with relative ease. Artists like magicians and shamans see small things in the big, unexplainable endless dream that is the omniverse and they bring these ideas or insights back to entertain, enlighten and inspire the world. Fiction in one world, non-fiction in another. Everything is real, or nothing is. And here in the Chamber of Blood there are countless horror stories of every variety. So many that it seems to me that one of the unknown prisoners was collecting these stories as a way to discover more about their imprisonment, the Entity and the terrible screams coming from the surrounding abyss. Whether this true or not, I'm not sure, but what I do know is I spent the whole night reading my favorite stories out loud like my father used to do by the fireplace. And the entire time I couldn't help but wonder… How? How could anyone have accessed and assembled such a rich collection of notes, journals and stories? I have no immediate answer, but I suspect by the texture and density of the fog that I may be in a place as complex, mysterious and misunderstood as a black hole—a living, breathing, all-consuming black hole, the serpent of infinity that gorges on its tail, that eats itself endlessly as it spirals downward into the cosmic, Fibonacci stew that is life incomprehensible.''

Arcus 8282
''Dozens of severed heads in the den and I'm not sure how they got there. I stared at them all day, recognizing a few of them from the last few memories I've been exploring. It took me all night but I made a cairn with the heads outside the door. When I was done they began to talk and argue and bicker with each other over pedestrian nonsense. I squeezed my eyes shut until silence returned. When I opened my eyes again, they were gone. I then returned inside and retired to the Chamber of Blood where I read stories aloud and went through the absurd creations of the mad designer.''

Most Brutal Murder in Sunny Lake History
''Chamber of Blood. Most Brutal Murder in Sunny Lake History. A young woman is on trial for first degree murder in the decapitation of her husband's mother whose charred remains were found in mason jars in the suspect's solarium while her head was found mangled in a broken blender in the kitchen. Samara Dwenlis, 33, is charged with first degree murder in the June 2037 killing of Kirsty Hartz, 67. The trial commenced on Thursday. Prosecutors said they would not entertain a plea of insanity despite the 911 call the suspect made claiming her mother-in-law was a vampire. The 911 call describes an ancient conspiracy with vampires who live among us and draw their powers from another dimension.''

Obscura. Beyond Understanding.
''The tower is alive. I have memories of what the tower was the night before and it changes the next day. It changes in ways that defy reason or anything we've come to know about the ontology of these Ancients back home. It's entirely possible that if you were to understand all that this place is that you would go insane. I opened the door to what I thought would be an empty room covered in dust, only to discover an entire city with skyscrapers and ancient pagodas. Bewildered, I stared among the ruins of the street at a group of teenagers cutting down massive, mutant bug-like creatures with deadly samurai swords. I quickly closed the door and opened it again to find the city was gone. It had completely disappeared. Nothing there but a small dusty room with a strange-looking spider crawling toward me. I crushed the spider under the heel of my boot and didn't even attempt to understand what had just transpired.''

More entries coming in subsequent levels

Gnome Chompski
In honour of Bill Overbeck appearing as one of the Characters chosen for this Tome, the Developers added Gnome Chompski as a special Easter Egg Charm.

Gnome Chompski is the unofficial mascot of Valve, Developers of the Left 4 Dead and Half-Life franchises, in which he is an iconic prop.

In Left 4 Dead 2, Gnome Chompski is an improvised weapon that can be obtained in the "Dark Carnival" Campaign after scoring 750 points in a shooting gallery mini-game. In Half-Life 2: Episode 2, he is infamous for "Little Rocket Man", a notoriously difficult Achievement, which requires the Player to carry the gnome throughout the majority of the Game to eventually deposit him into a rocket, with which he is then launched into space.

Unlocking Gnome Chompski
Currently, Gnome Chompski will spawn as a Prop in a random location in the Trial Grounds as soon as the is initiated, indicated by an eerie giggle sounding throughout the Map. In the  the Endgame Collapse can last, Players wishing to obtain the Charm must find the Prop and stomp on it. This will destroy the Gnome and have it respawn in a different location, again indicated by a giggle. He will also respawn in a new location if not found within .

As a Killer, successfully stomping the Prop is sufficient: a blue fire-fly-like effect will show on the HUD and after the Trial ends, the Charm will be unlocked. A Survivor must escape the Trial alive to unlock the Charm and will emit the same visual effect from their body after stomping the gnome. Either scenario will unlock the Charm for all Characters, both Killers and Survivors.

Blue Glyphs

 * Main article: Glyphs

 introduced Blue Glyph challenges. Upon selecting Glyph Communer challenge  spawns in a trial and needs to be Activated in order to gain progress through challenge completion. The Glyph Communer Challenge is only available to Survivors:
 * Interaction time: 
 * Visibility range: 
 * Penalty duration: 
 * After communing with a ', the Survivor suffers from either the  or the  Status Effect'.

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Foliant VII - Verlassen Volume VII - Abbandono