Template:Unreleased Archive Content
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Stories are everything. We use them to understand our relationships, our sense of self, our reality. They bring us joy, insight, and inspiration. They teach us, build us, and empower us. Stories are the elixir of the soul. But... they can also be a poison, defeating us, destroying us, corrupting us, keeping us in an endless loop of pain and suffering. Sometimes the only way to escape is to find another story... the right story. | 
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| ~ The Observer, Tome VIII - Deliverance Reveal Trailer Narration |
Tome 8 - Deliverance is the Template:IconLink that accompanies the Eighth Rift in Template:IconLink and released 28 July 2021.
Overview
The Characters chosen for this Tome are Template:IconLink, Jeffrey Hawk (The Template:IconLink), and The Template:IconLink.
Memories & Logs
Jeffrey Hawk: Finger of Chaos
Memory 3559
"Time to finish this. Kill the bastard. Right now." Jeffrey Hawk makes his move, rounds the corner of his trailer. He squints, sees footprints in the soft ground. "Bingo." Crouches low, belly skimming over the dirt. A crowd roars from the circus tent three hundred yards away. He uses the sounds to conceal his movement. Then he sees it: the shadow of his chosen victim. "Focus. Bring on the carnival of carnage." He shifts his weight to his back foot and springs.
"I'll shred y'up good, you sonnuva bitch!" He grabs the raccoon, ripping the creature from his trashcan. They tumble. Garbage spills to the ground. Sharp pain and dull discomfort as he rolls through broken glass, cigarette butts, and half-eaten corndogs. "This is the last time you invade my trash!" The raccoon twists, snaps at air until finding a fat chunk of flesh. "Ah, damnit!" Jeffrey loses his grip, recovers just in time to grab a bushy tail. He's on the defensive; swings the animal around, whirling it like a lasso. He loses his grip. The raccoon soars through the air, reaching incredible heights. The squealing, thrashing silhouette of the woodland creature flies over the backdrop of a full moon. Majestic. It arcs downwards and... lands safely in a tree. "Blast it all to hell!" With a furious hiss, the raccoon scurries into the foliage and disappears. "Scram, ya hairball... touch my garbage again and I'll make a balloon animal outta your intestines." He wipes a smear of blood onto his pants. A blaring of trumpets rings through the night, coming from the circus tent in the distance. The acrobats are taking the stage! He had nearly forgotten his plan. There's hope for this night yet.
Memory 3560
Jeffrey hurries into the circus tent, anticipation buzzing through his veins. He stands at the back of the bleachers, avoiding the gawking, idiotic crowd. All eyes are glued to the trapeze artist swinging above. "Ha, they have no idea!" The best comedy is unexpected, and only Jeffrey knows the punchline: he greased the second trapeze an hour ago. Spotlights, a drum roll, the acrobat flips through the air, grabs the next trapeze and whoops — slips right off. Down, down... splat. The sudden and exhilarating crunch of breaking bones. But nothing compares to the splat. The splat makes it all worth it. Like a ripe tomato thrown against a wall. And then, silence. A hundred people in shock. Trauma forming in their brains. Future nightmares being scripted. The moment broken by a single woman's scream, followed by a hundred more. Jeffrey can't hold it any longer. He bellows laughter, nearly suffocates with glee. No one can hear over the turmoil. Half the crowd rushes to the exit, needing air, needing to be sick, needing a stiff drink. "What a show!" Jeffrey chuckles, wipes his tears, and then — "oh my..." His eyes glaze over. So many fingers pass by. Hundreds of them. He's a kid in a candy shop, and the possibilities are measured by the handful.
Memory 3561
He's paralysed with indecision. As the crowd streams by, he appraises their hands. Long fingers, stout fingers, pristine, and ugly. "Don't be greedy now, you'll get one. Gotta keep things quiet, the fuzz will be snooping after the trapezist's ‘accident.’" He spots a candidate worth his attention: three inches on the left hand of a young woman. Smoother knuckles than the norm. "What does it taste like? Candy apple, maybe. Or... brass? Why brass?" With considerable effort the memory arises: a first-grade teacher with a similar finger who used to wear cheap rings. He was a brat, but she was too hard on him. A burst of endorphins tickles his spine. How would he immortalise this stand-in for his first-grade teacher? A sharpened pencil to her jugular? Stupid. Obvious. Pandering to irony. But also, satisfying in its cartoonish simplicity. "Wait — what about the plump man with plump fingers? Thick sausages ready to burst with the slightest pinprick." A reminder of the mailman who yelled at him for flinging dog crap at a car. "Bastard. I was just a kid having fun. Could fry up that finger and feed it to the local mutt." The fantasy is liberating. A righting of wrongs. And then... he sees it. The one. He shudders, recoils like he's seen a ghost, but is suddenly drawn to it, unable to look away. It's the finger he's always searched for, always longed to make his own. Attached to a hand, to an arm, to a man with a very stupid moustache. He has found it: the Finger of Chaos.
Memory 3562
Jeffrey is fixated on the moustached man's finger as he walks by, so close he can taste the alcohol-soaked sweat between the joints. He knew a finger just like it. In a different life. Before the circus. Before he became Jeffrey Hawk and was still Kenneth Chase.
He's seven years old, in his bedroom, playing with a plastic army man. He throws it against the wall. Bites its head till his tooth hurts. But then, the unexpected: chaos awakens. His father shouts from the living room with a booming voice. Kenneth retreats to his closet. He hears his father coming down the hall, each step louder. "Hide!" He buries himself under a pile of dirty clothes and shuts his eyes. The closet door swings open. The odour of cheap beer floods in as a large hand grabs him, pulls him. "Why! Why, you little shit? Branson says you kicked his damn dog. That true?" Kenneth's too afraid to say the words forming in his head: "It's true. I walloped the smelly mutt good. Don't know why. Just something like a reaction. Don't get twisted about it, ain't nothing different I coulda done." His father shoves his finger straight into Kenneth's face. "Speak up, you damned idiot! You think I want to be stuck with you?" The finger. Thick, oddly straight, a knuckle with ridges upon ridges of loose skin, a chipped nail that lends it personality. "Your mum would have hated you. You listening?" Kenneth can't look his father in the eyes. He retreats to his imagination. "Hack off his finger, Kenneth! Make dad cry, make the blood spurt. Point the finger right back in his face and laugh. Laugh, Kenneth!" His father looks ready to burst as his face reddens. "This funny to you? You some kind of clown? Keep laughing and see what happens." And though Kenneth fears his punishment, he can't get the bloody thoughts out of his head — so he laughs and laughs.
Jeffrey examines Moustache's finger as the crowd jostles around the circus tent. On his hand: a finger, thick, oddly straight, knuckles with ridges of loose skin, and yes, even a chipped nail. It may not be the original, but damn, it'll do nicely.
Memory 3563
Jeffrey barrels through the crowd, keeping an eye on the moustached man and his index finger. He pushes a lady aside, strong arms a man. "Move along, ya jerks." Everyone's too disturbed by the acrobat's death to be upset by a clown's social faux pas. It'll be days before it crosses anyone's mind: "Did that clown really elbow an old woman in the face?" Jeffrey spots Moustache walking through the fair grounds. Tents, Ferris wheels, and food booths have gone dark, closed for the night. The scent of deep fryers and popcorn is still thick in the air.
Moustache breaks from the crowd. "Perfect. Time to get to work." Jeffrey disappears into cover. Despite his size, despite his bright, gaudy clothing, he naturally slinks through the shadows. His anger over the raccoon infiltrating his garbage has fizzled away. There is only one creature of the night that lives here. His name is Jeffrey Hawk.
Memory 3564
The hunt begins. This is Jeffrey's moment. The anger and revulsion fades, if only for a few minutes, allowing him to exist in comfort. He doesn't stumble or slow as he stalks through the deep darkness. Takes sure, steady steps. He wants to remember this moment. It's simple. One man with a wonderful finger. One clown that's going to kill him. If only that was the whole of history, the entirety of existence. Wipe out the jealousy, betrayal, and greed, the tax collectors and nosy neighbours, the dogs that bark all night, the women who lead men on, the endless stream of cars, and the suitcases full of lies. Erase the whole overwhelming thing, the pain that ties it together — he doesn't want to be a part of it, he was never good at it anyway. Leave one simple moment: A clown, a man, and a murder.
He's jolted from his tranquillity as a branch snaps underneath his foot. Thirty paces ahead, Moustache straightens up like a meerkat, swings his head around. He knows something's out there. Something unseen. "Hello...? Please... is someone there... I don't know what's happening." Jeffrey chuckles. "Neither do I."
Memory 3565
Jeffrey keeps to the shadows, makes his way closer to Moustache. He moves swiftly, silently... almost silently. He hacks into his sleeve and spits a mass of phlegm into the dirt. Wheezes. Could use a smoke and a shot'a something. "Bah, keep moving." He skulks past the cotton candy stand and around the fortune teller's tent. "No use drawing it out any further. It's time. Bring on the clown!"
Jeffrey paces slowly from the shadows. Large, imposing, smeared in grease paint, wearing a ridiculous coat of stripes, polka dots, and patches. And the blade, beauty in simplicity. That's all it takes. Moustache squeals like a pig and scurries. All according to plan. Corral him past the pony stables, around the freak show, and — cut him off. Give him nowhere to run but the Haunted Hostel and really have some fun with the chump. Moustache sprints towards the rundown shack, covered in spatters of red paint and cheap imitation spider webs. But then — he turns. Beelines away from the Haunted Hostel and towards... no, not that — the Fun House of Friendship. All the makeup in the world can't cover the disgust. A deep, resigned sigh. Jeffrey stands in front of a bright pink and blue building painted in smiling, cartoonish faces of giraffes, elephants, and bears. A sign on the front says ‘50 Cents Admission — You're in for a Ton of Safe, Friendly Fun’. "Damnit all."
Memory 3566
Darkness. Jeffrey hears Moustache bumping around up ahead but can't see a thing. He fumbles with wires, jams them at a wall, searching for an outlet. Bingo. Colourful lights flood over him. Playful music fills the area. An animatronic dog stares at Jeffrey with dead plastic eyes. "Let's be friends." Jeffrey delivers a solid kick to the dog's chest. "Let's be fr-fr-fr-frieeeeee —". Moving on. As soon as Jeffrey reaches the hall, he's overtaken by a teddy bear parade. Cartoonish animatronics emerge from the walls, singing, smashing cymbals, playing flutes. Or at least pretending to. Crackling music plays from speakers above, singing a stupid song about hugs bringing the world together. Jeffrey elbows his way past Billy Bear and Dingles. Buries a blade into Laffy's neck. Gets tangled up by Terry Tickle's outstretched arms. Smashes off Poppo's lower jaw. Before he knows it, he's waist deep in the ball pit canal. Navigating the balloon forest. And that's where he finds Moustache — hiding at the feet of an animatronic tiger wearing a British guard's uniform. "Bah... the longer you cower behind Sir Cuddlepuss, the more I'm gonna make this hurt."
Moustache makes a run for it. Jeffrey pulls a bottle of Afterpiece Tonic from his inner pocket. Gives it a swirl and hucks. Glass shatters. A thick cloud of fumes envelope Moustache. The man stumbles and coughs, looks around in confusion, criss-crosses his feet as if each one wants to go a separate way. Jeffrey socks the idiot in the side of the head, knocking him unconscious. "Time to go home."
Memory 3567
The man with the moustache is huddled in the corner of Jeffrey's trailer. Babbling, crying, pleading his case. Jeffrey isn't listening. All he sees is the finger... and the puddle at Moustache's feet. Jeffrey knows what it means. The man's realised he has one chance at survival, and his fight or flight just kicked in. But Jeffrey doesn't care, he knows he's already won. The Finger of Chaos is as good as his. The memories of his father are already shifting. A large, horrible man towering above, bellowing — no, that isn't it. "Think, Jeffrey." A weak, slouching alcoholic, stammering and slurring, too pathetic to control him. The outbursts? Nothing but the fury of a coward, the parody of a powerful man — a joke!
Moustache jumps up, reaches for the bottles of chemicals on the counter. Predictable. Jeffrey bellows laughter as he grabs the man's neck and slams him to the floor. Puts his full weight onto Moustache, grips his throat and squeezes. "You want to play with chemicals, do ya? I don't even know what'd happen if those mixed. Hallucinations... euphoria... uncontrolled flatulence... death?" Jeffrey thinks this over as he repeatedly smacks Moustache's head into the floor. They all sound like hilarious endings. And why not add some uncertainty to the mix? He doesn't need to fear chaos anymore. He can handle it. And hell, he deserves a little fun.
"You want to play one last game? Okay, Moustache... let's play."
Video
- This video is unlocked after completing all Master Challenges associated with this Memory/Log entry
Jake Park: Exile of the Kingdom
Memory 881
Jake bites his lower lip with the thought of chowing down on a rack of ribs — smoking, charred, succulent ribs. He shakes his head and returns his focus to the moment... to the wild hog he's been tracking through the woods all morning and afternoon. But he can't get the thoughts out of his mind. He's never had such a hard time keeping his focus. When he's not thinking about food he's thinking about the past, about home, about the argument. Seems like it happened so long ago. The argument started on Friday and by Monday morning, he was out on his own, exiled from the only life he knew for disobedience. But it wasn't disobedience. Not to Jake. To Jake it was a need. No. It was more than a need. It was a longing... a profound longing to know where he came from and why his father never talked about him.
"But you didn't have to push him so hard, did you?"
"I did. I had to. I had to because I had the right to know who he was. Don't you see? I have an emptiness inside me that no money or thing can fill. Yet... he never told me anything about him... he just distracted himself with the business and all the trappings of a superficial life and —"
"Raising you, Jake! Raising his boys!"
Jake stares past trampled grass and he hears his mother's voice resounding through his head.
"Jake... please... you are expecting a straight thing, and no straight thing has ever been made. Your father isn't perfect, and everything he's done is to give you a better life than he had. He has his reasons."
"And I have mine!"
Jake closes his eyes. He remembers leaving home without saying goodbye. He remembers backpacking across Korea, meeting people who had known his grandfather and could tell him stories about how he had lived. And none of the stories he had been told justified burying the past the way his father had done. He had expected his grandfather to be an abusive, deadbeat and yet... he had discovered a hero... a legend even. He had saved and reunited so many families and so many were grateful and indebted and still... he never mentioned him.
"Maybe he didn't want a legend, Jake. Maybe he wanted something else. But why does it matter? Why does it matter right now?"
A voice of caution suddenly brings Jake back to the moment. His grandfather's voice or what he thinks his grandfather would have sounded like. "Jake... stop thinking about everything else except what you need to think about. You need to eat before you begin to see things that aren't there. You've been at it all morning and afternoon with that make-shift spear, and if you don't get the hog you'll end up like me."
Jake nods with a slight respectful bow as he examines the freshly trampled grass.
Memory 882
Jake charges after the boar as it zigzags through the long grass and suddenly disappears near the creek. Panting, he slows to a jog, searching left and right. He's hiding. Hiding like the letter his father hid in the attic. Don't lose your focus, Jake... not now... not again...
"I don't understand why he would hide such a beautiful letter in a shoebox?"
"Ah, yes... the letter. It's the letter that set you off on your journey. It's the letter that inspired you to learn your father's language properly."
"You wanted to translate it for yourself, and you did. But now, Jake, you need to stop thinking about the letter, about your father, about the past... you need to focus on the hunt or none of it will matter anymore. Find food or become food."
Jake winces. His grandfather would never say such a thing. That's something his father would say. The voices in his head are mixing like a horrible stew of fermenting leftovers. He doesn't remember when he started hearing the voices but at some point out on his own in the mountains, he realised he was talking to himself and that talking to himself helped him cope with the loneliness.
"Everyone hears voices inside their head, Jake, although most are too distracted to listen or even acknowledge them, or, if they do acknowledge them, they keep them private for fear of ridicule."
Most of Jake’s voices are family members and old friends that make friendly talk here and there, but as of late the voices poke and question everything he does.
And now for the last two days he was hearing a new voice. A mocking voice that highlighted and criticised every mistake he made like his dreaded high school English teacher that made him read garbage he didn't connect with or gave him nicknames like ‘muddle brain’ for mixings up words, reading backwards and seeing things in the stories she claimed weren't there. They were. She just lacked imagination and perspective.
It was her voice — teeth grinding on wool — that squelched through his mind to undermine his dignity and confidence as a thinking human being.
Jake was convinced his teacher had existed solely to prevent those with other ideas and perspectives from ever pursing a literary career. His father didn't care about his issue with his English teacher or with teachers in general.
It didn't matter.
Stories didn't matter.
Just tell the teacher what she wants to hear. Think of her as your boss and think of grades as money. Parrot her ideas and opinions and you'll be rewarded with lots of money... maybe even a bonus or a promotion.
Easy enough advice to follow.
And yet his father's advice did nothing to improve his sense of otherness in relation to the stories and curriculum he was subjected to on an almost daily basis. He still felt like an outsider for lacking interest in the literature and history he was expected to read and memorise as truths undeniable. Seemed like there was a big chunk of perspective missing from the overall narrative being poured into him like concrete that made him feel like he didn't belong.
"But what does it matter now?"
"It doesn't."
"Leave the past in the past and focus on what needs to get done."
"I'm trying."
Listen here, big brother... the sun's coming down, you're having conversations with yourself, and your cells are about to cannibalise one another. Find your focus."
Memory 883
Jake sits on a stone and watches a hawk circle against the golden dusk. He sighs and feels his stomach twist. He needs something... anything... and he regrets not taking the free granola bars from the clerk at the hunting store. He still doesn't understand what he was trying to prove and to whom he was trying to prove it to. "I guess I want to see if I could be like him."
"You've brought trail mix and other snacks before. What's so special this time?"
Jake draws a deep, anxious breath. "I don't know...
The hawk sails through the darkening sky, then swoops and quickly disappears near the stream. Jake stares after it for a long moment, then decides. He grabs his spear, staggers to his feet and stealthily makes his way toward the shimmering water.
By a fallen tree he sees the hawk picking at feathers and bones. He inches closer, lifts his spear and launches it. The spear hits the ground, and the hawk rockets to the sky, leaving scraps behind. "Scraps... Scraps will do. For now."
Jake kneels by a sticky clump of flesh and feathers. He smells the pungent odour of heart-pounding red. He touches the sticky innards and the plucked skin and the bones... bones as white as the hog's grin.
Jake sighs his frustration and shakes his head. He doesn't know if hogs display any kind of emotion. But if they can... this hog is definitely smiling. No... Not smiling... Laughing.
"What kind of bird is this, anyway?"
"Doesn't matter." Jake pulls out matches and cooks the guts, preparing a kind of bird-pudding.
"You brought matches but no granola bars?"
"I don't know what I was thinking."
"You're not him, Jake."
"I know."
"He died out there."
"He disappeared."
"Same thing."
"Not to me."
Memory 884
Jake tries to spit the rancid taste of regurgitated bird out of his mouth as he tracks the boar. His stomach rejected most of what he tried to stuff into it, but he's grateful he got some nourishment for his starving cells. He can't even begin to imagine what it would be like to guide and care for others in the middle of nowhere. How'd he do it? How'd he feed them? How'd he lead them out of the woods with soldiers tracking them?
Jake stops suddenly to examine a few broken twigs. He brings his focus back to the hunt, trying to determine which direction the hog took. Then he hears it.
Snorting.
Almost inaudible, but he hears it. He turns towards a patch of shuffling high grass and narrows his gaze. The snorting grows louder and louder. "He's laughing at me! Sunnava bitch, is laughing at me!"
"You aren’t worthy, kid!"
"The hell I'm not!"
Jake launches his spear into the moving grass. A high pitch squeal follows, and the hog jolts away!
Jake surges after him, tracking a trail of red to the mouth of a small cave. He laughs to himself and knows he will feast tonight. "He's done!"
"So sure?"
"I searched that cave before... there's no other way out. It's just a matter of time and patience.
"And focus... Jake... focus...
Memory 885
Jake figures an hour or so has passed and he's noticed no movement or attempt to escape. This is a worthy adversary. He thinks he can outwait me.
"It's a good plan... He might actually escape. I'm betting on the hog."
"You'll lose, bro."
Jake considers his options, then grabs a small shovel out of his rucksack and begins to dig a pit. He feels cobalt eyes watching him and he grins to himself. "It will take a bit of time... but this deadfall will put the odds in my favour."
The people his grandfather helped said he dug a tunnel under a small clearing to avoid detection... He dug a tunnel... Digging a small pit is nothing in comparison.
"What I don't understand is... you brought a shovel... and matches but no granola bars... What the hell were you thinking?
"I guess I wasn't."
"You're a walking contradiction, Jake."
"I guess."
"The stupid shit we do when we're lost and alone."
"I'm not lost or alone... I'm exactly where I want to be."
"Yeah, yeah. The whole turn your back on civilised living because humanity and not you have lost your way. Make yourself believe whatever you want... but in the end... he's your father."
"He didn't even try to reach out to me!"
You didn't try to reach out to him."
"He kicked me out!"
"You poked and twisted an old wound. You hit a nerve and he reacted."
"His father was a hero!"
"Maybe he didn't want a hero, Jake. Maybe he just wanted a father... A living, breathing father to do shit with... kinda like what you got."
Memory 886
Jake stands next to his father and brother by the sizzling barbeque and the turquoise, inground pool. He takes in the scent of thick, fatty, white bacon melting into mounds of burning black charcoal. He reaches around his father and pulls off a strip and devours it. His father smiles and says it's like he's never seen food before.
Jake's eyes widen as thick, droplets of grease drip off his chin. He suddenly pushes past his father and brother, attacking the grill, stuffing his face with greasy, life-giving fat and protein. His father tries to hold him back but Jake won't be denied when suddenly the meat morphs into a living, wild hog. The hog turns to Jake and winks.
Jake stumbles back and falls into the pool.
The pool swirls and turns into a deadfall as several spikes rip through his chest. Jake yells in agony, waking up with a start, finding himself in a small pit beside thick, sharpened branches pointed outward.
Jake wipes the sweat off his brow and slowly clambers to his feet. He climbs out of the deadfall and stares into the darkness of the cave for a long moment. Then he hears his mother's soothing voice.
"Jake... please... finish the letter and send it to him."
"Why? What's the use? It's just gonna end up in a shoebox in the attic like his father's letter."
"You're wrong. It will be like the picture in his wallet."
"That's just a stupid picture!"
"Not to him."
Memory 887
Jake grabs a few branches, sets them ablaze and tosses them into the dark, gaping mouth of the cave. He watches the darkness fill with lashing, flames and swirling, smoke, and he waits for the inevitable. As he stares at the thickening smoke, he's reminded of a story and his thoughts drift away to his grandfather.
He reunited so many broken families. He helped so many people survive exposure, exhaustion and starvation. He saved them all and yet... he couldn't save himself.
They said there was a kind of smoke, too... a thick black smoke that suddenly surrounded them. One minute he was there. The next... he was gone. The survivors Jake had spoken to in Seoul said he was probably captured and executed but that they didn't know for sure.
A piercing squeal followed by a meaty thunk suddenly brings Jake back to the moment. He didn't even see the hog make a dash for it. He leans over the pit and stares at the skewered hog shaking and convulsing as life pours out of its wounds.
Jake sighs and feels mingled relief and regret. Sorry, brother... it was either you or me.
Memory 888
To be revealed in Tome Level 3.
Memory 889
To be revealed in Tome Level 3.
Memory 890
To be revealed in Tome Level 3.
Video
To be revealed in Tome Level 3.
The Observer: Midnight in the Garden of Infinity
Arcus 13
The series featuring Haddie and Jordan on Terra 717 or Haley and Jaden on Terra 1315, or even Hannah and Justin on Terra 238 are all titled ‘HarbingerFM’ instead of ‘The Harbinger of Hell,’ and they seem to have more insight on what The Entity might be and how it corrupts and influences other worlds. Other Terra Worlds have quite unique and sometimes contradictory versions of the Harbinger series which make them difficult to track and interpret. But despite the discrepancies, each version seems to feature siblings trying to expose a nefarious cult devoted to The Entity.
I am currently searching The Rift for the real memories that inspired all these adventures to see how close they are to the actual inspiration. I'm even wondering if Haddie and Jordan are here, trapped in The Entity, and, if they are, I'm hoping their memories will somehow help me find a way out of here. So far, I have found nothing close to a real memory, but I did find another story from Terra 717 in which Haddie discusses a phenomenon she calls ‘The Overlap’ and which other stories call The Borro, The Coil, The Bleed, etc.
I'm currently keeping extensive notes on the Harbinger stories and their descriptions of The Overlap to see if any of them can give me insight into what this phenomenon actually is. What I've discovered so far is that almost all of these stories describe places where a dark dimension intersects with the world and that these intersections seem to attract tragedy and misfortune. Some of these stories go so far as to claim ‘broken’ or ‘traumatised’ people can derive strange abilities from the vibrations emanating from these dark and ‘cursed’ places. These people can ultimately use The Bleed — my preferred name for the phenomenon — to access knowledge beyond the veil as it were.
The Harbinger series from Terra 719 is also worth noting because the details included by the author seem closest to what we studied back home concerning Ancients and living dimensions, not to mention what I've been able to discover by examining the memories of souls marooned here. Piece by piece, or rather, story by story, I'm getting closer to salvation... or insanity... whichever comes first.
Chamber of Blood. HarbingerFM. Worlds Away. 1.
To be revealed in Tome Level 3.
Chamber of Blood. HarbingerFM. Worlds Away. 2.
To be revealed in Tome Level 3.
Chamber of Blood. HarbingerFM. Worlds Away. 3.
To be revealed in Tome Level 3.
Chamber of Blood. The Spiders.
To be revealed in Tome Level 3.
Terra Arachna. 1.
To be revealed in Tome Level 4.
Terra Arachna. 2.
To be revealed in Tome Level 4.
Terra Arachna. 3.
To be revealed in Tome Level 4.
Terra Arachna. 4.
To be revealed in Tome Level 4.
Terra Arachna. 5.
To be revealed in Tome Level 4.
Video
To be revealed in Tome Level 4.
Glyphs
- Main article: Yellow Glyphs
Yellow Glyph
- Tome 8 - Deliverance introduced Yellow Glyph challenges.
Upon selecting the Glyph Graduate challenge a Yellow Glyph will spawn in the Trial Grounds and needs to be communed with to gain Challenge progression.- While communing with a Yellow Glyph, the Glyph will trigger several Template:IconLink in quick succession, testing one's skill and focus.
Failing a Skill Check will relocate the Glyph to a different part of the Trial Grounds.
- While communing with a Yellow Glyph, the Glyph will trigger several Template:IconLink in quick succession, testing one's skill and focus.
Trivia
- "Terra Arachna" translates to "Spider Earth" or "Earth of Arachnids".