Tome V - Unleashed
- 1 Overview
- 2 Journal Entries and Recollection
- 3 Memories & Logs
- 3.1 Talbot Grimes: Doors Unknown
- 3.2 Nea Karlsson: Rebel With a Cause
- 3.3 Max Thompson Jr.: A Man Named Boy
- 3.4 Sanitas Alionis: Logs 337, 1007, 1275, 2217, 5738, 5798, 7525, 8545, 8557, 8789
- 4 Challenges
- 4.1 Level 1
- 4.2 Level 2
- 4.3 Level 3
- 4.4 Level 4
- 5 Trivia
- 6 Trailer
Journal Entries and Recollection
The Hallowed Blight
- This is the same Lore that was featured during the 2018 The Hallowed Blight Event.
1 - The Night
It is impossible to describe the horrifying scenes I have witnessed... death and misery, in every shape of terror, rule this place. I can no longer recall how I have come to this place. All I remember is the opaque, milky fumes of opium in the murky den hazing a sweet, welcoming abyss. I awoke to dreadful screams in this endless night, at the feet an old tree that leaked foul-smelling fluids. I know not how to reach those poor souls, nor do I want to. Keeping a record is all I can do to make sense of it.
2 - Vigo
I discovered a hidden laboratory while running away from a monster. Its stocks are uncommonly plentiful. I observed shelves of alkaloids, crates of silver syringes, piles of protective clothes and a journal signed “Vigo”. Its pages are filled with notes on an ancient force that controls the nature of this place—that shapes it. I also noted a few drawings of the growing cankers I've seen on trees.
3 - The Blight
I have been obsessively deciphering Vigo's Journal. His work is elegant but erratic, drawing obscure conclusions from disjointed fields. Most entries mention a powerful force, The Entity, which undergoes a purge that occurs once a year. During this period, The Entity is infested with blight. According to Vigo, cankers bloom into “Pustulas”, a type of flower that spurts putrid nectar—the thick fluid I saw oozing from the trees. The last pages of the journal mention a serum distilled from the nectar, but the pages detailing its effects and preparation were torn out.
4 - Wounded
I'm hiding in a dense strip of forest. I'm desperate to erase the distressful images engraved in my mind. Last night, a disfigured man barged into the laboratory with a gruesome, mechanical mouth and shred the walls into splinters. I barely escaped with my life—and wounded my arm in the process. I have no options left; these monsters find me no matter where I go. All I have is a journal filled with obscure promises of escape. I will return to the laboratory.
5 - Experiment
I'm close to death, I can feel it. When I returned to the laboratory, I started experimenting with the putrid nectar and distilled it into a foul serum. But I made a terrible mistake. I injected the serum into a dead rodent, whose pupils dilated, and its body shook. I tried to restrain it, but the creature bit into my arm, ripping my wound open. I stopped the bleeding, but I fear the damage is done.
6 - Experiment II
I awoke to a terrible cry booming from the cellar and a violent bout of nausea. Through the vile ordeal, I started to recollect what had happened. Tainted with the foul serum, my wound had swollen with lymph, at which point my assailant returned. Most of our fight was a blur, but I can recall red tears trickling down his gruesome cheeks as I clawed at his face. And some moment later when I kicked him, sending him crashing into a brick wall. The power I felt then… there are no words for it. I now know that there is truth to Vigo's methods. Another cry. My assailant, now chained in the cellar, must be getting restless. This is just the beginning.
7 - The Peak
I should have foreseen his escape, given the potent dosage I administered him, but I needed to see results. Pustula flowers are now blooming on the path leading to the laboratory. According to Vigo's Journal, this rapid spread is a sign that the blight is at its peak. Soon, there will be no more putrid nectar to extract.
8 - Exhausted
I slept very little. The acute throbbing in my wound sent me on a restless, agitated drowse. I have no strength left to be patient, and my distress fosters brutal methods. There are no lines I will not cross.
9 - Restless
I limited my rest to only a few minutes here and there—I cannot afford wasting time. Pustulas, once lush with nectar, were withering away at the roots of cankerous trees. I could only extract droplets from a few frail flowers. I'm running out of time.
10 - At Last
Based on Vigo's calculations, tonight is my last chance. I filled a syringe with the last drops of serum and injected it into my arm.
11 - The End
I did everything right… and failed. I am stuck in this infernal place with no serum and nowhere to hide.
12 - Vigo II
I looked for Vigo. I shouted his name with no concern for the monsters lurking about. I need to find him… I picture the scene, etching a canvas of wild lines in my mind, focusing on the moon and I know—something is off. I fed the dead rodent under my pillow.
13 - Pray
Soon, very soon, I will be at peace. The cold claws of death are drawing near.
It's here. The Entity is here. It has found me.
Memories & Logs
Talbot Grimes: Doors Unknown
In the vast desert of rubble and crumbling columns he sees a flower, a single flower. He shambles through the ruins and extends his hand into a blurring image. Stem and petals disintegrate before his touch. An illusion... He looks up and there... another flower. He rushes towards it as the ground beneath his feet shatters. Endlessly he falls through the remnants of lost and forgotten realms. He wants it to stop. He can't take the rush of hot air and the feeling of his organs rising into his mouth. He hits the ground. Ribs jut out of his chest. Jagged bones rip through his fetid skin. "Where am I? What is this place?" He's in a half-remembered laboratory. He sees an emblem. The Company. He remembers the wars. The Opium Wars. He remembers the prisoners and the experiments and his endless search for doorways into other realms. He found them, just not the way he thought he would. Warm blood pools around him as thousands of decaying prisoners in company fatigues grab and claw at him. This isn't happening. It can't be happening. "You're dead! You're all dead!" He closes his eyes. A collective roar and the prisoners lift him over their heads and toss his broken body into a lightless dungeon. Dark. Cold. Lonely. He shivers and begs... "one more flower... I'll do anything... just give me one more... flower..."
Power is in the mind — the eye of the mind as the mystics called it. The eye that lets us dream and visualise is more than we think it is. Much more. It is a key and it opens doors... Endless doors.... and the key is a secretion... a sacred secretion like a drug to travel within the endless worlds within the swirling chaos that is infinite life. "Blasphemy! Take your ideas out of this school! They belong to the devil!" He takes his ideas to The Company and says the secretion is better than opium. He tells them, there is no experience like it and he calls it the Dragon's Doorway. Makes the high from the poppy seem like cough syrup. He remembers the mystics. The unknown mystics. Mystics who chant hymns in the hope they will die with the right vibration. "Right vibration? What does it mean to die with the right vibration?" "It means they believe different vibrations open different doorways to realms unknown. Death opens the doorway... and the dragon carries you away." The Company is interested. "How would you harvest such an opioid if it's only secreted upon death?" "I'll find a way." And he does... only they find him before he can complete his life's work. He vaguely remembers being bludgeoned to death and thrown in a mass grave of corrupting bodies. And... he remembers being saved... by nine mystics in thick, dark tunics... "Where are the nine now? What have they done with my research? Why did they try to stop me? Questions... so many questions... Where is my flower..." "In your mind..." He thrusts his fingers into his sockets and tears out his eyes and digs deep into his head... searching for a flower... one flower...
Even with no eyes he can see. It doesn't make any sense. He clambers about the muck and grime. He slips and falls and suddenly realises he's clambering over a heap of rotting prisoners and addicts. He pushes through as the groveling men and women beg for more opioids... for tea... for syrup... for opium-laced candies... they make ridiculous promises... "Take my house... my money... my children... take everything... give me more... just a little more..." They sound like him. He pushes through a blur of faces he vaguely recollects. Lives ruined, shattered, destroyed. Wasn't his fault. He hears a disembodied voice. "Kill them all and a flower you will have." He stares down at the agonising men and women and withdraws his cane. Smashes through limbs and skulls furiously. Heads burst open like watermelons. Bones break like dry sticks. He doesn't stop until he stands atop a mountain of flesh, vomit and gore. "Where is it? Where's my flower?" "Find it!" He falls to his knees and digs through the thick sludge of mangled humanity to search for a flower... finds one... but just as he touches the flower it withers away and disappears along with the remnants of his past.
"Talbot... my name is Talbot." He remembers his name as he stares at nine hooded figures approaching him. He stumbles over a crumbling pillar with strange symbols written in a language he half-remembers. He remembers the school, the secret school, and the mystics and the arcane knowledge they were protecting. He was getting too close and he wasn't ready. Humanity wasn't ready. Knowledge without wisdom leads to self-destruction. He doesn't care about any of that. "You condemned me! You all condemned me! Left me to wither away!" A hooded figure approaches him. "You condemned yourself, Talbot! You condemned yourself..." The nine hooded figures disappear as a massive dragon bursts through the ground and peers down at him with dead, black eyes. The hideousness of its face transcends anything he's ever read about, seen or imagined. An ancient evil quickened with dark life! Talbot trembles in a fog of madness that envelops him. The ancient beast lashes out at him, snatches him in its talons and swallows him whole. Mingled saliva and acid rips through his tunic and burns his skin to the bone. With screams of agony he slowly disintegrates in a belly full of putrid, rotting death, watching his body and limbs melt into a gory endless mass.
Talbot wakens in a mass graveyard of skeletons and decaying prisoners of The Company. He blinks and shakes muck from his hollowed eyes. He vomits everything in his guts and doesn't understand what's happening to him. Nothing makes sense except for his hunger. "Please... I will... do anything... give me what I ask and I am yours. Give it to me... I need it..." Vines suddenly burst through the decaying bodies and surround him. Flowers grow and bloom in all their glory. Beautiful golden serum drips like honey wherever his eye can see. He approaches one slowly and is scared to touch it. He extends his hand and touches the flower and... it doesn't wither away. He touches another. And another. Nothing happens. He goes to grab the flower but instead — the flower grabs him! Vines like tentacles burst out and wrap around him and rip through his veins. Nine hooded figures approach him with disapproving looks. "Knowledge without wisdom leads to self-destruction." They inch up to him. "Be careful what you wish for, Talbot. Be careful what you wish for."
Nea Karlsson: Rebel With a Cause
Nea skates over to Falls City park, searching for her friend Casey but doesn't find her. She skates to her home and her mother says she's in The Narrows handing out water bottles with a grassroots organisation calling themselves Life Drop. "Life Drop? The Narrows? What's Casey gotten herself into this time?" "You know Casey, probably some save-the-bees organisation that just doesn't understand the way the world works." No such thing as the American Dream anymore, only the Corporate Dream and the Corporate Dream and the American Dream ain't the same thing. She's read about The Narrows... supposed to be the poorest and most polluted district in Falls City. Maybe it's because it's the poorest that it's also the most polluted. Maybe it's because of corrupt yet legal policy against those who can't afford the big lawyers to change or challenge the corrupt policy. Paper mills. Car factories. Toxic waste facilities. All dumping on the land and water. A few politicians set the dollar price to poison the environment and an entire community of blue-collar workers pay the price, the ultimate price, with their health and lives. Nothing new. Same old, same old. The fat-cats and bureaucrats keep doing it because they can. So long as there's money to be made in poisoning the world, someone will be there to make it. That's everywhere, every city she ever read about, and Falls City ain't no exception. She used to care, but then there was too much to care about, and so she decided it was easier not to care anymore. Funny how that happened. All she cares about now is skateboarding and finding the impossible place to tag. Whatever, maybe she'll find something to tag in The Narrows. She skates down the street following Upper Falls River toward the poorest and most polluted district in Falls City.
"What are you and the mums doing?" Nea approaches Casey and several middle-aged women handing out water bottles and cases to local residents. Casey turns to Nea. "What are we doing? Anything we can to help." Nea laughs and nudges Casey. "Let's go to the park." Casey nudges her back. "Not today Nea, this is important... another day..." Nea watches Casey and the other women handing out water to the poor. "How many kids at home? Three? Okay, here's a dozen bottles. Four? Okay, take an extra container." "When is our water going to be safe?" "The hell if I know." "Is it dangerous to shower? To do the laundry?" "How bad is the water?" "Pretty bad. The water is killing our children. We need a centre to treat the poisoned." Nea listens to all the talk with horror and disbelief. She's never really had to think about something as basic and essential as water and now... she's thinking about water... polluted water... and the poor in her city. They're saying it's the worst case of Minamata disease in the country. She doesn't know what that is... Minamata... but it sounds bad, real bad. "What's Minamata?" Casey looks upset or disturbed as she hands out another container of fresh water to a resident. "It's what happens when people are poisoned with mercury." Nea sighs, feels for the residents, but knows shit happens and there's just not much you can do about it. "We can't save the world, Casey? What's a few containers of bottled water gonna do?" Casey freezes and gives Nea a look she doesn't quite understand. It's a moment before she responds. "Yeah, well, maybe we can't save the world, Nea, but we can sure as hell make it a little bit better, and that's good enough for me."
"Can't save the world but we can make it a little bit better and that's good enough for me." Nea thought about Casey's response the entire night as she researched the horrors of the Minamata disease. Deterioration of motor skills. Walking and speaking degenerate. Random convulsions. Paralysis. Children born with twisted limbs. All permanent side-effects of mercury poison. Mayor cut a deal with a beverage company. They rerouted good, healthy water from a clean lake for a bottled water facility that bought the rights to the water and connected The Narrows to the old river system. They thought no one would notice. They thought it wouldn't be that bad. They thought wrong. When mothers began losing their unborn children and everyone began to lose their hair fifty-thousand residents began to notice. They noticed, they complained, but no one did a thing. Business as usual. Nea takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. She's never really had to think about water and now that's all she's thinking about.
"Come see this creepy, abandoned factory I just tagged." Casey shrugs. "I have no time for your ego." "Ego? What are you talking about?" Casey shakes her head. "Big deal, Nea. Your name on a ruined wall, or whatever, who cares. Why not stand for something? Say something? All that time and energy just to say you tagged a scary place. Whoopie. Big fuckin' deal." Nea scrunches her face. She feels under attack. "What's going on with you?" Casey shrugs. "I don't know... if you'd at least piss off a tyrant, you would have done something with your... your... art... if that's what you want to call it." Nea doesn't say anything. She doesn't know what to say. She takes her board and heads down to The Narrows. She stares at the overgrown and abandoned factories lining the river. They came. They profited. They left. It's so stupid and it's so simple. You poison the water you die. No money or power or law will change that.
"The Zyderr production mill. That's where I'll do it." They dumped crap in the river for years destroying the camping and fishing industry all over the country. Twenty years later The Narrows dies a slow, agonising death and there's no justice and there probably never will be. There isn't even an investigation or a hospital or a centre to treat the poisoned. The environmental agency says everything's fine, but it isn't. It really isn't. No one wants to say its mercury poisoning. To admit to mercury poisoning is to admit fault. To admit fault is to help The Narrows and pay for a cleanup. The city doesn't want a lawsuit. No one is moving or doing anything and yet children are suffering and dying. Children are suffering and dying... and no one is doing anything... and Nea can't stop thinking about them. Takes a special kind of evil to poison children. Something about the whole thing makes her want to get involved, real involved, like her friend Casey. Maybe she should tag those so-called public servants who only serve themselves.
Nea skates to the side wall of the bottling factory. They make glass and plastic bottles for fresh water and dump their chemicals and poisons in the river. "How fuckin' stupid is this place? How stupid is the city and that bastard of a mayor to allow such a thing?" She searches for the perfect spot, the perfect surface to tag. She sees a spot high up in the open. "That should annoy them." She sneaks to the front door, sees a camera, spray paints the lens of camera, begins to tag the wall. They poison water to provide bottles for good water. Absurd. Ridiculous. Unbelievable. Nea finishes her good work with time and paint to spare. She searches the premises and finds a large white garage door. Smiles. "Perfect." She'll tag her name nice and big for everyone to see. "That oughta piss off a tyrant as Casey says." The cause is actually getting to Nea and she wishes her art would piss off the factory and the city enough for them to clean up the river. Wishful thinking. "They came. They profited. They left... left an entire community poisoned. Gotta be laws against that and maybe even a death sentence for those who knowingly poison children."
"So you tagged their building. Big deal. Means nothing. You got your name out there... that's what you did... but what does that name stand for?" Nea doesn't know how to respond to Casey. She's never really attached a message to her street name like others. It's just not something she thought she'd ever do. "It's not about a message. It's about art." Casey says art is the message. "Art is rebellion. Some call it preaching." "Who said that? Who made that up?" "The corporations, Nea... of course they did. Get artists scared of using their art, of saying anything against their abuse and they win. Centuries ago artists protested tyrant kings and those tyrants did all they could to own or stifle their art through fear of poverty or fear of death. Nea... kings still exist... they do... just in different ways. Today the kings are CEOS and their kingdoms are corporations and some are good kings and others... not so good... and the not so good one have found other ways to keep artists in line. Scare them in school. Tell them not to make a statement. Tell them to stand for something. Appeal to all. Just entertain. Entertain and inspire but don't say something. Don't be political. Nea... everything is political. Not say something is say something. Turning your back and ignoring corruption is a choice, a political choice of indifference." Nea sighs. She doesn't know. She's not sure. She's never really done it before like the others. It always kind of rubbed her the wrong way. Casey scoffs at her tag. "Stand up for something or stand for nothing. Your choice as an artist. Your political choice."
"Come with me." Casey jumps on her board and leads Nea into The Narrows. She leads her to a home where a father helps his son eat food in his bed. "He's only eleven. Never had a chance. The only mistake was trusting those who were supposed to protect him. He's dying. Mercury poisoning. Before, people in The Narrows died of natural causes... now it's all mercury poisoning." Casey sighs and shakes her head. "You sign your tag over the culprit's garage door and all you've done is advertise your street name. I heard your bullshit about not using your tag for a cause. What's the use of a tag then? What the use of a voice if you ain't gonna say anything? Ain't gonna stand up for something. Art is an act of defiance. Not an act of profit. Not an act of fame. Say something, Nea. Let the world know what's in your heart. Someone just might listen and do something. Lend your voice to the voiceless. Not rebel without a cause. Rebel with a cause."
Nea thinks about what Casey said as she lies in bed staring at a glass of water. "Casey's right", and Nea remembers a time when she wanted to say so much as a street artist. Somehow that got stamped out of her. She tries to remember how it got stamped out of her. The only thing she can think about is... school. No messages. No politics. Nothing. Just inspire and entertain. Yet corporations have messages and politics. Politics of selling. She remembers being told not to use art for politics yet who does that benefit? Kings. Tyrant kings trying to own voices or stifle voices by creating an inner self-editor that begins in school. "Keep politics out of it!" "Keep politics out of it? Everything is politics even the act of trying to stay out of politics. Politics... fuckin' politics... fuckin' corrupt mayor... Bastard didn't just switch good water for poison water... he sold the good water to a corporate king. Absurd. Ridiculous. Unbelievable." She never heard of such a thing. "No one should own the rights to water. No one. Water belongs to everyone. To all living things." Nea stares at a spray paint can on her dresser. She thinks of something to say. Something to make people stop and take notice. For the first time in a long time she doesn't care if it's a message or a political statement. Screw her high school art teacher who made her feel insecure about making statements with her creations. "Water is health. Water is strength. Water is a human right... Water is a human right... a basic human right.
Nea is amazed at how many poor communities shower, bathe, cook and do their laundry in poison water because a few kings bought the rights to their good water. It's absurd. Ridiculous. Unbelievable. She's never felt so involved in a cause before and she likes the feeling. Possibly her first cause since school tried to stifle her voice with fear of making mistakes... of saying something... of having a message... of going against the corporate dream. Not the American dream, the corporate dream. Nea surfs the net and reads about the kings and their scramble for fresh water all over the world. She's happy to read it's not going so well. In every country where these tyrant kings tried to own fresh water they were kicked out by the people. Yet these stories are difficult to find. Kings losing battles to peasants is rarely breaking news or news at all. Almost like the kings want to make sure no one gets inspired to fight against them as they desperately scramble to buy up all the water they didn't poison. They want it all. They want to sell it. And they don't want peasants getting in their way. Water is everything... Owning water is like owning life. Owning water is deciding who lives or dies. And that's what the kings and the mayor did in Falls City. They condemned and poisoned an entire community and did nothing to help them. And did nothing... Nea hopes in a higher justice, one that can't be owned or bribed, and she swears she'll turn the mayor's new luxury car into a work of rebellion. Can't change the world, but you can make it a little bit better. A little bit better... that's enough for her.
Max Thompson Jr.: A Man Named Boy
In the darkness of his cell he hears footsteps approaching. He hears laughter and gossip. His father with others. He's not sure who he's with. He puts his ear to the door and hears a laugh, a deep guttural laugh. He feels his skin crawl and his stomach twist in knots. It can only be Chief. He hates Chief, especially when he's with his Pa. They make him do all kinds of things for fun and laughs. His Pa brags about his 'killing tool' as he often calls him. More laughter. Other voices. Chief brought some deputies to enjoy the show. He wants to smash them all to bits just to make them stop laughing. Everyone laughs at him. The whole world laughs at him. He grinds his teeth with frustration. They ain't supposed to laugh. They're supposed to protect him and he knows it. He's seen it on his TV, the only thing that calms him and keeps him company when he's done his work. TV is something special... the friend and parent he never had... But Chief... Chief ain't like those on TV. He's another kind of Chief of Police. The kind that works with Pa to clean money. He doesn't even know what that means but he overheard them by the pigpen talking about cleaning a whole load of money and sharing that load with a judge and other men of the law. They clean money together. That's why Chief lets Pa and Ma do whatever they want to him. "Chief is crooked", his Pa always says. Crooked like his boy's face. The laughter grows louder. They approach his brick dungeon and he shivers at the thought of more slaughter. He's tired of killing to make a few deputies laugh. Real tired. He feels his blood boiling, feels it rising through his neck, feels it pushing up his face like it wants to burst through his skull. A sudden high-pitched whistling noise fills his ears. He hits his head over and over again until the whining stops. Silence returns, for a moment, just a moment, and then a chain rattles. Bolts snap loudly as he loses balance and falls back to his haunches. The door opens, filling his brick cell with blinding sunlight. He covers his eyes with his arm. His Pa steps inside, grabs him, and yanks him to his feet. "Come on, Boy! Let's show these deputies your worth!"
In the sweltering barn, he stares at the blood dripping from his hammer, feeling as though he were in a dream. Strange. Weird. Unhinged. No. Not a dream. More like... like he's living in a TV show... watching himself from a distance. Slaughtered cows thick and wet all around him. Seven or eight of them writhing helplessly in warm, coagulating blood. Heads cracked open. Brain and gore spilling out. Flies buzzing around him, buzzing in his face, buzzing in his ears, telling him this slaughter is who he is. This senseless slaughter is his worth... his only worth. "Kill. That's what they love to watch you do. Kill. Kill. Kill." The flies are laughing at him. Laughing with Chief and his deputies, telling him he's so useless, he don't even have a name. "Boy! What kind of name is that!" His Pa shoves him towards another cow. "You ain't done yet!" Boy raises his hammer and shakes blood from his eyes. He feels strange. Weird. Unhinged. Fed up. He's had enough of this life, the cell, shovelling manure, slaughter, endless slaughter, and taking care of those pigs. Those prised pigs — pigs given more love by his parents than he ever got. The flies circle his face and laugh at him. The high-pitched whining returns. "The pigs got names and you didn't! Duke and Donny." He swats at the flies. Pa nudges him. "Come on, Boy, show'em you can do more with that hammer!" Boy... That's what Pa calls him. Boy... That's what Ma calls him. They think he's too dumb to know he doesn't have a name. A real name. He knows. All his life he knew. He knew and imagined himself as Max... Max Thompson. Imagined his Pa was so proud of him that he gave him his name. How he dreamed to have his father's name... how he dreamed... Pa shoves him. "Come on! Show'em! Show'em now!" Boy feels his face fill with blood. His veins swell with fury. His temples throb maddeningly. The next moments are a blur. Blood and screams everywhere! Not bovine... human... the whining begins again and he's confused, searching for his Pa but not finding him. The whining stops and everything is muffled. He turns to see Chief charging at him. "What have you done!?" Boy doesn't really hear him. It's like when Ma held his head in a bucket of water to teach him not to call or cry for her when he was a child. Everything's muffled, distorted, surreal. Chief tackles him and grabs the gory hammer out of his hand. "You killed'em! Your Pa! Jim! Don! Ray! My men! My fuckin' men!" Boy pushes Chief off and tumbles out of the barn, drenched in blood, heading towards the main house, screaming for his Ma in the growing dusk.
Ma sobs on the ground with a mouth full of cracked teeth. Boy lifts her with one arm and a flood of inarticulate words rush out of his mouth. Words he only understands. Words the TV taught him. He wants to know his name, his real name, and she just stares at him, confused, lost, desperate. She gurgles blood and chips of tooth slip down the side of her face as she begs for her life. Even if she understood what he was saying she could tell him nothing. "My name! My name! What's my name!" Boy slams his Ma against the ground again and again. He lifts her over his head and hurtles her against the kitchen table. It breaks under her weight. Blood gushes from a wound in her leg. She loses consciousness. He feels bad and holds her limp body. "Why? Why did you hate me? What did I do to make you both hate me so much?" Her face is both beautiful and hideous at the same time. Evil veiled by beauty. He hugs her, harder and harder, wishing everything would have been different, wishing he were one of those damn pigs. They spoiled them with love, affection and time — all that time they spent with Duke and Donny while he grovelled nameless and alone in a dungeon built just for him. He tries to lift her, but slips in a pool of her blood. She struggles in his embrace. Every time he asks the question he squeezes her tighter and tighter. "My name... What's my name?" Her struggles cease and she jerks spasmodically. Tense arms and legs go limp. He releases her slowly. Her head thumps hard in a puddle of blood. She stares upwards with blue vacant eyes. Beautiful blue vacant eyes. Eyes that only saw a monster, a thing, a beast of burden to work the farm. Never a son. Never her son. He hates those eyes. Those...those... hateful eyes. He rips them out and squeezes. They pop like bovine eyes. He smiles and doesn't really know why he's smiling. He wipes blood off his face and likes the mushy feeling in his hands. He hears a foot pound the floor behind him. Chief suddenly rushes into the kitchen. "I'm gonna smash your head with your own god-damn hammer!" But as he lifts the hammer he slips in an inch of warm blood. Boy panics and rushes outside into the darkening woods with Chief screaming and cursing and bullets whipping by him.
Boy doesn't know how long he's been running but he's tired. He hears Chief yelling and hollering after him in the distance. Says he regrets the day he told his parents to keep him as a farm-hand. Says he told Ma and Pa that a monster-kid would make a damn good worker. Says others things, too. Things Boy doesn't want to hear. "Your parents tried to kill you! Let a pot of boiling water spill over you, and told us you were a clumsy child! They says you pulled the pot down from the stove, but I knew better! I seen right through'em!" Too embarrassed of their deformed kid that they poured scalding water over him. "Tried to kill you! Tried to make it look like an accident!" Boy covers his ears. Flies buzz about, laughing. He doesn't want to hear this. A high-pitched ringing echoes through his mind. "Stop! Stop! Stop!" But it won't stop. He knows he's the only one who can hear the whining and laughing flies. He knows he hears things. He knows his Pa hurt him. Hurt his head. Screamed too loud in his ear when he was a baby. Screamed mean things. Mean things like he wished Ma's belly-cord strangled him completely and not just halfway. He takes a moment to gather himself. He hears other voices. Chief called in more deputies. Doesn't matter. Let them all come. They all deserve to pay for doing nothing while his Ma and Pa made him suffer.
Boy squeezes the neck so tight screams quickly fade into pathetic whimpers. It's easier to kill a man than a cow. Only, a man makes much more of a fuss. Boy stares into the deputy's panicking eyes and knows this one. Knows him well. This one laughed at him many times. Laughed at him when he should have helped him. "Who's laughing now! Didn't you watch TV? The police are supposed to help, not hurt! Laugh at me now!" Boy lifts him off his feet and pounds the back of the head against a tree. Over and over again. "Laugh now! Laugh! Laugh!" The skull splits open like a melon and brain mass hangs from one side. Boy releases him and the dying deputy can barely keep his balance. He toddles left and right and stops in front of Boy. For a moment he stares at him as though seeing something more than a tool or a freak show. Something smarter than a mule. Smarter and deadlier. The deputy seems lost and confused... like a mindless zombie on TV. The trembling, confused deputy shuffles forwards, feeling his wet mushy head. Boy moves to the side to let him pass and stares at his good work. Stares at the gore dripping from his skull like putty. Watches him stagger left and right in the moonlight. If he were a cow, he'd end his suffering. But he's not a cow. He's something else. Something vile and corrupt. Boy watches him disappear in the shadows. He stares at the darkness until he hears a thud. A strange feeling fills his heart and he... laughs. It feels good to fight back and show them his worth — his real worth.
Boy hears Chief searching frantically for him. He sits still by a tree covered by bramble, squeezing a handful of deputy brain. It's got the same texture as cow brain. He probably couldn't tell the difference if he had a lump in each hand. He squeezes and likes the feeling. It soothes him, calms him, relieves his anxiety. His thoughts wander to his favourite TV shows. Ma and Pa let him have a TV to shut him up. They got tired of him smashing the wall and crying for them. Nothing worked. Not the gag or the rope that he always managed to get out of. Only the TV. TV was better than any constraint. It kept him sitting down, passive, complacent and quiet. Ma said it hypnotised him and that was a good thing. The TV showed Boy so many things. Showed him how different his life was from other children. Showed him what parents should have been like. He wishes his parents were more like Clark's parents. They made a hero out of their son just by being good to him and raising him right. They took good care of him and he wasn't even theirs. Or... the other parents... the parents of that other boy, Beaver. He had a good family. But he wasn't like them. He wasn't like Clark or Beaver. He came into the world hurt, deformed and weak like a runt. His Pa told him he had wanted to stuff him in a bag with rocks and throw him in the lake. Tough love. Tough life. Tough everything. He hears deputies shouting in the distance. Boy feels scared and does what he usually does in his brick cell. He closes his eyes and thinks of Clark and waits for the greatest of all heroes to save him. He never comes and it's not like TV. He's always there to save the day. He's always there to help those who need help. But TV ain't reality and he's alone. He's alone because he was born a crooked little beast. Boy opens his eyes and stares at the gory lump in his hand. Doesn't matter. Enough waiting. He's own kind of hero today.
Chief screams his anger. Found bits and pieces of another deputy. Boy is picking them off like cattle in a barn yard. Chief swears to hell and beyond he'll make him pay. "Make me pay? Me? You're the one who's gonna pay for letting me rot in that cell for all those years!" Chief calms down and calls someone, tells them to bring the dogs. "Bring them! Won't make a difference." No matter what he ain't ever going back to that cell or any other cell for that matter. He'll die a thousand deaths before they ever lock him up again. He wants to rush out of the darkness and grab him, but something tells him that's exactly what Chief wants. He's trying to lure him with hurtful words. Boy sits in the shadows and stirs the dry leaves with one hand. He sees a deputy approaching with a flashlight. He grabs a thick branch and slowly rises and inches toward him. A hare springs in the air and bounds away. The deputy trains the flashlight on the rodent. He releases an anxious breath just as Boy swings the branch like Babe Ruth. Head and neck are smashed open and the dark contents splatter on the trees and ground. Yet the deputy doesn't fall. He stumbles here and there with his smashed head barely hanging by sinews of flesh, his hands desperately reaching out and feeling the cool, night air. Reminds Boy of a decapitated chicken fluttering about the yard searching for its head. Boy smiles and feels liberated. He laughs to himself. Another deputy made clean. His Pa cleaned Chief's money now Boy cleans his deputies. Like father like son. He thinks of Chief and loses his smile. He could have helped him... all those years... he could have helped him.
"Boy! You wanna know your name! I knows it! Come out and I'll whisper it in your useless, mangled ear!" Chief's playing games with him and he ain't gonna be fished. Chief swears he's gonna hunt him all night and that he's got dogs coming. Dogs that can track a cricket fart in a pile of manure. Boy didn't even know crickets farted. He learned a lot of things on TV but never that. The thought of a cricket farting makes Boy smile. He likes smiling. He crawls closer to the police crew. Two new men are on the hunt with Chief, but he doesn't see any dogs. He figures he best take them down before the dogs arrive. He's seen police dogs on TV. They can sniff out anything. These deputies seem angrier than the last. He's not sure if it's because he felled their friends or if he ended their cleaning racket with his Pa. Maybe both. He just gets the sense if they catch him they'll make him suffer and squeal like a pig. Those pigs. Those damn pigs they loved so much. Why did they have to love them so much and him so little. Had they treated him like those pigs he would have been happy. He would have been happy and he would have been something else. He would have been a hero like that boy who wore a cape and helped the world all because of how his Ma and Pa raised him.
Boy creeps up behind two deputies he can barely make out in the moonlight. He slowly raises a pointy branch, leaps out, knocks one on the head and thrusts the branch through the mouth of the other before he can yell for help. He stares down at the blood gushing out like a geyser. Reminds him of a scene in a cowboy movie. He approaches the other deputy. The deputy turns and grabs Boy. They roll over the crunching leaves and fallen branches exchanging blows. Boy manages to wrap his arm around his neck and squeezes. Legs thrash wildly here and there. Boy squeezes until they stop at once. He hears Chief calling back his deputies. He tells them to come back. Says the dogs have arrived. Boy retreats into the bramble and shadows. He closes his eyes and imagines a different life for himself. He's the Beaver boy, sitting at a table, eating a wholesome meal with his Pa and Ma and they're asking about his day. Then everything changes when he speaks. The sounds upset his Ma. She beats him across the head, holds him down and pours hot sauce down his throat and tells him to never speak again. His Pa grabs him and gives him a lashing with his belt. His eyes spring open. Everything could have been so different had he not been born a monster. Born a monster? Monsters aren't born. They're made. Made in a crucible of hate, cruelty and abuse. Hot sauce and belts! That's the stuff of monsters.
"Your Pa says you wanna know your name! Stop running and I'll tell you your fuckin' name!" Boy stops running. The barking of dogs grows louder and louder. He turns towards Chief's voice and sees moonlight dappling through branches and leaves. He shifts about in the silence, not sure what to do. Chief's voice grows louder. "Your Pa gave you a name before he realised you were a crooked freak of fuckin' nature! Your name shame him! That's why he hides you! You want to know your name, come out with your hands up and I'll tell you!" Before Boy realises what's happening, a dog rushes out of the darkness and attacks his arm with a vicious mouth of sharp teeth and dripping slobber. Boy wheels towards a vague, fast-moving shadow that grabs his wrist, before the hammer crashes down on its head. He throws the dog against a tree. He's never felt such strength, such power, such resolve. "I have a name!" He shakes the wrist and the hammer falls with a thud in the gloom below. Boy wrestles Chief to the ground. Chief pulls out a knife. Boy grabs Chief's wrist and forces him to plunge it into his own belly. "See my worth now, Chief! See my worth!"
Chief pulls the bloody knife out. But Boy doesn't give him a chance to react. He plunges his hand into his warm gut and squeezes something he doesn't quite recognise. Chief shrieks in agony. "Son of a bitch!" The dogs leap at Boy and rip him off of Chief before he can do more damage. Boy smashes the dogs to the ground and searches for his hammer to finish his good work. The dogs slowly rouse and bark. He grabs a branch. Smashes them hard and charges away before they attack again. He runs for what feels like forever through the cold, dark woods and heads towards the farm... towards the house where he always should have lived. It's still not too late. There are secret rooms in the basement, rooms where his Pa hid his money and where his Pa and Ma could hurt him without anyone hearing his screams. He bets he could hide there a long time before anyone ever found him. He bets it would be real cosy, especially with his TV. And he bets he'll find his name, his real name, in his Pa's stuff. But not before he cooks himself some bacon... some prised bacon.
Sanitas Alionis: Logs 337, 1007, 1275, 2217, 5738, 5798, 7525, 8545, 8557, 8789
It's hard to say what came over me and I can hardly recollect the last few hours perhaps even days. I awoke with several empty whiskey bottles and dead bodies sprawled across the roof. Not too far from the scene was my gory nine iron and a phonograph playing a solemn, French song about life in a city I will never truly know. I turned the bodies over one by one and they vaguely resembled those who had forsaken me to this infernal prison. I must have conjured them and destroyed them in the same evening. But... with a nine iron? I imagined far worse fates for them. I even have a journal devoted to dark and creative ideas on how I might actually one day make them pay for their corruption and impertinence.
At first glance the endless bloodshed seems to be an act to satisfy some destructive instinct within The Entity. This seems to me a reductionist distortion of something more sophisticated, something more intricate, something even sacred. Beyond the horror, the shedding of blood and the very real appearance of death puts us in touch with life and can be an intoxicating and highly addictive experience on the deepest and most archaic levels. When our blood, or our life-force is offered to The Entity, it can be seen as a gift that is soon returned to us so that the horror may continue again and again. The world constantly churns with life and death, and death and life — the circulation of blood through an Old One from heart to body to kidney back to the heart again to be purified and begin anew.
A new doorway has opened. For how long? I'm not sure nor have I ever been right even with my best guesses. Through the door of my study and into a lost and forgotten realm. Moss-grown, stone homes with doorways barricaded with wagons, planks of wood and decaying corpses tangled in barbed wire. I walk by the homes gazing at the residual memories of soldiers killing villagers with swords for no other reason than the thrill of it. I can't make out which era or Terra world this realm is from. I search the realm for hints of how one may open an actual doorway back home. Somewhere in these memories and forgotten realms is the answer to my salvation. But... which ones... which ones indeed...
I have uncovered to my amazement and bewilderment memories of Claudette that are unlike any of those I've previously experienced. One might even say they should not belong to her... and yet... they are hers. I surmise these memories may belong to another Claudette from another Terra world, suggesting that this Old One may have clear preferences at the cosmic buffet for certain souls. It will take more samples of these memories to know if they are in fact from another Claudette or if, and it is possible, I am having troubles deciphering between her actual memories and her creative musings.
I tremble as I scribble this down. Squid-like creatures difficult to describe attempt to penetrate my tower, trying to destroy my study and tools to explore and manifest. I held them off for as long as I could, then, taking the Auris and other valuables, I rushed through a doorway and hid in a lost realm. When I returned, the tower was upside-down, my study completely ransacked, the creatures lay dead on the floor with black, putrid blood leaking out of them, and the smell of decaying fish was everywhere. What are these creatures and who is sending them if not this brutish monster of an Old One. I spent hours cursing and throwing these fetid carcasses out of my window and back into the abyss.
An odd impulse caused me to climb to the roof and light a single candle in the pitch blackness of it all. When the candle extinguished, I thrust myself off the roof and plunged to my certain death but somehow ended up back in my bed as though I was waking up from a nightmare. I don't know what I was thinking but what this has shown me is... death is not an escape.
I have often wondered if those trapped here have ever paused to reflect upon the inexplicable significance of this world that defies not only time and space but death. A world made of memories that is neither consistent or constant. Something akin to a collective dream made of the collective memories and beliefs of its inhabitants. Sometimes I wonder if not all worlds were like this in some respect and that reality is what we in fact dream it to be or believe it to be.
I was woken mid-slumber by a delirium of shrieks and destruction so that I rushed to the closest window to see only the endless Black Fog swirling outside. Things in the Fog were coming to life and dying simultaneously as though The Entity were sick or in some kind of shock. Creatures roared and fought and tore each other apart somewhere in the raging abyss and it was both entertaining and unsettling. I grabbed a nine iron and held it at the ready, waiting for some apparition to attack me. But within moments it was all over, and I couldn't sleep, and so I took the edge off with a little whiskey and golf on the roof, the whole while cursing this blasted Old One and hoping what I had just experienced was nothing more than cosmic indigestion.
There are dead bodies in my study and I have no recollection of the last few days. The bodies have been flayed from head to toe and the faces have been beaten to an unrecognisable pulp. I dragged them to the window and thrust them out into the abyss wondering who they were and why they were in my tower. Did I manifest them? Did I create them for company? Or did they come from somewhere else? Had I been the one who butchered them? Had I lost myself so deeply in a memory that I became someone else for a short time? Perhaps they are not my creations but apparitions from the Fog sent by The Entity like the creatures I hear lurking about in the Fog now and then.
Incidents don't make sense anymore. Nothing does. Everything is a chaotic blur of unreal apparitions and jumbled memories. I can barely recognise my own thoughts or distinguish my memories from those I've been studying. Last night I relived the most horrific murders in my collection with a strange kind of... pleasure... When I had had enough, I looked in the mirror and did not see myself but dozens of faces morphing in and out of each other. Every possible face except my own. I thrust my fist into the mirror and my hand split and blood was everywhere. What cruel fate has befallen me that I should lose myself in the darkness while trying to escape its deadly grasp. The Auris will either be my salvation or my downfall.
Unlock date: 21 October 2020
- Productive Day: Earn 1 Bloodpoints in the Objectives category.
- Bring the Light: Repair a total of 4 generator(s).
- Liberator: Unhook 6 Survivor(s). Must unhook them safely.
- Whatever it Takes: Stun the Killer 4 time(s).
- Craft Time's Over: Cleanse 8 totem(s).
- Risky Repairs: Finish repairing 2 generator(s) while in the Killer's terror radius. Must be in the terror radius when the generator is completed. (Unlocks journal entry for Rebel With a Cause)
- Nea's Skills: Escape 2 chase(s) as Nea Karlsson. (Unlocks journal entry for Rebel With a Cause)
- Last Minute Hero: Unhook 1 Survivor(s) after the Endgame Collapse has begun. Must unhook them safely. (Unlocks journal entry for Rebel With a Cause)
- Bountiful Harvest: Harvest 1 Visceral Canker(s) as a Survivor. (x3) (Unlocks journal entry for Doors Unknown)
- Deadly Pursuit: Chase Survivors for a total of 180 second(s).
- Deadly Deceit: Earn 1 Bloodpoints in the Deviousness category.
- Gruesome: Hook 20 Survivor(s).
- Scrap Yard: Damage 12 generator(s).
- Rip 'em Up: Hit 4 Survivor(s) with the Chainsaw as The Hillbilly. (Unlocks journal entry for A Man Named Boy)
- Dark Adherent: Hook 5 Survivor(s). (Unlocks journal entry for A Man Named Boy)
- Lethal Combo: Hit 1 Survivor(s) after chaining 4 or more Rushes together as The Blight. (Unlocks journal entry for Doors Unknown)
- Lethal Strike: Hit 6 Survivor(s) while performing a Lethal Rush as The Blight. (Unlocks journal entry for Doors Unknown)
|Pustula Husk||Uncommon||The withered seed of a pustula flower, slowly turning to dust.|
Unlock date: 4 November 2020
- Strategic Alliance: Perform a cooperative action for 180 second(s).
- Appeal to Heal: Fully deplete 3 med-kit(s).
- By Any Means Necessary: Drop 10 pallet(s) while being chased by the Killer.
- Escape Artist: Escape 3 trial(s).
- Grease Monkey: Fully deplete 3 toolbox(es).
- Savior: Unhook 3 Survivor(s). Must unhook them safely. (Unlocks journal entry for Rebel With a Cause)
- Safe Landing: Fall from a great height while being chased 3 time(s) while using the perk Balanced Landing. (Unlocks journal entry for Rebel With a Cause)
- Urban Initiatives: Escape 2 chase(s) while using the perk Urban Evasion. (Unlocks journal entry for Rebel With a Cause)
- Peace Out: Escape 1 trial(s) as Nea Karlsson. (Unlocks journal entry for Rebel With a Cause)
- Fight Back: Drop a pallet to stun the Killer 3 time(s). (Unlocks journal entry for Rebel With a Cause)
- Subject of Attention: Escape the trial while you are the Obsession 1 time(s). (Unlocks journal entry for Rebel With a Cause)
- Darkly Obsessed: Hook the Obsession 6 time(s).
- Execution: Kill 12 Survivor(s) by any means.
- Bloody Good: Hit a Survivor with your weapon 18 time(s).
- Deadly Pursuit: Chase Survivors for a total of 240 second(s).
- Enduring Animosity: Knock down 6 Survivor(s) while using Enduring. (Unlocks journal entry for A Man Named Boy)
- Born in Light, Raised in Dark: Hit a Survivor with your weapon 10 time(s) while using the perk Lightborn. (Unlocks journal entry for A Man Named Boy)
- Country Livin': Hit 2 Survivors with the Chainsaw within 30 seconds as The Hillbilly. (Unlocks journal entry for A Man Named Boy)
- Silver Age: Earn 20 emblem(s) of Silver quality or better.
- Silver Run: Earn 4 emblem(s) of Silver quality or better. (Unlocks journal entry for Rebel With a Cause)
|Pustula Seedling||Rare||A sprout paradoxically enlivened by its death.|
Unlock date: 18 November 2020
- Craft Time's Over: Cleanse 20 totem(s).
- Blood Collector: Earn 30000 Bloodpoints as a Survivor.
- Freedom Fighter: Unhook 10 different Survivor(s). Must unhook them safely.
- Go For Broke: Sabotage 12 hook(s).
- Generosity: Heal a total of 7 health state(s) of other Survivors.
- Grease Monkey: Fully deplete 5 toolbox(es).
- Deadly Race: Be chased by the Killer for a total of 240 second(s).
- Risky Diversions: Throw a pebble using the Diversion perk 2 time(s). (Unlocks journal entry for Sanitus Alionis)
- Adam's Flight: Escape 1 trial(s) as Adam Francis. (Unlocks journal entry for Sanitus Alionis)
- Backdoor Exit: Escape 1 trial(s) through the Hatch. (Unlocks journal entry for Sanitus Alionis)
- Machinist: Finish repairing 3 generator(s). (Unlocks journal entry for Sanitus Alionis)
- Dripping Blood: Earn 30000 Bloodpoints as the Killer.
- Diverse Despair: Hook 12 different Survivor(s).
- Bloody Good: Hit a Survivor with your weapon 20 time(s).
- Tinker Terror: Hit a Survivor with your weapon 10 time(s) while using the perk Tinkerer. (Unlocks journal entry for A Man Named Boy)
- Bamboozling Moves: Vault 8 time(s) while using the perk Bamboozle. (Unlocks journal entry for A Man Named Boy)
- Rip 'em Up: Hit 7 Survivor(s) with the Chainsaw as The Hillbilly. (Unlocks journal entry for A Man Named Boy)
- Thorough Destruction: Damage a generator or destroy a dropped pallet 15 time(s). (Unlocks journal entry for A Man Named Boy)
- Golden Age: Earn 15 emblem(s) of Gold quality or better.
- Iridescent Run: Earn 2 emblem(s) of Iridescent quality. (Unlocks journal entry for A Man Named Boy)
|Pustula Bud||Very Rare||A tight pustula bulb showing signs of the unusual orange liquid within.|
Unlock date: 9 December 2020
- Craft Time's Over: Cleanse 20 totem(s).
- High Skill: Get a Great result on 15 skill check(s).
- Escape Artist: Escape 5 trial(s).
- Bring the Light: Repair a total of 15 generator(s).
- Whatever it Takes: Stun the Killer 10 time(s).
- Light 'em Up: Blind or Lightburn the Killer 6 time(s).
- Deadly Race: Be chased by the Killer for a total of 300 second(s).
- Deliverance to Safety: Unhook yourself 1 time(s) while using the perk Deliverance. (Unlocks journal entry for Sanitus Alionis)
- Max Dexterity: Get a Great result on 6 skill check(s). (Unlocks journal entry for Sanitus Alionis)
- Back Off!: Stun the Killer 4 time(s). (Unlocks journal entry for Sanitus Alionis)
- Bloody Good: Hit a Survivor with your weapon 25 time(s).
- Buried Underground: Hook 8 Survivor(s) in the basement.
- Anger Management: Destroy 25 dropped pallet(s).
- Deadly Pursuit: Chase Survivors for a total of 300 second(s).
- Reverent: Sacrifice 20 Survivor(s) to the Entity.
- Destroyer of Hope: Hook 4 Survivor(s) during the Endgame Collapse.
- Bottle Rocket: Enshroud 6 Survivor(s) in the gas of the Clown's Afterpiece Tonic. (Unlocks journal entry for Sanitus Alionis)
- B.Y.O.B.: Hit 2 Survivor(s) directly with the Clown's Afterpiece Tonic bottle. (Unlocks journal entry for Sanitus Alionis)
- Weaselly Tricks: Break 8 generator(s) while using Pop Goes the Weasel. (Unlocks journal entry for Sanitus Alionis)
- Bloody Rewards: Earn 120000 Bloodpoints.
|Pustula Flower||Ultra Rare||A vibrant flower, weeping with a mysterious substance, signaling the season of a new blight.|
- A possible translation of the Latin phrase "Sanitas Alionis" would be "Sanity of Alion".
- Assuming it is not merely a pseudo-Latin phrase (due to the misspelling of "Sanitas" as "Sanitus"), it is possible that "Alion" might be the real name of The Observer .
- The names "Clark" and "Beaver" in Memory 3733 refer to actual TV characters.
- Clark Kent is the alter ego of Superman in the TV series "Adventures of Superman", which aired from 1952 to 1958.
- Theodore "The Beaver" Cleaver is the name of the protagonist of the TV show "Leave It to Beaver", which aired from 1957 to 1963.
- Tome V - Unleashed introduced new type of a challenge, which spawns additional objective in a trial. In this case it's Bountiful Harvest challenge.