11th September, 2001. New York, United States Of America.

This page is covered in blood and is largely missing.

11th September, 2001. International Waters Off Newfoundland.

This page is damaged, but some ink is legible in a shakey hand.

My destiny is staved off, for now, though I feel its curse pull at me still. I was at peace, so close to death, but there is still so much to live for. We found ourselves confronted with yet more strange craft, standing between us and our goal. While we still had power to make it to our destination, we thought it best to parley with these strange beings who had such power and domination over the air in this place.

We have managed to parley with the natives here, represented by Commander Ryan of some place called the United States.

11th September, 2001. International Waters Off Newfoundland.

This is a strange land, where they build steel cities that float on the sea, summoning light from nowhere, but I can feel no spirits here, save Agla.

We have met with the diplomats, one State Secretary Richard Holbrooke, and chief scientist of this land, General Ross, and I feel that they have an innate mistrust of us, and a desire for what we know and can offer – I do not know if they share an in-kind desire to trade their secrets as much as extract our own. Perhaps we can ply them to an alliance with home, but that is best left to diplomats better than myself.

We find ourselves enjoying hospitality abord the U.S.S. Nimitz, which is a flat vessel of some sort. It appears they view our loyal Lord Arnold a sort of traitor here, which is unsurprising, given their roots in a treasonous revolution. Commander Fury has warned us that General Ross intends to keep us here against our will – I have our doubts that he will succeed, but I wonder if he realizes the cost he might incur at trying to detain us.

11th September, 2001, The Gomorrah Comet

Unfortunately for General Ross and several of the marines under his command, an order to stop those acting under the edict of His Majesty is impossible to enforce when the might of the HMS Medusa is brought to bear. Unfortunately, we did not have the foresight to shield ourselves from the lack of air due to the sudden departure, which was more than catastrophic.

‘Snow’ began to accumulate on the delicate devices keeping the Medusa afloat, and where things began to accumulate, the devices on the ship began to fail. But something about this place has awoken the spirit inside AGLA, and in so doing has alerted me to some… other presence, spirits beyond, bright and splendid, beckoning. The comet found ways of twisting our natures, and has left me changed forever – but has changed my companions more. Espinosa, perhaps worst of all, has changed from a man whom I call my friend to one I now question. Miriam, a creature of shadow who walks as a woman. But for us to see Nahuehue again is a fearsome treat.

It would seem that our path diverges now, and our actions cleave all that we know in two parts, separate, but not equal. In one, the mad death-god and his cleric Espinosa shall develop their civilization along paths unknowable, and in ours, the power of the comet will be harnessed by the rightful King. I can only hope that these two lines stay separate, and this compromise was not made in vain. I choose to think that we parted from Espinosa friends, and would love to see him again, should Agla take me on a path to collide with his once more. For now, I can think only of sleep, and once I wake, to spend what time I can with Miriam, making her world a better and safer place, now that I have more time. She has been speaking of an eternal fountain of some sort – magic has always been beyond my understanding, but if she has need of me, who am I to say no to one last adventure?

January 12th 1781, Wallabout Skyship Yard, NYC, New Britain

What a difference a month makes – a month ago, the world was at peace, and I was a retired, albeit busy, man. Now, the world stirs to war, I find myself a landed gentleman and summoned back to fight in a war that I may have had a hand in starting. The twin giants of New Spain and New Britain find themselves locking horns once more.

We have the honor to stand on the deck of the HMS Medusa, the finest ship ever to be born from the Wallabout Skyship Yard, and that which has become my charge since being handed the title of Post-Captain when they reenlisted me into His Majesties Service.

We’ve been tasked with taking the Medusa on a shakedown cruise to London, retrieve some notebooks from the London Greenwich College which detail the properties as were noted on the Great Comet’s descent to make landfall, and using this information, plot a course through the fabric of reality itself and lay claim to their Comet and once and for all cement the magical might of New England forevermore.

Integrating with the ship and her crew will take a bit of time, so we’ve decided to jaunt to St. Johns in the north, shake down the ship in the cold of a storm, and then cast out and jaunt to Cornwall – there’s no telling what we will encounter in the Old World, and we need to be ready.

January 26th 1781, Wallabout Skyship Yard, NYC, New Britain

The journey to The Grand Banks exceeded my wildest imagination. We’ve crossed an ocean in the blink of an eye – the world suddenly seems so incredibly small, as though I can reach out and touch Imperial Alaska with my hand while standing in Boston. This magic from the Monkey King is something to be revered and feared. Miriam is taking to drilling the crew like a natural – her naval prowess is readily apparent, it just took a bit of time for us to find our footing. They are a competent crew, and surpass the Navy regulations in most, if not all, regards.

They say that an army fights on its stomach, and I find the saying to be true regardless of rank. We are afforded the means and opportunity to ensure that our ship is the finest supplied in the entire Navy, costs be damned. We set out to test the crew and the ship, and we entreat it now bring us within striking distance of Old London town. Where we ended up… words beggar belief, and my mind reviles at the retelling.

January 28th 1781? Nowhere
It was the strangest thing. We entered the gate, and then I knew nothing, save for a vague unease that crept through my bones. I dreamt again, a strange, twisted dream, where Cy and I faced down that dread bear in the woods, but this time in mauled us both. A strange dream, one that flies against reality, but I can’t help but draw meaning from it, but the exact emotion eludes me though I hunt it with all my mind.

After Espinosa and Ernesto repaired the Moon Unit, we found ourselves jaunting through the portal and ending up at what seems more likely to be our destination, and Espinosa claims that there is a living soul, holed up in St Michael’s Mount, just outside of Penzance, which purports to be filled with the walking dead.

29th January, 1781, Cornwall, England

Far above St Michael’s mount, the world seems small, but Espinosa is plagued by some sort of etheric disturbance. Whether it is connected to the survivor below I know not, but suspect much. He speaks of one blessed, and one damned, but that is so much human experience after the sky fell, it is common much among any individual. Still, the place has quite an air about it, nevermind the walking death not a few miles away. There is a feeling of overwhelming brightness and light coming from down below, though after a ritual from Espinosa, it seems as though something powerful enough to disrupt his magick was clouding my mind, and it’s not quite as bright as it once was.

With magickal travel out of the question, we embarked upon a glider, and my heart was filled with joy. The landing, though, left much to be desired. I have not been in a glider in many years, and my reflexes have waned – it was but for the grace of some magickal intervention that saw my companions safe from harm, and we were met by a youngling whom claims this place as his home, one Meliodas of Lionesse. He is a strange sort, claiming to be alone and isolated for 40 years, and speaking of delicacies from France that I have not heard of. He speaks in riddles that I do not comprehend, and is not who he appears to be, or from where he seems to come from. He claims to be trapped by the spear of the Archangel Michael, as the manifestation of Pride itself. There could be harm in releasing such a creature, but he is not native here, and there is a cruelty in preventing him from leaving.

29th January, 1781, Cornwall, St. Michael’s Mount, England

The return to the Medusa utilizing the boarding chains was harrowing and exhilarating all at once, and once on deck, to see a series of bombs set out on the initiative of the man we kept on communication with us filled my heart with a swell of pride. This being, Meliodas, offers much, but brings great risk of greater power bolstering Spain, and that is something we cannot allow. We will weather the storm, and in the morning, ride with the Light against this strange and unknowable force.

30th January, 1781, Cornwall, St. Michael’s Mount, England

The fall from the Medusa, though magically assisted, was fraught with terror, but trust in the skills of my friend made it at least somewhat bearable. The descent was more controlled than my own efforts with the glider. The Spear itself seems to stymie Espinosa’s efforts to locate it, which is of some small degree of surprise, given his usual prowess in the matter. What’s worse, I fear that in conjunction with this place, he may have severed my connection to the spirits, as the world seems… for lack of a more appropriate term, dead. As I entered the chapel, I felt a similar but different magick twist my senses about, opening up a further world of magick and sight that I am unaccustomed to, as well as the feeling of warmth that I am sure emanates from the spear. Carter found us an easy confirmation to the chamber through the creative use of her magicks, and Espinosa discovered a lever that gave us easier access via a set of stairs, which led us to the most beautiful spear I have ever laid eyes on.

30th January, 1781, Cornwall, St. Michael’s Mount, England

Today, in the ruins of England, we serve England in a great way. A great evil has fallen on this land, and a great boon has been offered to us. It is best for King and Country if we carry this artefact away from this place, and in doing so, the only way to safeguard the Crown is to vanquish the evil that would be released.

I made way to nobly distract the creature, so that my companions might wound and maim it, though secretly in my heart I sought to lay the creature low in one mighty charge. Of course, to fight a demon requires a bit more skill than a rusty veteran can muster with a spear, even bolstered by magick though I was. Through the efforts of my friends, they were able to weaken Meliodas to the point where he was slowed enough for me to worm through his defences and strike him down – this spear is truly unlike any weapon I have ever beheld.

30th January, 1781, Cornwall, St. Michael’s Mount, England

This evening, I discovered that the Spear of St. Michael has a will, and does not wish to be subverted by any means. When Espinosa sought to begin experimentation, it objected in ways I still do not entirely comprehend, by removing me from everyone’s sight.

It has since become known to me as AGLA, and is part of St. Michael himself, shorn off to give the weapon a fraction of his power. Since I began to hear it, it’s all I can do to prevent myself from bothering AGLA at all hours.

London, it seems, is swarming with those taken to a state of undeath, and a surprising number of those still breathing – at the prompting of the old sailing master, it appears as though the undead may be camped out around the Tower as they are in the thrall of those residing inside. We will need to endeavor to make our entry to the College on foot, skirting what enemy we can.

31st January, 1781, South-East of London, England

We have made landfall amidst the ruins of a spirit-filled town, restless dead whose physical forms have been stolen to feed the armies of those who have made this place their home. A brief detour into the vicar’s manse reveals Moon’s vision to be true – these people were taken from life without any warning, and there are only relics of their existence that remain.

The spirit of the vicar offered sight into the past for us, and spoke to us of Prince Wrath, the bodysnatcher who stole the remains of those here, whose bodies follow his command unwillingly. The vicar seems convinced it is the personification of the sins whom have split England into their own seven demenses. In our pursuit of the notebook, Espinosa seems to have made some sort of deal with his deity that has pushed him even further towards undeath, and I grow concerned that each step he takes brings him closer to falling towards that which we are here to prevent.

31st January, 1781, South-East of London, England, The Royal Observatory

The Royal Observatory has been on the losing end of a battle against nature for some time now, but there are still signs of life, and un-life, within her walls. Those here claim to be visitors, seeking knowledge, much as we are, but are possessed of an unsettling evil. Still, I do not find myself in a position of strength to act without endangering my companions, so my hand must stay Agla from action until later. We have made the temporary acquaintance of Count Kurt Von Koln, aide to the Dread Highness, Lord Wrath. At the touch of Miriam’s hand, he sought to infest her with some sort of energy, which we did not take kindly to. As he fell to pieces to escape us, we were set upon by a werewolf, and it almost landed grievous blows upon my person but his foul claws were turned away by English Iron. Once he was stuck upon my spear, however, I was in trouble until Miriam shot the beast dead.

31st January, 1781, South-East of London, England, The Royal Observatory

Somewhere in this blasted observatory lie the notebooks of Edmond Halley, former Royal Astronomer, the hopeful key for unlocking the secrets of accessing a twin of the Gomorrah Comet. We ascended to a room which seemed to be where they had been collecting books for research of some variety, at least that is what my companions have informed me – my memory is hazy of this, I just have a powerful lethargy that sets about me when I try to recall much of what happened. I awoke in the hall, stripped of my weapons and my memory. When Espinosa led me back to the library, a dream of a woman appeared, but as some women are wont to do, this one leveled a pistol at me. Then she managed to ruin one of my finest shirts, put a hole right through the chest, which no tailor can patch without it being quite obvious that modifications to the original garment had been performed. Miriam yet again saved us with a well timed shot from her rifle – it seems that she’s taken to her lessons well, and is now quite the markswoman.

31st January, 1781, South-East of London, England, The Royal Observatory

Our man Espinosa has unearthed an impossible treasure through his skilled directed plundering of the Observatory – an epic thought lost to the sands of time, Handel’s Israel in Egypt. Such a historical piece will set much of the crew up for life with their crew share of the finding. To hear such an old and storied song is a memory I will treasure for all of my days, and the great master included some strange metallic sound into the music that I found intoxicating to listen to.

In the height of the song, we uncovered signs of a marching army beneath us, bearing down on Portsmouth, some seven hours away at leisurely march – arriving six hours after we will after we set out with all haste. We have received orders to investigate Portsmouth and capture officers if we can, but to avoid sparking a direct war, as the return of the notebook is paramount due to New Spain’s aggressive stance since they have taken New Orleans. Espinosa is hatching a plan to cut the head off of the marching army, but his methods for doing so are inscrutable. It would be quite a blow to the enemy were he to succeed, however.

1st February, 1781, South-East of London, England

Espinosa’s plan has been set into motion, backed by the might of our good Medusa, just out of reach, loaded with man-shredding double-grapeshot, which we hoped would keep us out of trouble. He took us down to the ground, right in front of the regiment of skeletons marching under the banner of Lord Wrath, and we stood face to face with their commander. While Ernesto took to the skies above us, Espinosa took on the aspect of his god and stood toe to toe with the imposing figure atop a skeletal horse. With one deft move, he assumed command of the creature’s army, and left it to face us on uneven footing, which I was unable to capitalize on, but Ernesto managed to engulf the creature in flame – I think Agla saved me from the worst of it, but it seems to have taken a toll on Espinosa’s hand. He managed to bind the creature to this plane, such that he might ask it questions, to which I sorely wish to hear the answers.

1st February, 1781, South-East of London, England

The dawn of Candlemas is upon us. We have been recalled to the shores occupied by the Crown, our mission here complete, with the spectre of war against the Spanish looming large – embroiling ourselves in a war overseas against an undead menace would be foolish at this time.

The skies of New York thrum with activity, as the Crown is now on a war footing. We have returned the Notebook of William Jones FRS to Professor Moon, to the delight of Magister Franklin and Lord Benedict Arnold. The latter begged of us an indulgence, and in doing so, has asked us to consider the assassination of the current pope, currently located in Mexico City.

2nd February, 1781, Unspecified Location

The prize share from our jaunt into England is enough to set a man for several lifetimes over, even with my habits as they are. Moreso when I consider my life to be potentially measured in months, with how quickly these missions have been drawing me closer to the dream I can no longer escape.

4th February, 1781, Mexico City, New Spain

In two weeks, either the pope will be dead, or we will have failed in our mission. Mexico City is a place unlike any I have seen before, the sprawl reaching further than in any city in the rest of the world. We found ourselves hosted by some of Espinosa’s people – kind enough folk, and I presume that he has taken them under his wing much like I work to provide aid and succor to the Twisted we find on our travels. Still, he keeps strange bedfellows, and is making me dress like a peasant for some scheme we have cooked up. I don’t quite understand why I can’t just issue the pope a challenge to duel like proper men, but I can only presume it to be some sort of cultural difference.

6th February, 1781, Mexico City, New Spain

This place is truly so filled with life – misguided life, directed by the vile commands of the corrupt at the top of their order. Its hard to believe that some of these people used to stand across from me on the battlefield, and now they celebrate, unaware that I walk among them. There were some of the usual suspects about playing such a crowd as these supplicants, the usual peddlers of flesh and pickers of pockets, and I appear to have drawn a bit too much attention to myself too early, drawing the eye of some guardsmen who picked up on my military bearing a bit too easily.

The plaza itself where the blessing will take place is packed with the faithful, and surrounded by those under orders from this false-pope. Our plan is insane. The only reason I’ve remotely entertained it is that I know now is not my time to die – the others, perhaps because they believe in what we can do, but I think they’re all slightly insane.

6th February, 1781, Mexico City, New Spain

Things began when Miriam managed to turn the drinks of those who were nearby into wine – a minor miracle on any other day, made transcendent by the trappings of the celebration of Saint Agatha. It began to stir the crowd to thoughts of worship, and as the warm calm of Ernesto’s potion washed over me, I could see it in their faces, as they saw what previously only I had felt inside – there can be justice in this world, and we can be agents of change.

The feeling of soaring through the air on feathered wings is unlike any I can describe here. I used to think the feeling of being on a glider was so incredibly freeing, but it pales in comparison – the thought of walking, even just for a moment, is to be dreaded, afterward. The foul Amaymon sent forth a cloud of poison which I could feel strike for my very soul, but I have a mission, now, and Agla will not see me rest until Amaymon is dead.

The feeling of being alit upon the wind, plunging the tip of Agla into the hide of a great demon has left me conflicted. Even now as I write this, the wound in my side aches and burns like none other I have ever felt. The coward Amaymon sought to flee when he met someone who was more than his match – looking at him, all I could see was the pain and suffering brought about by his hand, and I was compelled to give chase to him and bring him low, regardless of the cost to me.

10th February, 1781, New York, New Britain

It is humbling to be amongst the greatest people New Britain can assemble in one room, driving for a greater future than the world will ever know, but even more humbling to know that it is a future without me in it. Last night, I have seen the vision of my death – I will die in the far off future, among strange lands. I only hope that I am the only one to die when the time comes.

We go now, at the request of the heir apparent, Lord George Washington, to a far off land, in search of a new future. We have a month to prepare, and for me to get my affairs in order.

September 29th 1780, Philadelphia, New Britain.

Today I was confronted by a question – what makes a Spaniard of more value than a cat? A conundrum – my historical bias and experience with the Spanish during the war would have me say that the cat is of infinite more use, being clean, friendly, and a good companion. Recent history, however, would stand them on equal footing – Cole and Espinosa, in equal parts, have saved my life. But the Crown, in its infinite wisdom, seems to have more capacity for forgiving offenses against its sovereignty than it does for seeing past the strange veils of magic this world calls down around those who live within it. The plight of the soldiers Twisted in its service, used and discarded, because the Twist that changes them clouds how they are seen, though inside they may yet remain unchanged. Someday, I would like to address and heal those wounds, and perhaps I will have the ability to do so by virtue of my winnings, even after I have succumbed to my fate.

Sometimes we must bend to the way the world wills, and for our Cole, it means to adopt the guise of man to receive whatever prize is to come our way. It seems that Adrian Griffin be the name uttered from this new-formed babe, for which Cole will receive her spoils under.

September 29th 1780, Philadelphia, New Britain.

Noises afoot outside our suite, and the moment we step out to investigate, we were rebuffed to remain in our room, though thankfully Commodore Lord Arnold had the sense to ask us along. It seems as though there was some sort of alteration, and someone has died – perhaps murder, but perhaps something more.

Joseph Brant Thayendenegea, ambassador plenipotentiary from the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, murdered in the Royal Palace. Well, murdered, and subsequently un-murdered, as Espinosa commands much power over life as well as death – it’s a thing of great spiritual sacrifice to remove someone from the fate of death, and even darker, for death among the Haudenosaunee is something to be treasured. This is a decision which in some ways, I regret, for knowing that his spirit is now bound back to his body – it avoids a larger problem for England, but a greater problem spiritually.

Through all this, we are now acquainted with Lord Arthur St. Clair, Baron of Greensburg, Major-General and Director of the Crown Secret Service, and find ourselves in the midst of a plot to spark a war between England and the Haudenosaunee. This has what I expect are the delicate fingerprints of the Marquesa Ariane Bonnevie du Pondicherry all over it, clever and insidious, all at once.

September 29th 1780, The Royal Palace, Philadelphia, New Britain.

To see such deference shown to the boy that Cole is masquerading as is a humorous honor in and of itself. It still fascinates me, this command of the unseen world that Cole and Espinosa have. We learned a small bit about the assassin – male, with access to the wine cellar, and of a build sufficiently strong, stealthy, and swift to take down a large Mohawk warrior.

Captain Uphold has provided to us lovely garments to attend the Appointment – something which I feel I owe him a great deal for, and intend on repayment as soon as circumstances allow. His taste is impeccable.

The feeling I got when I stepped into the Throne Room, the highest station in all of England, if not the world, a chill ran through me. At the end of it, seated, a ruddy-faced man, King Henry IX himself. He seems… older, and shorter than I imagined. But after all this toil, I feel recognized – Sir Thackery, he called me, of Beacon Hill. I cannot wait to write to Cy about this, perhaps have Cy and Kiona over and explain to them my hopes and aims in reforming the opinion of the twisted in England. Though the dinner party was somewhat lacking, here – they normally do not feature Thugee assassins as the centerpiece of the meal, but it’s a daring new approach.

September 29th 1780, The Royal Palace, Philadelphia, New Britain.

Regrettable that my second act since receiving a landed title is to be whisked away to a horrible place of information extraction – the smell may well have ruined my finery forever, nevermind the stains of this place. It is good to hear my suspicions confirmed from the mouth of the assassin, though I am suspect as to if he is telling us the entirety of what is happening here. To think that Sir David Farnsworth, Keeper of The Privy Purse, is in the pouch of Tommy Thruppence, a perpetual thorn in the side of the crown.

Still, exciting to try and go forth and extract this thorn from the lion’s paw itself – we’ve been tasked, alongside Ernesto DeLeon, a genius twisted mage of some sort, to catch out Tommy Thruppence, and through him, track down the Marquesa. To do so, we must venture into the Shambles, a rats nest where the poor unfortunates are shuffled off into – the kind of place that someday I’d like to see cleaned up.

Our first stop is Madame Guthrie of the Blue Lagoon bordello – keeper of bodies, secrets, stolen goods, and information.

September 30th 1780, The Shambles, Philadelphia, New Britain.

The raid has begun, and with it, sand falls through the hourglass. We find ourselves at the foot of the Blue Lagoon, and I find myself mortified and stabbed in the back by Espinosa – that I strike him as a man who needs to part with coin for companionship – a more grievous wound I have never suffered in all my years. Still, we have a lead, now, and the women of this house will hopefully be sheltered from the coming conflict.

I feel out of my element here – most engagements I have been in, historically, were not quite at knife-fighting range. I’ve done my fair share of close-in work, but it’s hardly what I am best at. It is interesting to see Ernesto working at shifting between bodies – it seems more a facet of his character, rather than the intentionality that Miriam uses when appearing as William.

The moment we entered into the warehouse was when everything started to go sideways. It was easy enough to deal with the first two sentries – between William and myself, it feels like we have the firepower of a full regiment at times. Between Ernesto’s distraction, Espinosa’s fireball, and William’s prowess, I felt like we had this well in hand – the stairwell being lit aflame certainly changes the game. We were accosted, then, by an absolute brute of a man armed with hatchet and knife – I moved to intercept him, but he was uncommonly quick, even against the spirits which now guide my sword. William, true to his word, made sure none were able to get behind me, but still, the brute almost managed to take my head off with his first swing.

It was rough going, but after William set him off-balance, I was able to land a decisive blow to his neck, though he did ruin my favorite shirt. I warned him, same as all the others that I have duelled – gave him a chance to step down and spare himself, but he didn’t listen. They rarely do. Just one more spirit out into the world, sadly. Espinosa seems to have mustered up some sort of underworld invasion down in the basement of this place, and I for one am not keen to see what exactly he has done.

Our fight through the building was filled with fire and violence, and finally we cornered Thomas Thruppence, flanked by two of his Thugee, all the while they were planning to abandon their endeavor and burn their evidence. The spirits saw to me taking one of his guard through the neck in a clean blow. They refused to surrender, causing Espinosa to turn to the twisted magicks at his command to ensorcell someone who is yet unknown to us. It took all of us, but we managed to convince Thruppence to surrender, but I can’t help but think it might have been too easy.

October 1st 1780, The Royal Palace, Philadelphia, New Britain.

Four sets of friendly minds, pitted against the tarred and stained Three-souled man in a battle of wits – each with something the other wants desperately. On one side, a desire and burning need for knowledge, and the other a harsh desire for coin and freedom. I had not thought that one of our bargaining chips might be to mend the broken man, but when Espinosa spoke it aloud, it was all I could see.

It is curious to know that our antagonist The Marquesa is well informed enough to know that I am an honest man, and even more curious still that she plans to use this to manipulate me – though as her agent, Tommy does seem to be quite capable of manipulation on his own.

Through Ernesto’s smooth words, we were able to secure a bargaining chip in dealing with Tommy – a King’s Pardon for only one of the Thruppence souls. The exchange is good, the information interesting and troubling. The Marquesa has designs on rising to power and diminishing the sun of England – and it seems everything seems to be coming to a head in New Orleans.

New Orleans, the place where I shipped off to when I enlisted so many years ago, and the place that I now return, to die, in the service of the King.

August 20th 1780, Taunton, Mass.

Our endeavor has begun with an ill omen – Espinosa grows concern over the reach of the Spanish Inquisition. It is likely their presence will be felt, and that brings me slight pause, as it is just one more enemy to be facing in the unknown of the tropics. It would seem that they had infiltrated the College, which is as unwelcome as surprises go, as the war never truly ended, in my estimation, just moved from the candlelight into the shadow.

August 30th 1780, H.M.S. Dryad, above NY.

We are now bound for Florida, much like I was when I first took the Shilling, but now the company is older, I am certainly wiser, but the nerves are the same. Death could be there, for me, much as it almost was back then. The night air is still just as sweet this high over this strange and magnificent landscape. I will miss this cold when we are in the depths of the jungle. I already grow nervous – my usual protections will harm more than help in the climate, so I will feel less protection than normal, and I will need to rely on my wits where I can. I am disturbed by the spirits bound to our Spaniard, but not as much as this spectre of the past that has visited upon the Dryad – the spirit of the bear that Cy and I struck down has risen again, and this time it is aloft, striking down unsuspecting sailors.

August 30th 1780, H.M.S. Dryad, above New Yorkshire.

Seeing the horrific creature barreling down on us from above, I think something in me broke. I could only see Cy’s face again, and I fired off into the night, hoping to wound the beast, but my shot went wide. In time I’ll be able to forgive myself, but Espinosa and Miriam set the creature to rights, though the smell is something that won’t soothe my nightmares. I must needs drill more, so as not to be caught off-guard again – I felt the luck course through me through the charm, but it just wasn’t enough to make a difference. Miriam, though, brought low the beast with a shot even I was envious of.

September 9th 1780, H.M.S. Dryad, above the Gulf of Mexico.

Every time we come near New Orleans, ill fortune awaits. I’m not sure if it is the Vodoun in the area, but the area seems cursed with bad luck. Not the first hurricane I’ve had to fly through, but each one surely I wish was the last. I thought I had been done with them in New England, but fate twists in strange and malevolent ways. We made it through, but it was a near thing, and we almost lost Espinosa to some debris. I stayed out in the storm far longer than I should have, but I can’t hardly sit by and do nothing when there is a hand to be lent.

September 13th 1780, H.M.S. Dryad, Belizeshire.

Strange to me, to set foot in the Caribbean again. It will be hard to escape the memories of this place, but hopefully the new ones will be more palatable. We must needs track down Sir Hayward Moon, and picking up his trace from the porters, guides, and supplymasters of this place should be fairly simple – while seekers of fortune are commonplace, I expect that Sir Moon may have made a lasting impression here.

September 13th 1780, Belize City, Belizeshire.

Mama Guigon, practitioner of Vodoun, seer of the unknowable, and crafter of the finest gumbo I’ve ever set my tongue to. So much of this trip has brought back memories – some of them painful, but many warming. It is curious, and fearful, the names she has for us. Espinosa, the Devil, a portent of ominous deals and treachery. William-Miriam, the Hermaphrodite, one body possessed of two souls, dispossessed of both for reasons known only to her, though to hear Maman speak to her as though she is the servant of the Eater of Souls has me filled with some concern. Cole, Frigga’s Chosen – an epithet that escapes me in meaning, but I expect will be revealed in time. That she named me the Hanged Man, though, bodes not well – the loa are strange and wonderful, and though I am not confident in their ways, that she can see what I have been dreaming bodes ill for me on this journey. The gumbo was as I remember, rich, earthy, full of the salts of the earth and sea, but the aftertaste scarred me. As I ate, I began to see yourself myself looking on from the outside, hanging from a mast, ropes wrapped around my body. All that I could feel was this immense intensity, like I packed full of exploding gunpowder. Everything was cold blue light, and a crew of dead men swarm the rigging and decks of a skyship around me, keeping it on the course I demanded of them. I know nothing of which this means, but it chills me to the core of my soul, as scarred as it is.

Meeting with Henry McTavish was nothing short of what I expected – a man so loud and brash can’t help but be good, and that he was Hayward’s guide is all the more luck. That he knows the location of the fabled Lost City of the Monkey God – icing on an already fascinating cake.

September 14th 1780, Belize City, Belizeshire.

It’s a bit of a first for me, embarking on a canoeing expedition in the light – it seems more pleasant, save for the weather. The company is nice as well. Henry’s in-laws, such as they are, seem capable enough guides for our journey, though they are hardly talkative. The first day of the journey was a kind one, and we even had a roof over our heads for the evening. It was a nice stopover, and there was fresh game and food aplenty – I even went to forage some wood for the fire, but what I found was… unexpected. Cole… seems different, in the jungle. Larger. Fiercer. I thought I was in for a rough fight, when all I had to do was to fetch the crocodilian Cole had hunted back to camp.

September 17th 1780, Belize, Jungle.

I grow to hate this jungle. I have been sick with fever for the past two days, after a leech bite incurred when I was bathing in the river. I am wracked with pains and movement is impossible, but still I must press on for the sake of my comrades. Providence has seen us to a small village on the river, and the shrewd negotiations of the natives have cost one of Henry’s cousins a musket – hardly a fair trade for a night indoors, but at this point I would consider any price. Through the efforts of Cole and Espinosa, I have beaten back the fever, but my hatred for this jungle has hardly subsided. To think this is only the beginning of our journey here. The night was peaceful, but to take Henry at his word would have us believe that this may be the last peaceful night we get for a while.

September 20th 1780, Belize, Jungle.

A storm in the depths of the jungle, days from anything that we would recognize to be human – this is what I was fearing would happen. It was bad enough being on patrol in the tropics back when I was with a team of fighting fit soldiers, but now I am older, and softer, though now surrounded with capable men, women, and cats that I am glad to be travelling with. We were forced to turn off-river to find some ancient ruins, trespassing on sacred land to save our own hide. There were so many dead here, unhappy, died through violent means – despite Espinosa’s reservations, I felt like I had to do something to calm them. What happened here was horrific, detestable. These people were flayed alive, in a manner that was both malicious and inept, before being tossed into the sacrificial pool, from which an anaconda rose to crush the life from them. And then, to hear a young babe being sacrificed to this creature is almost too much to bear – worse still with the fear that these people would be sacrificing their children with or without the creature present. I was at least able to grant peace to three of those who died here, but then the beast-snake who resides at the foot of the temple was enraged by their final scream.

September 20th 1780, Belize, Jungle.

I expected what would follow to be a tense and bloody battle, but it seems that there was another, shimmering snake in the area that led the snake off – I suspect more of Cole’s innate magic at play here. It seems our guide, however, is much weaker willed than our cat, and has abandoned us in the middle of the jungle. Espinosa has gifted me with an idea of how this river flows for now, and hopefully we can make good progress today, once we are out in the river.

September 29th 1780, Belizeshire, Deep Jungle.

The pages from this part of the journal are smudged from near-saturation with rain, and legibility is difficult.]
The easy part of the journey is over. We left the canoes behind and struck overland – just one week more until our journey’s end. I begin to forget the comfort of my own bed, the joy of walking my estate, and the promise of a warm meal that is cooked by hands more suited to the effort than those of mine or my companions. Espinosa, though, his magick continues to be unerringly useful – this map he has provided fills me with a certainty of direction I have never felt before. It was a restful sleep after hacking through the edges of the jungle to the foot of an immense waterfall – the camp was comfortable enough, as these things go, though sleep was plagued by fears of having to climb those decrepit stairs in the morning.

The climb was harrowing – I fear we almost lost Miriam when she went up unassisted, but she made it – I suppose all that time aboard ships really paid off for her. Fortunately for Espinosa, I was able to lash a rope to myself and went ahead to ease his ascent, and we both made it atop relatively unscathed. At the peak, there is a strange monkey-carved glyph in an arch, with eighteen separate indents where pearls along a string might be, though their meaning is lost to me, it seems as though Cole and Espinosa have theories as to what we are looking at.

September 29th 1780, Belizeshire, Deep Jungle.

While my companions turned their attentions to the arch, I set mine outwards. Far off, a day’s climb and a half-day further hike, I caught the glint of metal, which intrigues me, as it tells the tale of civilization here, and bears investigation, should this endeavor with the arch not pay off. It shows great promise, perhaps as something to revolutionize our understanding of magick, allowing for some sort of long-distance travel that is beyond my understanding.

What I do understand, however, is that wearing heavy leather in this climate is absolute murder, but I cannot be sure what is on the other side of this gate. Still, the weight of it is comforting when we heard the sound of distant gunshots – though their precise origin eludes me. Espinosa was able to open the gateway, and it was like looking through a frosted window into another place – a high-sloped valley with mountains in the background. An avenue of colossal carved statues leads to a great stone temple, and above the temple looms the huge statue of an ape-like being. I’ve never set eyes on anything like it – few from Boston have, I expect, and there is a strange honor in being in that small group. It is our hope that Sir Hayward lies beyond, someplace safe, at least until we can recover him.

Stepping through the portal was entirely unpleasant experience the likes of which I never want to go through again. Being pulled and stretched in directions I knew not existed, I lost my stomach to the trip, though I strangely seem to be the only one affected by this strange magick – I wonder if that means something?

September 29th 1780, Belizeshire, The Temple of The Monkey God.

We’ve finally done it. Followed in the steps of Sir Hayward Moon, and arrived at the Temple of the Monkey God. A truly impossible place that I would hardly believe if I were not here to see it myself. Signs of current human habitation – dead civilizations tend not to keep up appearances and sun-shades. It’s too quiet all around, and that has me filled with a great concern. It seems as though this portal has moved us a few days travel – we can still see the same waterfall we just left. I think that our Sir Hayward Moon suffered a minor misfortune – Miriam found his pocketwatch, smashed, in the gear at the camp. That explains the lack of communication from our man.

After we approached the temple, I felt a great fear wash over me – it was as though I was back there, on that cold, frigid night, and I could do nothing else but run. It seems as though this Monkey God was messing with me, which is not something I appreciate overmuch.

September 29th 1780, Belizeshire, The Temple of The Monkey God.

To be offered a banana by some sort of giant primate is not how I imagined today would develop. I also hadn’t thought that we would be pursued by the Spanish either, when I awoke, but that’s how days go. Some days it is best to just roll over and return to sleep.

Hahue, as the creature is known, a great hulking ape that towers over the tallest of men – appears to take umbrage at being identified as a monkey, though that is the only creature I have ever seen that is close to its like. That we are so close such that we have laid eyes on Sir Hayward Moon is a blessing I did not expect to feel – anticipated it, certainly, but it makes my heart glad that we have made it so far and succeeded in our journey. It would seem that Hayward’s guides are still alive, one Lieutenant Godfrey of the Royal Navy, and his Ensign Thomas. Hayward has completed his study of the gates, which will be a great boon to the great nation of New Britain – we must get him and his research home at any cost.

September 29th 1780, Belizeshire, The Temple of The Monkey God.

To see the Spaniards step through the portal just as Sir Hayward was setting up his own runic ritual was a shock – it brought back the memories of stumbling on their compatriots in blue back when I was in the Rangers. Hearing Espinosa call out a Wait command was like hearing an incomprehensible language from another time – Sir Hayward had called out to me to keep them off of his work, so I felt I must oblige. There was a half-second to react, and I managed to steady Karenna and let a shot out straight through the neck of one of their Jesuit-mage priests, dropping him to the ground. While I stood, ready to engage them in hand-to-hand combat, my colleagues set about them as they approached, with Cole rendering a number of them unconscious with some sort of magick, while Miriam, inspired by my own marksmanship, took it upon herself to absolutely destroy one of the other soldiers – it was a wound I had only ever seen when a man was set upon by cannonfire aboard a skyship – a truly gruesome affair, for which I do feel a slight bit of pride.

The combat was over as soon as it began, we had to put the sleeping Spaniards to rest, and I’m sure for all the world that one of their ghosts was stolen by that infernal book Espinosa keeps in his pocket – I put haste to my blade so that no others might suffer a similar fate. Already I can feel my sleeping mind calling to me, and dread shutting my eyes tonight. Through the portal, we found ourselves in the Foothills surrounding the Royal College, and it is almost as though we had never left, save for our clothing, and the horrible memories of the swamp.

August 13th 1780, Taunton, Mass.

It is at times like these when I remember the decisions that led me to join the Royal Rangers rather than the cavalry detachment. Horses and I, much like gunpowder and fire, are seldom good to mix together. It seems the same is true for Espinosa – the poor beast threw a shoe, and it’s hard enough to handle them when everything seems to be going right. We had both set ourselves to walking when Captain Crispin Uphold came upon us – I thought it an ambush, given the cargo we hold, but was pleased and surprised when it was friend, not foe.

August 13th 1780, Boston, Mass, and elsewhere in the skies over New Britain.

The remainder of the journey home was without incident, though my feet are sorer than they ever have been. To lay eyes on the H.M.S. Dryad must be like when Cy comes home to his darling. She’s a beautiful creature, as they always are, and the thought of taking to the sky again fills me with such hope and thrill as ever I have felt.

Our first morning aloft, the crew spotted two skysail, down below, waging combat against each other. It has been… a long time since I was last engaged in combat from the skies – it happened a few times when I was with the Rangers, but rare. Firing at distance is a risky proposition, and my shot was close to its mark, but off just enough to be without effect. It would seem that Espinosa and some other source caused significant damage to the pirate’s ship, and sent the whole thing into gravity’s clutches, but not before Miriam took a clean shot through their helmsman’s neck. I’ve made some great shots in my day, but the luck of my friend knows no bounds.

On the horizon, now, a bastion of all the good that the Ur has brought us – The Royal College, a place of learning, wonder, where ideas can almost be seen to float through the air of their own bidding.

August 15th 1780, The Royal College, Mass.

The first sight when we arrived at The Royal College, as impressive as the architecture is, was a surprise – as impressive as the gear carried by the College Guard Regiment is, the sight of the Grand Wizard and Magister, Lord Benjamin Franklin, a personage until recently I had only seen from afar. To say the paintings do not do his raw intellect justice is a gross understatement, the likes of which I do not have the eloquence nor language to do justice. I am glad to see the back of that cursed violin. It feels as though here is as safe as it ever will be. This place is filled with marvel beyond compare or comprehension. Were it within my power and reach, I would sorely love to fit my home with some of these very same amenities – the heating and the lighting are so soothing and comforting, it is a shame they are out of reach… for now.

To think that we will be guests of the college for a full week – a treat I had not been expecting, and hardly something to decline, even if the cost was steep. To gaze into the mirror in that hall, and confront the truth of ourselves, it is no small thing. That Will-Miriam still sees herself as Miriam, a pirate queen, is a refreshing turn from the thing I saw when I looked in the mirror. I knew that the curse was bad, but I did not quite know the extent until I saw it with my own eyes. To think that I might have once looked younger than even I do now, and would still if I had run a bit faster, a bit longer, on The Cold Night.

It would seem that I am not the only one here who carries these selfsame unseen and unknown secrets – the spirits that haunt the Spaniard seem to run deeper than most. An owl with a human face seems to signify something that I can’t quite lay a finger on. And our Griffin, perhaps carries more twist than most – his reflection carries with it a pain I cannot adequately convey through pen.

August 25th 1780, The Royal College, Mass.

This has been the most relaxing stint of time in recent memory – would that more time could be spent like this, although the trappings of the rooms here leave some comforts of home to be sorely desired. That our leisurely meal was interrupted by an upstart student who can’t watch his feet. It soon became clear that perhaps his feet were not the problem, but rather one of his classmates with some loose fingers. It reminded me of the time we spent at meals in the army – there was always some jokester playing silly on some of the lads, though the real humor came from when we pulled one over on those above us, but those were riskier plays. Espinosa extended a kind offer, to enchant a bullet for when it feels most needed – I could hardly turn down such an offer. Nor could I turn down the cocoa and charming company of the high society women that frequent this place – perhaps the Royal College is not so stuffy after all. A whirlwind of comedy left me struck down to the floor – a flirtatious message in a cup, meant for our Will, but drank by our Espinosa, a illicit meeting in the library, coupled with a direct invitation to an evening at the Albus Auditorium for comedy – I think I need a few drinks before all this comes to pass.

August 25th 1780, The Royal College, Mass.

The Lucky Fingers Bar – I’ve lost my fair share of cash at this establishment, but nothing more than I haven’t won back in Boston proper – a minor setback, brought with it a fair number of entertaining evenings. It’s a place with charm coming out of its pores, if you don’t mind the horrendous smell of the tannery, the unsavory clientele, the ratting, the rutting, and those who cheat at dice and cards. But I’d consider it to be part of the backbone of culture in this place, for it cates to the base needs of those who study here. I think I may have encountered a pickpocket whilst inside – despite winning more games than I felt I lost, I seem to have parted with more than my intended wager. We encountered the youths from earlier, and it seems they have a hound in the ratting – I suspected something was afoot when they put down a large sum on their pooch, out of sorts with the type of bets we’d seen here previous. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and I gained a whole bit of cash betting on the greed of youth.

The library is an impressively styled and lavish affair, and leaves me wishing that I cared more for study. That I had more time, for study. If I knew more, perhaps I would have been less stymied by the fact that our dear Griffin was in fact the familiar to our young Cole. A more welcome surprise I cannot imagine – though it shall take a bit of adjustment to make myself used to the fact that our newest companion is in actual fact, a verbose feline.

August 25th 1780, The Royal College, Mass.

The Royal College Library – a place of research, and in my case, idle curiosity about the type of affair our dear Espinosa was about to find himself embroiled in. In waiting for the meeting to get underway, I stumbled across a memoir written by my old commanding officer – it seemed harmless at first, but then, as I continued to turn the pages, the memories came flying back to me. To think that the madman actually wrote about the events of The Cold Night – for others to read. You may find its retelling in these pages, my dear journal, but hardly are you meant for the consumption of others.

The true marvel today was not the mischief at the library, wherein I suspect the meeting with our Spaniard was a cover for something more nefarious afoot. Nay, the true marvel was the shoppe of D’Urberville, purveyor of magicks potent and portable – he fitted us with kit such like I had never seen, including a rifle that may yet surpass the finery of my own Orenda. Though I do have my misgivings about how a small cat can maneuver a crossbow – seems as though Cole has significantly more surprises for us than I thought.

August 25th 1780, The Royal College, Mass.

From once place to another, we are constantly on the move through the confines of the College, but it seems that our time here draws to an unfortunate close – there has been a theft at the College, and we have been asked to safekeep the item’s creator and fetch him home again – some sort of para-archaeologist, Sir Hayward Moon. He’s off galivanting around British Honduras, seeking some fabled White City, seeking some connection to some ‘otherwhere’, a concept which is alien to me, I will admit.

That he has a six month head start on us and is as yet-undetectable by magical means does not bode well, but perhaps he is an absent-minded sort, or the Ur-Ice in the area is complicating things. Despite it all, we will aboard the HMS Dryad and make haste down to Belize City of Honduras, and see if we can uncover his trail from there. It has been many years since I last set foot in the jungle, and I doubt it has grown kinder since. I must needs prepare myself and my companions for this journey – it will be quite the endeavor, and no mistake, this may be the trip I fear. The journey there should be long enough to train my mind and body, I hope. This is a secret mission that the Spanish must not uncover, for New Spain is abutted to Honduras in a way such that all there may be compromised – it is for us to pose as Archaeologists and no more.

August 11th 1780, Nathaniel’s Coffee House, Boston.

It has been a mixed few weeks here in Boston – welcome to return to my estate and sleep in a warmed bed each evening, as nice as the accommodations were in Staughton, but there is still much life and adventure to be found in the bars of Boston at night. These past weeks have seen me up and down in my fortunes, in equal measure, and my pockets have come out of this idleness no fuller than they went in. When Captain Uphold called us up again, it was a genuine pleasure to discover my services required again in service of the Crown, and not in best dealing with the Bostonian fellows who undoubtedly cheat at cards, backgammon, and winning the hearts of fair maidens everywhere.

It seems that in Taunton, this summer, has been a hotbed of reported malicious witchcraft, harming property and body alike. There seems to be some credible evidence being presented at trial, brought about by one Caleb Burnam, the region’s puritanical minister, some ten days hence, to be presided over by Sir Robert Treat Paine. We must take pains to investigate and present our case for innocence, should it be warranted, to the honorable Thaddius Denton, who holds his lawyerly office in Taunton proper. Magick is certainly afoot in Taunton, but whom is directing it, and to what end, that is the true mystery here.

What else will those good eggs at the Royal College come up with, given enough time? Uphold has gifted Espinosa with a loaned boon of an enchanted watch, capable of speaking fifty words at a distance, to reach Doctor Graham’s ears within moments after speech has ended. Truly a fascinating device, one which could have saved many lives if the Rangers had that long ago.

On our way to Willards, we were accosted by possibly the world’s worst spy, a young urchin under the employ of Ezekiel Farley, who has expressed an interest in keeping tabs on those Thommy Thruppence has taken an eye to. And apparently, he’s willing to employ urchins and spirits to keep tabs on us.

August 12th 1780, Taunton, Mass.

This town is absolutely the fit of a painting, aside from the nastiness of a puritan setting up for a Witch burning speech right when we rolled into town – I feel like I might not be as welcome here as I have been in Boston. We are supposed to be above this sort of prejudice against the Twisted – I must be half a fool to think I’d be immune to it, but It hasn’t been a main fixture in my life. In the Rangers, it were your other flaws that got brought about for banter, not something that the war inflicted on you. The exception being poor Old Seamus, an unlucky Irish Sot who got Twisted with an unholy stench that wouldn’t go away even if he were bathing.

Taking up at the Taunton Crown Hotel is the most luxurious treat I have afforded myself since being away from my estate. I had forgotten that this is how Uphold and the like can treat themselves all the time – maybe, someday, before the end, I can find myself in a similar state. Still, an absolute lovely establishment, though I find it endlessly amusing that only myself and William can provide our real names to the clerk here. It seems that there is a Mr. Sixpenny, a purported seed and stock salesman, who has business here, but I am curious that he might be in business with, if not directly, then operating on behalf of Thommy Thruppence.

Our Albert Higgins certainly surprised me with invitations to a grande ball at the behest of Baron and Baroness Taunton, Lord and Lady Cushing. I did not think that word of my name had travelled so far, but it would seem that my works in Boston have at least carried to Taunton. Mayhap I am a mite closer to Uphold than I originally thought.

August 12th 1780, Taunton Crown Hotel, Taunton, Mass.

I had not expected my first day of Taunton to be filled with so much fitting, jostling, tucking and pinning, but such is the nature of a delicate investigation, being prodded by a high quality tailor, all for the sake of gathering knowledge. Nothing more than that, surely. The preacher giving his sermon drove me near to the brink of tears, to think that those who have found kin with the new way of the world to be persecuted such as they are, even in this civilized place.

We finally were able to make the acquaintance of Thaddeus Denton, the lawyer whose clients we are here to investigate, and he seems a congenial sort. He’s taken us on a tour of the alleged crime scenes – the first of which we saw was the second crime scene, at The Bow Tavern, where the barn caught alight, with a green flame at the base that resisted all attempts at being extinguished. At first, I expected manmade explosives to be the culprit, but nothing seems to cater towards that suspicion of mine, leading me to believe my first instinct was incorrect. The accused are said to have acted together, as a coven, to set the barn alight, for the perceived slight of one of their members being kicked out of the barn for the third time. What’s more strange is that while magick was certainly involved, it left the residue of a violin song, “Fire on the Mountain”. Incredibly common, a jig I have drank to on many nights, but curious nonetheless.

August 12th 1780, Beaconflat Farm, Taunton, Mass.

The senseless slaughter of innocent animals is a crime I will never quite understand – the motives involved are so alien from the victims comprehension, it seems almost worse than some quarrels you might imagine. The site seemed clean but for the remains of the livestock brought low by the wasting disease.

The smell of magically wasting meat is something extraordinary, the rot and disease something my companions are hardly familiar with, but nothing is quite so extraordinary as the resolve and ability of my friend Espinosa, who perhaps sought to question one of the beasts, and so brought it back into the realm of the life-full, but it seems it came back quite wrong, and with a vengeance. It looked for all the world as though poor Espinosa almost lost his leg to the creature, although its assault was magically tempered by the presence of an apparition – its eyes seemed like they had followed us from Boston, but there’s something more to that tale that I can’t quite put my finger on. To cast a spell which emblazons the notes to “The Ages of Man” – against something living, from beyond the veil – this is a danger unlike that which I have tousled with before. I can but hope that this apparition is without malice, as it seems to be, but I grow filled with concern, as spirits seem to be tied to places, but this one has traversed the roads with us.

August 12th 1780, Beaconflat Farm, Taunton, Mass.

Though I have been through the motions a few times before, speaking with spirits is always unsettling to me – to make the connection and bridge the gap between They That Were and Those Who Are is something weighty on my soul. Today I spoke with Hosea Mantle, formerly of Germantown, then Boston, a spirit unfamiliar to myself, but it seems that Espinosa has had dealing with it before. That he was able to bind a living spirit to himself speaks of incredible talent, but one that is slightly worrisome. I am not entirely comfortable that Espinosa has managed to bind a hedgewitch of this particular moral caliber. Consorting with one so obsessed with Death magic and who is so fortitudinous of spirit to persist for twenty years after interment is both fascinating and horrifying, all in one unsavory package. Curious that this site was affected by a young untrained mage, and certainly not good for our client’s cause.

August 12th 1780, Taunton Crown Hotel, Taunton, Mass.

High tea is an inadequate method of compensating for murderous revivified bovines, but the Crown Hotel did a good job of it nonetheless. Nothing was too weak, nor too strong, nor overwhelmingly flavorful, but it was pleasant. Denton, despite all of what has happened, has kindly offered to show us the scene of the murder of Isiah Horning, father to two of the accused. While it is not unknowable that kin may slay kin for all manner of reason, my fear is that the girls are innocent, and are suitably aggrieved of having lost their father while being accused of bringing about his demise. The killing of the harbormaster certainly would

The eldest girl, hardly a girl at all, given that we share the same age, Abigail, is married to the bank manager of Taunton, no small position of wealth to that position. Her sister, Prudence, younger by five years, already a spinster. Motive, perhaps financial, from her sister, but their temperament hardly seems to cleave towards the murderous, just the standard level of sin we all tend to find ourselves faced with.

The timeline, as it stands, is that the cows were the first to go, unless there was something else that has yet gone unnoticed. From there, the mage moved on to the fires, consecutive, a week later. Lastly, on the 8th of August, poor Isiah was brought low. Our William sussed out that perhaps the violin score we discovered is a key to it, and Espinosa has confirmed that with his deductions as well. It seems as though the spellwork is interwoven with the talent driven from one who works the violin, which unfortunately leaves us with the party tomorrow night as a venue for which to identify and subdue a potential violin-caster. We’d need a reliable witness to observe young Prudence for the duration, to ensure that she was not up to anything that could be untoward – the Watch Sergeant, Bill Bower, would do quite nicely, as the Lieutenant of the Lancers is a bit biased, considering his relation with one of the accused.

With daylight waning, we set off to see what we could discover at the scene of Isiah Horning’s death. When we arrived, we had not yet begun to examine the scene before Griffin’s keen senses picked up something – our poor Thaddeus has been marked by music. Handel’s Messiah, a classical tune, different from what we have seen before. Espinosa seems to have broken the spell, but it seems that this magick goes far deeper than any we previously has suspected. Thaddeus has cast his finger at Amelia Harrison, she who runs the music shop, and has financial dealings with Isiah – it seems like she has bent the whole town to her will.

August 12th 1780, Taunton Crown Hotel, Taunton, Mass.

We found ourselves in pursuit of Amelia Harrison, suspected of ensorcelling the town. The storm was rising around all of us, and a felt bile rising in my gullet – this was The Long Night writ anew. This musician has summoned a manastorm, and I could feel it coursing through my veins, threatening to twist away more of my humanity. Amelia seemed set on destroying the town with hellfire and brimstone, cast down from the sky, green flames licking at our faces and feet as we were struck from above. A battle for the soul of Taunton, set to a horrific rendition of “Israel in Egypt”, as played by a maniac who let the twist mutate her human form into something from the nightmares of the Ur – some sort of spiderlike creature – the manastorm grew more intense as we approached her, to the point where Espinosa was affected by some sort of fungus. I had a clean shot, but in doubting my ability, I put a bullet into Amelia’s torso, rather than her cursed violin. The heat of combat always leads to rash decisions, and it found me sprinting into a building, hurling insults at a deranged magician, which our Spaniard seems to have upended the rules of our world around. Through the Manastorm, I saw something – a sliver of a connection, between our ghostly hedgewitch Hosea, and our friend Espinosa’s tome. I expect there is some more story written there than we are ken to.

August 12th 1780, Taunton Crown Hotel, Taunton, Mass.

That what once was Amelia Harrison lay before us, a haunting creature that is twisted by that which makes the world so vibrant and unique. Something happened on the stairs up to the roof – the world lost sound, even the familiar sound of my own breath, the thud of my feet as I drew up the stairs, but only for a moment. There was fear in that moment, but not overmuch. I had but one foe, and she was above. As I drew near, I fell victim to Espinosa’s peculiar brand of sorcery that upturned my stomach, rendering me helplessly floating in air, unable to hear, or speak. I lost a good deal of fine food, and was beset upon by some foul flames of origin unknown, but when I was able to right myself, I set upon she-who-was, and cut her down. When the magicks fell, I took her head, to end her reign of terror and deceit, such that this town may dream of nightmares no more. We are introduced to Lord Edward Halsey of the 17th King’s Lances, and betrothed to one of the accused, Ruth Landry.

August 13th 1780, Hopewell House, Taunton, Mass.

It is a change most refreshing to be welcomed with applause after a job well done, by none other than Lord Thomas Cushing III. To be met by Lord Benedict Arnold is a welcome but suspicious surprise – rumors tell the man always has aims other than those that are best for England in his heart, but it seems he might have employment for us. It would seem that our Young William had been hiding a secret sister from us for all this time, and she seems to have the acquaintance of Lord Arnold as well – I had not figured the lad to run in high circles, but he does continue to impress. I was not keen on starting a dialog on any ensuing work without his presence, but it would hardly be the first time I’ve needed to brief a soldier who was absent the start of a mission.

To learn that the origin of the violin was at the hands of Amelia’s father comes as a bit of a shock, but no moreso than most incredible things these days – it certainly explains a good deal more than it hides. But none hides more secrets than our young William, who it seems is not quite a William at all but instead a Miriam by name and by birth. A rude surprise to discover in strange company, but I’d sooner wear the embarrassment of shock than to have discovered it another way.

We now find ourselves temporarily out of the Employ of Captain Uphold and under the employ of Lord Benedict Arnold. We have been tasked with escorting to the Royal College the eponymous diary and violin that nearly brought this town low. After the end of the party, we are to make our way to Boston Harbor, to find passage on the H.M.S. Dryad. Curious, though, that Lord Cushing is cohorting with Lord Arnold – with the rumors surrounding each of them, I suspect that there is a game afoot. Two people with rumored attachment to the Crown Secret Service working together would imply that something larger than us is at play here.

August 13th 1780, Hopewell House, Taunton, Mass.

The Ball this evening was on some accounts a success, but mostly a disaster. This life of high society is still new to me, and apparently newer still to Espinosa, and we have created no small scene of embarrassment for ourselves. Some lug thought it wise to assault poor Miriam and received a bruise to his ego for his trouble, though it seems she was a bit caught off-guard.

Past the witching hour, we were met by Marquesa Ariane Bonnevie du Pondicherry, Attaché Generale to the French Ambassador to New Britain. She is a handsome woman, but incredibly… cagey and supernaturally intense. When speaking with her, it felt very much as though a cat playing with a mouse, but not yet intending to kill it – merely to keep itself entertained. Whether that is her French nature bleeding through, or her intellect, I am not sure.

Hefting around this violin is no small feat, given the protective measure in the case, but I feel like I can still feel it in there, like something alive, caged, almost.

It is a night of continued surprise – outside, waiting in Lady Bonnevie’s coach, is a man Miriam seems to have acquaintance, or at least knowledge of.