{Lovecraft Level:  about 13, know when to stop reading.}

The Baron {M Ince Necr}

   Deep beneath my ancestral estate lies a singularly redolent 
chambre.  Called many things throughout the ages, it is now 
archaicly referred to as a Midden.  The height of middle age 
technology, the period equivalent of indoor plumbing is a hole 
through a stone seat, and a vertical shaft, disappearing into 
darkness.

   It goes somewhere, though we are want to faith in a 
bottomless abyss to the center of the Earth.  This left me with 
a bit of a mystery, and challenge.  For among the papers of my 
estate are the suicide note of my Grandcestor.  Like all 
others, my family had a name, but uniquely, mine has not been 
spoken in generations.  My hundreds of times Great Grand 
Ancestor is the sole reason, not even we write it down, for 
fear that someone will read it, and know we are not gone.

   They curse us, our money, and the power we once had over the 
region.  We were a Barony, reknowned for the fertility of our 
lands, and women, it is said people even came from afar to see 
their beauty for themselves.  Then the nameless anscestor 
became Baron, and all of the local superstitions tell of his 
rule.  Unnaturaly long, he never seemed to die, and the natural 
generosity of the lands drained throughout.

   Children went missing, suspiciously during the Equinox, with 
remarcable regularity, it was remarked that you could plant, 
and bring in the harvast to it.  Girls especially were 
cautioned to stay in those nights, close to their mothers, who 
survived their spring, and fall.  Virgins as well, girls were 
even deflowered so as not to be taken in the night.  Eventually 
in their homes, cribs, mother's arms.

   His rule came to an end, at his own hand, his note in the 
old tongue tells of how he cannot write what he has done, what 
drove him to this, but confesses his use of dark arts.  
Necromancy, Diabolism, Alchemy, the forbidden rites to 
transcend death, master creatures wholy not of nature, and 
create substances to bestow the powers of God.  He had a 
philosopher's stone, and aparatus to convert base alloy into 
gold, the elixer of life.

   Which is what brings me to this extreme.  I know all of 
this, from my family history, and our practices.  Purer than 
any other strain of humanity, we are forced to what is viewed 
as abominous by the rest of the world, but our situation is 
unique.  We must remain pure, which requires inbreeding.  
Unfortuntely, to conceal our existance, our family has grown 
smaller, and I am last.  Most regretibly, my sister was the 
second to last.

   Gold is nice, would be helpful to restore the estate, and 
family name.  Dark forces equaly helpful to rise up against the 
world, and enslave them in vengance for bringing us so low, but 
first, I will require Necromancy.  Either is for naught, even 
Immortality unless we have a line to rule it.  She is still 
fresh, lifelike, though cold, her flesh is as soft, and smooth 
as if she where still pumping blood through it, but not for 
much longer.

   So now, I sit here contemplating the unimaginable, for my 
Grandcestor took three things with him to his cursed grave.  
His philosopher's stone, his elixer of life, and the book which 
details how he made them.  He went with them, down the long 
shaft into darkness.  Unused in generations, noone has dared 
tread that far, down into the foundations, so close to where he 
rests.  My fear is that it is not bottomless, it does come to an 
end, where I must find it.

   Now I say to you in all seriousness that even we whom they 
do not speak of can feel fear, and horror.  Generations of it, 
probably mounded to terraignian heights, rotting for 
centuries.  Somewhere in that, if I can get down to it 
without joining him in death.  I swear to all that is
unspeakable, nothing short of oblivion would be prerrable to 
that.  If the Christ cult is right, and hell is my ultimate 
destiny, I will smile knowing I have been through worse.

   So first a contrivance for descending me to the pit of 
horror.  There is rope aplenty on the grounds, overgrown as 
they may be in our quarentine from the world.  More could be 
made from the most fibrous vines if I had the luxury of time.  
She is unchanging, relentlessly ticking away as the natural 
processes of death take my dear sister.  I think of her, while 
splicing the lengths into one as dealt with in Lord Ashley's 
suitable work on the subject.

   I have a cistern as well, clear on the other side of the 
wall surrounding the lawn, gardens, and house.  All I have ever 
known, every stone in it's faces are as familiar to me as hers, 
or my mother's.  Her brother died, after we were born, but 
before old enough to remember him.  She taught us, our history, 
how to read the books of the massive library, and how to carry 
on our line.

   I recalled Her long hands, holding on to ours.  Facing each 
other, she held them up, to feel the differences we saw in each 
other.  When I was old enough, She made love to me, in the hope 
of expanding to strengthen our line.  But it wasn't like it 
became with Her, my sister.  We do not have names, by tradition, 
Mother, Father, Sister, Brother, Daughter, Son, I never had 
need for Uncle, Aunt, Nephiew, Neice, nor Cousin, though I know 
the words for them.

   One of those flying machines went over, across the sky with 
a tearing sound.  I still wonder how they move, unlike the ones 
with tiny winglets, like the hummingbird ones, but beating in 
front of it's wing.  Too high to see clearly, I kept splicing 
with my fingers, didn't go to the telescope, until it 
dissapeared.  Definitely like the ones without the wingletts, 
just bulges under the wings through magnification.

   That finished, I took a moment to write, before carrying the 
immeasurable lenth into the manse.  With it's weight, and bulk, 
I believe dragging it straight down will be the most efficient 
way.  I will not detail the path, nor number of trips up to 
release a coil, or kink in it's progress.  It took late into 
the night just to get the end all the way down to it's depth.

   My grandcestor's workshop, none of the dust draped aparati 
have meaning without his notes as to their operations, 
construction, nor even functions.  I will sleep down here, as 
my blood comes down from all the effort.  No visible change in 
my Sister, I brought her with me, mostly for the coolth.  
Incalcuable depth below the Earth, even the heat of the 
solstice sun at noon cannot reach this far, it is as if it 
didn't shine.

   There is no odor from it, the midden, too small, to climb 
into, so uncovered.  I think I can brace the pulley from the 
cistern, it's rope already somewhere up the lenth trailing to 
the surface, and yard.  I wonder if it is not, even now light 
despite my exhaustion.  I must rest, though She is unceasing 
her decay.

   I woke, kissed her good mourning, and once again checked for 
signs of decay.  Stiff now, in the position she died, in bed, 
asleep.  Her eyes are clouded, as if still reflecting the sky, 
far above.  Through miles of tunnel, a mountain of earth to 
finally see the light of day, and breathe fresh air.  Watch the 
huge mechanical birds soar far above.

  Not a blemish on her perfect skin, every inch in the moveing 
flame.  A candle lit by my flint, and steel, I held it to the 
wick of the bullseye lantern, closed the lense to focus it on 
her.  Beautifull, the travelers of the middle age remarked that 
even our men posess finer beauty than any other women they had 
seen.  My sister, the pinical of breeding in the generations 
since, the finest beauty of human history.

   Layed out, I came around her, let the steady beam shine on 
her face.  Our gransire would sleep here, alone, exhausted from 
his experiments, and solitary arcane rites, unable to climb up 
into the light of day.  Eyes closed, her face is relaxed.  
Pale, almost as white as bone, even the red, and blue vessicles 
in her schlera drained of their fluids.  But not yet dry, her 
lids slip back over the now callosed balls of my thumbs, if 
anything feeling smoother than before.  The lashes felt hard, 
and rough in comparison.

   White, as any hair on her body, the only color in her eyes, 
seeming to reflect the sky, but turned dark, deep without the 
light of the sun.  Even now, they are pools of shadow, only the 
filiments in the lenses defracting the light of the flame.  No 
flush to her cheeks, neither red, nor blue, smooth as fine 
China, soft as my own pulse.  None in her neck, nor expansion 
of her throat with air, the breath of life.

   My hand trembled slightly, the tips brushing the hard bones 
of her collar.  Reaching back, I set the now warm lantern on 
the stone surface next to the alcove.  Carefully turning it to 
play down her still form.  My deep breath came out ragged, and 
I sat back, next to her.  Barely a woman, our attempts at 
bearing children have met so far with failure.  Seven years 
younger, that would make her twelve, and one years of age.

   Too young to pass permanently from this world, her touch I 
craved, her voice, but I could make do with her physical form.  
It would give me energy, for the day's labours, and something 
she would appreciate.  Something to tell our daughter, when we 
are wed by her birth.  I'll have to sustain her for that, most 
of a year.

   She moved under me, shaking hard enough for her chest to 
jerk, as if gasping.  I held her hands to my chest, felt them 
warm against me.  Her's was too cold to touch, and maintain 
arousal.  At last, I felt the rapture, pressed deep into her to 
fill her with life.  It didn't work, this time iether.  The 
wrong rite, yet now I found myself suffused with the energy to 
find it.

   First, the seat, a stone slab I am not sure how he fit 
through so many generations ago.  The only stone not hewn in 
place from the solid bedrock, it wasn't the least of the 
impossibilities he was said to have performed.  It required 
considerable effort merely to seperate from the wall with the 
assistance of a prying bar.  Notched into the opposite walls, 
perhapse with propper blocks I may wedge a member for the winch 
shaft.

   I saw how it was bound, with strips of leather softened by 
water.  I read through all the libraries I could find, and was 
gifted with the memory from one of the tomes, which one, I 
cannot recallect.  There are tools, and timbers above, so I 
decided to cease my efforts, and went up to get them.  

   I took my journal, the crescent moon seems almost too 
bright, and the cistern I remembered to fill reflected me, 
looking down to gather a drink.  Held up, in the dipper my eyes 
were black, only a lighter line around the pupils before the 
schlera.  All bluer than blue, the light of the not yet 
quarter, and stars tints the world such.  Taking a breath, and 
sucking the water from my lips, a few drops caught the corner 
of the page below.

   I extinguished the lamp, to concerve fluid which is 
7\difficult to extract, and purify.  Days, any sacrifice is
..)acceptible for my sister's return.  I cannot stop to dwell, 
_/so I must carry this wood /\ down with the spool.  I have the 
lashings, and believe I can(__)modify it's frame to roll it 
down to the antechamber.  

   Yes, my idea seems to have worked.  Shortening the main 
shaft, it was narrow enough to roll down, straddling the rope 
leading down through the depths.  The concealed entrance has 
been open longer than it has in centuries, and the moon was 
beginning to set when I wheeled it in.  Exhausted from that 
little labor, I can see her, resting patiently, waiting for me 
to descend, and return with her salvation.

   I constructed a sort of H frame, and took timbers from some 
of the nearer aparati for X members.  Sidewize, the basic 
layout resembles XIX, or the Latin for my age.  Not a mystic 
number, one of the lower primes without some significance.  

   Perhapse I saught to further delay my decent, but I 
rationalized that I could double the rope's path.  Already 
cleared of every possible hinderance, and it would be easier 
than dragging it entire from as far as the cistern.

   Another drink, and chance to fill a retort, no purpose in 
going unprepaired.  Starlight was sufficient, though not 
detailed to also extinguish the lantern, and fill it from what 
little precious oil we have left.  Just enough pause from 
hauling the other end down to catch my breath.  Heavy, and hard 
to pull, I cannot bring myself to look over at Her, even swing 
the light out to illuminate her.

   I anchor one end to the sturdiest of aparatus, it resembles 
a telescope, with heavy leaded disks pointing up, and down, 
but nowhere for the light to enter.  The other end, I drape 
over the pully, and start leading it down into the dark depths.
It begins swinging, pendulously assisting my pulls with it's 
weight as I timed to it's slowly lenthening period.  Presently, 
I needed merely guide it as the weight pulled periodicly, and 
step back from it's rapid progress.

   Increasing dangerously, I found myself backing away, the 
sound of it's passage became deafening, and I hid in the 
alcove, cluching her tight as the coil rumbled, then thrashed 
down, twisting, and lashing surely with enough force to cleft 
us in twain.  It struck close, almost like a thunderclap in the 
tiny seeming niche of safety.  Neither of us was hurt, except 
for a small wound in my arm.

   Made from a shivered flake of stone which struck me, it 
bounced back behind me, and I had to climb up for something 
clean to bind it.  Pain is nothing to me, I know I am hurt, and 
merely ignore the constant sensation.  Pinched closed by the 
tight cloth, it no longer even bleeds, but I do not want to seep 
out my life now, nor expose it to the no doubt corrupted air of 
that place.  No further evasions, I must do it, and soon before 
my resolution fades.

   Why did I secure it so far?  The timbers held, a thick as my 
waist, and impossibly wedged into holes through the solid 
stone, not noticably bowed, nor moved enough from the 
unimaginable force, but this presented yet another obstical.  I 
can barely pull the lenth, put any slack in it to loosen the 
constricted knot hitching it at the secured end.  With leverage 
from the spool, and a borrowed timber, I could loosen it by 
friction, and my weight on the horizontal lenth.

   I used this to wrap around, anchored protruberences in the 
floor, leading back to the aparatus.  More than enough 
friction, I looped it round and round the last to release it's 
uppermost end.  I fashioned loops, like a seat to hold it in 
front of me, stepped over the rope, and circled the partial 
pillar.  I had to turn away from the pull, walk backwards, 
dragged back towards the relentless weight.

   Still wedged, it rubbed loudly on the spool, the frightening 
relentless sound growing louder, closer until I stood, sidewize 
on the base of the midden.  Stooping to catch my breath, this 
may be the last I can write before my decent.

   The lantern stands at the edge, weirdly at a quarter angle 
to the weight which holds me to this seat.  I will take it, and 
this notebook with me, thankful we still have paper, and ink 
for generations more.

   The Alchemist {M Solo NS.  Yes, for the remainder of the 
story.  Oh, and the following chapter is translated from middle 
Latin, the first four couplets around the gloss.}

   [I, Magus Maledictorius Dar Et Tremandis, Baron Melanui find 
myself the victim of my own majiq.

   Far too effective, my constitution, and vigor withstood the 
fall unharmed.

   Too soft entire, the material was of my own doing, 
the apex deposited personaly from inconceivable height.

   For the latest three score, dozen, and five years, when I 
inheireted on my father's death, and I was but twenty five.

   [3] Three quarters of a century, and more I practiced the 
dark arts, beginning with the single book I found in the lowest 
library.

   My great grand sire brought it back with him in the wars of 
the Infidel.  Aramaic, it told of dark things, no longer spoken 
of.  Forgotten so as not to awaken Them, and turn Their dark 
attentions to us once more.  

   I learned Their Names, and constructed a lightning staff to 
call Them.  To the peak of the manse, up the highest towering 
chimney, sealed over so as to remain concealed.

   The proper alloy, as detailed in the other side of this 
tome.  Largely silver, it remained flexible, wrapped around 
it's drawn core of the purest iron.

   Then the signs, engraved into plates of the purest alluminite, 
an unknown metal excellent for the alloy to make 
reflecting plates for the sight magnifyer of Newton.

  But flat, and the number of two, char pressed between them, 
and heated with the ultimate possible weight to fuse it into 
graphyte.

   And another plate, of the finest unleadened glass, carefully 
etched, and poured in with alloy.  The utmost care taken lest 
the line be broken, or cross anywhere on it's lenth before 
comming back apon it'self as the oroborus.

   Then the last, a zigarrat of wires in levels, the smallest 
pointing down.

   Toward the center of our world, where the gravity of Galleli 
rests, and iron, His metal, flows in an endless ocean of heat.

   I say, this took decades of research, travel, and trading.  
To aquire the materials, and a score years more to assemble 
them in the proper alignment.

   At last, I sat in the depths which my estate descends 
towards the nether world, and spoke into the membrane which I 
had read how to construct.

   Above raged a thunderstorm, rocking the manse to it's 
foundations, but not to this depth.  

   One word, a Name, and in knowing it lies power over whom 
the world has forgot.

   "Basiatus."

   It echoed in the tiny chamber, but there was not the 
slightest change.  Pouring over my notes, I carefully recited 
the words in a tongue I have never encountered before, nor 
since.

   {The following is in modern American English, a language not 
yet spoken when this was written, except for times like this.}

   "Her Last Breath

   Her pulse quickens in my grasp,
   Racing her to death.
   Release her for a final gasp,
   Permitting one last breath.

   Her eyes as wide as her lips,
   a silent endless scream.
   The flush darkening red as rage.
   Struggles weakening, pinned by the hips,
   Slipping off as if to dream.
   And to never age.

   Hold the ebb in her neck,
   romantic, all she's left
   Take her lips in one last kiss,
   and take in her last breath."

   {(c) Anno Dominus 1992, Anarchrist.  Oh yeah, PL Rabbit Junk-
The Revenge of Julian Modely (Ghetto Blasphemer II: From the 
Stars)  Any further paraparenthetic braces in chapter are in 
character.}

   I swear on all that is unholy, at that moment the manse was 
smyte with a blow that shook it even here, beneath it's found-
ation, and I was thrown back by a bright light, and deafening 
report, which must have stricken me unconcious.

   {Balefascaem.} It greeted me, in a tongue long dead.  Still 
deafened, I heard it's voice in my head, without any assistance 
of my ears.

   I returned it's greeting, prostrated myself in the darkness, 
and dared to raise my eyes to it.  As the dazzle left them, I 
managed to discern a faint glow, glittering in the darkness.

   A cloud, or two, filiments of light joining them, above a 
thick bulge, and a tail, splitting into tendrils, three, the 
central one bifurcating further.

   A flash, no two, high at the front of the two bulging 
clouds.  They had taken on more form, and physicality, like 
loops of light, undulating around each other across the 
surface, and disks shown {That's Shewn.} like the reflectors of 
the yet to be built transmuter in front of the clouds.

   "Great Basiatus," I could not hear my own voice, "Immortal 
strangler who's breath is death."

   {Ah, Latin.} it switched tongues, {You called?}

   "Master of the dynamic force, the core of the world, it's 
axis, and the feild which encompasses it against the light, 
traveler of the great circle of."

   {Yes yes, get on with it.  This I all know, and while I do 
have Time, I run short on Patience.  Don't dare bore me lest I 
find other entertainment in you.}

   I could not get a thought in edgewize untill it was once 
more silent.  "Ancient one, it is written that you have 
mastered the arts of Alchemy, Necromancy, and Diabolism."

   It laughed, {I'm a fucking Demon, Diabolism applies to ME.  
I consort with other Demons as peers.}  A chuckle as cold and 
lifeless as the atmosphere of the deep dank chambre.  {But yes,
I know these things.  Now what the Hell do you want?}

   "Mighty one," I bowed reverently, "It is written, of your 
mastery of Alchemy," the transmutation of metals, and the 
elixer of life.

   {Is that it?  Wealth, and Immortality to enjoy it?}  Exactly
as I thought!  {Of course I can read your simple mind, 
I'm amazed I had to, you mortals are so boorishly predictable.  
The mystery is what's in it for me?}  So I needn't speak, 
{That's right, bright boy, and I'd preferr you didn't, your 
weak little voice annoys me.}

   I see, so in return for my wealth, and life, {I have the use 
of you, as long as you have it.}  Not my immortal soul?  
{Exactly, you think yourself the first to come up with that 
loophole?  "If I don't die, I don't got to hell!"  Honestly, 
it's always the arrogance with you people.}

   So that's the deal?  {Now the fine print:}?{"Immortality" 
denotes freedom from aging, nothing cannot be killed, and I 
already feel you thinking about it, don't.  I can promise I 
will damn well try not to let you die so long as you're fun to 
posess...}

   Cease, beast, {I can kill you, with a though, "beast".}  You 
just sent "Posession".  {That's the price, buddy, as long as 
it's fun, and I can get things done, I'll keep you alive, and 
show you how to do things.}

   Like transmutation of metals?  {Back to that?  Sure, 
Eldofuckingrado.  I'll even protect you from your philosopher's 
stone, now hold still, and take a deep breath.}  It grew 
closer, yet smaller, obscuring the darkness as it enveloped my 
face.  I felt it tingle, and bite me like the microlightning of 
a leyden jar, and I gasped...]

The Baron {M Solo NS}

   I descended the shaft, and found quite a lot before thinking 
to stop, and write.  At the beginning, I remember being pulled 
over the spool, and somehow using the lever to push me down the 
side of it.

   Not stuck in the side of the spool, but it slipped out, and 
I found purchace with it somewhere above me.  Wedged painfully 
downward, I could grasp the rope, but scarcely lift it with all 
the strength of my arms.

   I wrapped a leg around, lifted pulling, and managed to turn 
the pully a degree.  I cannot convey the effort necissary to 
decend a mere body height in this manner, by inches, struggling 
near to exhaustion out of the tunnel.

   The lantern swung under me, shaking it's beam around the 
ceiling.  Fluttering was to be heard, and dark flappings at the 
edge of the light.  Crystaline, too reflective internaly, and the
wrong cleavedge angle for quartz, in places seeming to be frozen 
in sheets as ice, looked like gypsum in this light.

   To my nose came a noisome odour, too faint to be yet 
identifyable, yet distractingly repellant.  I rested some, 
almost laying at the bottom of the shaft so as not to slip up, 
and waste the effort.

   Wonderous, tough, and awefull.  Slipping further downward, 
it became easier, as there came to be more rope above me, and 
less below.  The atmosphere became more flavourfull, stifling 
with the vapor of rotten eggs.  We have chickens, and oft they 
have had more eggs than we had need.

   I let my mind wander, to divert it from the labour, and 
vapour.  Breathing through my mouth, I recalled the chemestry I
had read, concerning sulpher, sometimes called Brimstone.  In 
it's gasseous state, it may be disolved in agueous suspension 
as sulphuric acid, probably depositing the formations seen 
above.  The] Okay, it's sulfer dioxide.  [continues seeping up, 
even so noisome of air knows it doesn't belong in the earth, 
long after the cavern had drained.

   Thinking to shine the light down as far as possible without 
extinguishing it.  Unable to reach directly below, I continued, 
and made out the extent of the cavity.  Lined as it was with 
the white shiny crystals, it's difficult to estimate the scale 
without referrance.

    The rope started dragging up the effluent, damp and rolled 
into tiny spherelettes.  The subtle supherous taint was slowly 
overtaken by another odour, wholy more obnoxious.  Bats, 
thousands of them, no doubt for generations.  Another 
recollection from chemistry, an excellent source for saltpeter.

   They can breathe here, which means the air remains livid 
enough to sustain them.  They will not live where they cannot 
breathe, so one of my fears allayed.  The rope became slick, 
and I thanked myself for remembering gloves.

   Now simply slowing my decent from a Galilelian plummet, the 
guano coated lenth caught at a splice.  I gasped, tried to 
through my mouth, and let my heart slow down.  Eventually to 
the rate of my swing, I caught the rythm, and timed my descent 
in safe pulses.

   I picked up my lantern, cradled it in my lap, and twisted 
foreward with the swings.  Below, something showed in it's 
beam, movement like a dark sheet, moving, and pulling back 
under me.

   I twisted again before my swing took me back.  There, the 
movement gone, but a peak, or flattened tip of a cone comming 
closer.  This time the skurrying I heard beneath was gone 
before I swung over, already turning.

  I changed the timing of my extension, to slow my swing, till I
levitated slowly down over it.   Still unable to shine straight 
down, I felt with my feet, but still fell unexpectedly, and 
grasped wildly so as not to fall backwards down the slope.

   Spattered in offal of the ages, it was as mud, but solid 
enough just below the surface.  Slick, but I had the ropes to 
haul me back up to the summit.  Mere cubits to ascend, I only 
stopped once to wretch.

   Thankfull I hadn't broken fast when I awoke, I crawled to 
the top, which wasn't flat, but hollow.  Curved as a dish, 
something was mounded in the center, a shred of cloth visible 
beneath the excrement of ages.

   The slightest inspection revealed exposed bone, and the 
remnant of flesh, but I jumped back from a squeek, and 
skurrying out of the light.  Rats, droppings right there in the 
line of light between ribs.  Partially buried in the, substance,
ere it would have been carried off as were the limbs, and 
missing skull.

   All of this managed to distract me a moment from the fact 
that I was blackened with filth.  Standing on a mountain of it, 
I couldn't stop gagging at the stench, trying to wipe it off, 
but having nothing cleaner with which to make any progress.  
Catching my breath, I tried to deepen it, slowly as if to fall 
a sleep.

   At last, I calmed enough to continue the inspection.  The 
tatter, long past stained beyond it's original color was but a 
rag, no cleaner, but dry as the rest of the summit save the 
random drop.  My throat tightens as another lands, like the 
opposite of clean rain.

   The offal has hardened, in what appears to have once been a 
crater when it was wet.  Human, my skin crawled at each 
recognisable bit of food, so I turned back to the remains.  I 
managed to ignore the material enough to examine the properties.

   Dessicated, not completely petrified, but as packed dry 
earth and I pulled out a rib.  Knawed by countless thousands of 
hundreds of bites, I have no estimation of their original size, 
but maveled at it's slightness, and the acute curvature.

   His third, it would fit wholly inside mine, with a few 
finger's bredth to spare.  I shook the almost odourless clump 
from the end, and bent over the hole.  Flat on the bottom, but 
with a ridge, or bulge, and another branching from it, outside 
it's curve, like part of a letter, or picture in bas releif.

  Ceizing another rib, I cleared more of the surface, which 
appears to be the dryest of leather.  Impressed on it in a 
mixture of letters, taken phoneticly, I think I can sound it 
out.  "Magus Maledictorius Dar Et Tremandis, Baron Melanui." 
around a ward against scrying, and majiquel sight.

   Clearing to the edge, I found the complex knot, and cut it 
to free the large padded board.  As I thought, his book which I 
saught, laying before me.  I began reading immediately, found 
his journal, and the information that it it written on the 
other side of his grimmore'.

   His majiq, the dark arts, necromancy, and alchemy, the 
secrets to bring back my dear sister.  And a warning, [This is 
not to be removed, read what you can in place, but do not copy 
more than this.]  I took the pages of his confession, dulling 
my edge to cut them free, but considered it's safety there.

   I made it to the important part.  Digging down to 
necromancy, he held the secrets to revive someone as much as 
hours dead, not days.  I was the last of my line.  So, I 
decided.  I must leave, destroy this accursed place, and take 
with me all I can remember.

   To that end, I remember chemestry.  Saltpeter, and brimstone,
we have a cannon, and books on how to charge it.  A mountain of 
it, only the third ingredient to create, and dispurse.  No way 
of mixing, and measuring, but it needn't explode, merely burn.  
It also details another secret of archetecture, the passage 
from the castle out to surrounding lands.

   I will take His Memior, and leave his magiq, encased in his 
own filth.  I will light the hell he made for himself before I 
leave.