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Terror at Churlwood's Edge

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These excerpts from the journal of Pathfinder Marcian August (deceased) and accompanying notes were recovered from courthouse archives in Magnimar and delivered to Heidmarch Manor.

Wealday, 28 Gozran 4710 AR

After wintering in Magnimar at Heidmarch Manor, I now begin my investigations into a local legend. While trading tales in the taverns with Varisian merchants, I have been intrigued by certain stories of missing children. The person or creature held responsible has captured my imagination. I set out tomorrow, weather permitting, north and east of Magnimar. Is there truly some unknown creature behind these incidents, or is it simply a bogeyman made up as a scapegoat to explain losses common in the wilderness? For now I lie in my bed, listening to the storm howl outside and branches scratching at my window shutters as if requesting entrance.

Oathday, 29 Gozran 4710 AR

The storm passed in the night and I woke to greet a glorious spring morning. I set out today for the southern edge of the Churlwood. I am accompanied by Esmerelda, a Varisian woman of middle years that agreed to be my guide. She has wandered these lands since she was a girl and is skilled at tracking and woodcraft. Her presence should also help convince the folk of any caravans we encounter to speak with me openly about the mysteries I wish to uncover.
All I was able to find out in the city was that the Varisians of the area attribute the disappearance of children with an enigmatic figure: a man, exceptionally tall and thin, dressed in tight, black, courtier’s garb, who is often seen lurking amongst the trees. Such a vague description could be anything. Perhaps it is some type of fey, or an ancestral spirit. It might even be a lone ogre-kin, lurking in the woods and coming forth to wreak depravity on those nearby. This is all conjecture, however. I’m certain that a thorough investigation will reveal the facts of the matter. We should make it to the wood in about five days’ time.

Fireday, 30 Gozran 4710 AR
A fortuitous find! Tonight we enjoy the hospitality of Rustic Grove, a country estate. While perusing books in the manor’s chapel, I came across a pair of woodcuts. Done by the Rev. Uric Togs, circa 4600 AR, they at first seem to depict an archetypal representation of death. Tall and skeletally thin, in one scene it is seen dispatching a knight in combat. It is the second scene which captured my attention. In it, the figure is snatching a child from his commoner parents through the window of their cottage. Could this be referencing the tales of child abduction in this area? If so, they go back further than I realized. The text of this volume is unhelpful. The pictures accompany homilies on dealing with unexpected deaths.
Examination reveals certain disturbing deviations from the accepted archetype. In the first, what appears to be a lance upon which the knight is impaled is, in fact, an extension of the figure’s arm. Also, it sports an additional pair of legs, skewed at unnatural angles. Likewise, in the second woodcut the figure sports additional limbs—both arms and legs—grasping the child and bracing itself against the house as it pulls him from the embrace of his parents. In both the figure is disturbingly disproportionate. Most unsettling is the figure’s head. It does not sport the ubiquitous grinning skull. Or if it does, it is covered. Whether it is a sort of eyeless mask, ill-fitted and slipping, or sloughing skin, is uncertain. Whatever the case, being prevented from gazing into the face of death seems somehow more terrible than full revelation.

Oathday, 6 Desnus 4710 AR

Found a caravan camped on the outskirts of the Churlwood. They are obviously disturbed and wary. Esmerelda convinced them to speak with me. They say they are being stalked. The best translation I can give from the Varisian is the Lithe Gentleman. None of the details give me any inkling of what I’m dealing with, despite my considerable knowledge. Their fear is almost palpable. I was moved to swear to them that I would do what I could to assist.

Sunday, 9 Desnus 4710 AR

Such horror! It came upon the camp in the night and made off with one of the children. E. and I accompanied three of the adults to track it into the woods. A fog had risen and we were separated. I wandered alone in the trees and mist. Shrieks, screams from out of the night. I ran in that direction, following the sounds until they ceased abruptly. Wetness, spattering down from above. Looking up, I saw them. Their tattered remains decorated the trees like garlands some twenty feet above.

There was a sound then, echoing through the trees. At first I thought it was a child’s laughter, but no. The sound was wrong. The pitch was somehow inhuman and where laughter changes, this was one repetitive sound, continuing without difference in volume or the gasps of air needed for a living thing to keep projecting it. A sound that twists a mind with madness. I whirled about, seeking its source.

It was there, silhouetted in the moonlight, slender as the tree trunks around it. Impossibly tall, its proportions were a grotesque mockery of human form. I saw it, and it saw me. I ran, Desna help me. Unsure where I am, where E. has gone. Gods, what is this thing?

Toilday, 11 Desnus 4710 AR

I found Esmerelda at the edge of the wood. She lay open like a footlocker, and her insides had been torn from her. Worse still, what had been ripped from her had been returned. The bolt of turquoise fabric she’d bought from a traveling merchant had been sliced into pieces. Each organ had been wrapped in a piece of fabric as one wraps a gift, and then returned to the precise spot from which it had been removed. It left her for me. I know it.

? Desnus 4710 AR

No longer sure what day— It follows, it always follows.  –somehow made my way back to the caravan. It must have led me here—so hard to keep track of my thoughts—





Date unknown

—locked myself in. Old hunting cabin. He is outside. He taps upon the door, upon the windows. A caller requesting entrance. But He is already here. I brought Him here. The more I see, the more I know, and the more He IS. Tapping on windows now, both sides of the cabin at once. Lithe Gentleman. Slender Man. Old. Ancient. Timeless. Indefinable. More of Him, more. Reaching out, reaching THROUGH. The more aware I am of Him, the more powerfully He manifests. He comes through the darkness. The darkness comes through Him.

—will take the children. I know this now. He wants them. They will not end like Esmerelda…not like the Varisians in the trees. Their fate is worse, and they will go to Him willingly. Just as I will. I must go prepare the way. Their parents cannot suffer His taking them. I cannot allow that. I must be merciful. I must do this. For them. For Him. I do what is right, yet it is what He wishes me to do.

Desna have mercy.



To the Lord Justice, Bayl Argentine:

Sir,

After investigating reports of murders in the area, we discovered this man locked in an abandoned cabin. His clothes were bloody, as was the dagger he wielded attempting to fend off my men. Witnesses confirmed that he was seen in their camp shortly before the bodies were discovered. Accompanying my full report you will find the remnants of his journal. He was attempting to burn the blood-soaked pages when we broke in. Much of what remains seems the ravings of a madman. Still, I send it in the hopes that you will find it useful.

If I may be so bold, I suggest this cur find the end of a rope quickly. Word has spread about these incidents and the Varisians are in an uproar. Even the Sczarni seem disturbed. Perhaps a display of swift justice will calm this unrest. The Pathfinder Society may take umbrage at such treatment of one of their own, but I believe it would be in the best interests of the city.

I have given my squad two days leave. These occurrences have unnerved them, particularly young Pavo. He claims to have seen an individual following our patrol, sounding quite like the figure described in this lunatic’s journal. After our scout found neither tracks nor such a person, I ordered him to speak no further about the matter. I think it best to nip such tales in the bud straight away. They are bad for morale and these things have a tendency to take on a life of their own.

I await further instruction.

In service of Magnimar,

Talia Petronus
Captain
A short fiction piece published in Wayfinder #5.
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