A Hexer's Journal

[Quantumatics 547]

 

"Neutrality is not the abdication of sensitivity or empathy. A Hexer needn’t kill feeling when the quelling of hatred is toil enough.”

— Adeon of Rhoswen, Founding Speech of the Hexicanum

 

Spoiler

 

 

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A collection of texts, journal entries, and accounts by the monster hunters of the Hexer Creed of Almaris, founded by Master Hexer Edmond of Sava. These writings have been amassed and collected over decades — detailing these monster slayers’  journeys and hunts, as well as the doctrines they have adopted during their time upon the continent. 

 

Such sacred tomes, innumerable in their knowledge and lore, depict the many trials and tribulations of the members of this Creed. Spread across the realms and made known to those propitious enough to find them, their contents reveal much as to the true nature of these Beast Slayers.

 

These texts have become vital in training and conditioning the future generation of Hexers.

 

 

Spoiler

(OOC: This post is intended to act as a mechanism for Hexer characters to contribute their in-roleplay endeavors to be recorded through this forum post via replies. Don’t hesitate to contribute, just try to match the format with the two examples below. Entry numbers as well are arbitrary and relate to the respective journal (should the text be a journal). Feel free to be creative, relate it to roleplay, and have fun.)

 

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Entry 47

Hunting A Griffin

Journal of the Hexer: Edmond of Sava

14th of Grand Harvest, 1834 

 

 

The patchwork by which that murky ground did sprawl into desert still confounds me, though the farmers tell that this fugacious beast bore an aquiline head. It is that fact which made me certain. I approached the carriage discerned to me by the alderman outside of San Luciano, four hundred paces west to my recollection, and there it was. I shifted about its mass, and slumped against its wooden frame did they rest. When I pressed my palm against that ligneous sideboard the squeal of hinges resounded in concert with the squeal I knew once rung from the woman’s destitute visage, her daughter lying upon her lap sprawled with blood and thrawn flesh not simply her own. The maiden’s eyes were gouged, her once golden locks now a percolated crimson as gore flowed like a stream from below her scalp, lifeless and desecrated by the bastard Griffin which tormented this woesome vale. Such, too, could be spoken of the tormented infant within her grasp, its limbs unmoving as two deep scarlet lacerations chasmed within the child’s chest, where talon’s no doubt penetrated. And oh, how that mother did cling— even with whatever life once ebbing through having long since passed, her countenance still wept for the child lost.

 

The remainder of the cart was no different, two more bodies, these ones men, hanging from the now dilapidated rail-work that once kept the contents of the vessel stored. They bore similar cuts, the first mangled through the face upon which blood still coagulated over lividy-enveloped skin, slowly oozing forth. The second had his arms mutilated so severely that they hung only from his shoulders by the cartilage and tendon that remained in sinew between the two sections of his form, as though it was naught more than string binding flesh to flesh. Either wore studded gambeson of cheap make, one a tabard with Savoyard colors imprinted upon its white cloth, barely discernible behind dirt and blood. They were affordable guards, an escort for a likely middle class family hoping to make it to the city with heed and assured safety. Within the carriage the only contents I discovered within the wreckage were the clothes of the mother and daughter, and a small pouch of twenty minae, a traveler’s fee no doubt. I placed the pouch within my satchel and rounded the length of the carriage once more, contemplating the tale it soundlessly told. The attack that interrupted those travels was recent, swift, though the only entity that had disappeared from the scene was the horse that led the hansom. The breeching and traces that would have fastened it to the carriage’s shafts had been left cut waywardly upon the ground, and hidden beneath a small clump of sand the hoof of the mare I would later find sat severed in a small pool of vermillion blood. 

 

Of the beasts which cling to the skies few would carry with them the appetite of a fully grown mare, let alone make a strike of such unprovoked upon a well traveled valley path. No cockatrice, wyvern or crackadonk would befit the injuries afforded and the circumstance laid out before me, nor a manticore considering this beast’s proclivity to strike unprovoked. It was then that it was made apparent we were hunting a Griffin, and an Imperial Griffin, no less, considering the depth of the wounds upon the guards. It was upon that realization that my disciple arrived, Masuo of Yamatai, an Oyashiman whom I had been training by the code just as Sebastian had taught me those many years ago. He was astute, a model hexer, even, if not for his loquacity. He had been speaking with the contract giver, securing payment before reaching me with word of our bait. 

 

A dead sheep, black balls of yarn plunged into gouged eyelids with rope wrapping its form upright and into place. It was as though a children’s doll had been by some arcane machination enlarged ten times its size. A pathetic, sad-looking bait, but more than effective enough for the tribulation at hand. I poured an inordinate amount of Hunter’s Charm onto its form, emptying nearly the whole flask; enough, I’d imagine, to attract a damn Vodnik from Elysium across the continent. Regardless, we lugged that now putrid-smelling bait further into the Southern Plains of Savoy, the beating heat, I recall, adding some toil to the trek. We placed the sheep atop a foothill, placing ourselves a few dozen meters behind it beneath the brush from which we could observe the descent more easily.

 

[A Sketch of the Imperial Griffin on the Left Hand Side of the Page]

 

An hour passed, the beast lurking above in observation of its easy prey. It watched as though suspicious of an attack, though its base nature overcame it. A hexer must ever be made aware that Griffin’s are driven by their insatiable hunger. Griffins long had hunted wild goats, marmots, and other mountain kin, though the increased encroachment of mankind toward their territory led to their grazing of easier prey; sheep, horse and the shepherds that cultivated either. They too would often feast upon mankind, a secondary delectability, though one taken without hesitation— especially when made cause by encroachment upon that which those beasts deemed their cultivated territory. It was this particular Griffin, which upon its descent above us, confirmed our initial suspicions. It was an Imperial Griffin, a female subspecies of an Archgriffin with wings and talons considerably larger than the average size. The townsfolk had deemed it the Mistress of the Hills, for as we were told none dared engage in trade within the south for fear of its torment. Hence our employ under the then Marshal of the Principality of Savoy, a brazen and hot-tempered man by the name of Joseph Brandt.

 

As the beast whipped through the afternoon sky, its wings expanded outward to halt its descent; displaying lines of feathers flailing against the formed gale of wind that thrust itself upon myself and my adept’s position. Still, however, it did not see us- those yellowed eyes far too consumed by the meal set before it. The obstinate and abrasive brute wasted not a moment to sink its mandible deep into the wool-enwrapped flesh of the lamb, blood spewing forth from the lifeless corpse and onto the beak of the Griffin. No time was wasted then, a flask containing alchemical Flash Powder launched toward the beast’s head as Masuo of Yamatai approached from the rear, launching his rope dart through the wing of the beast while it was blinded. I, too, set my path forth, levying my crossbow toward it, though it did not yet reveal its patagium, a membrane of flesh by which the wing is allowed to be made of any use to the aquiline being.

 

As my crossbow lay where it stood, the beast pulled its wing inward, the initiate wrapping his hand about its chain as the Griffin bit into his leg and sought then to fly upward with him in its clutch, rope-dart now entangling its pinion. A Griffin’s most powerful attribute is, undoubtedly, their proclivity to the sky. Their attacks often consist of sweeping strikes from above, only to retreat to the air once more after their claws and talons had wreaked havoc upon any victim made its prey. Some are known to bear corrosive acid produced within salivary glands in their mouths, and others in adulthood develop a grating screech, so off-putting it has been known to put Ologs off their balance. Most paramount to a hexer’s success in battle against one is to deprive it of its ability to the air, thus cutting or piercing the patagium of one or both wings. 

 

It was then, as the beast ascended to the air, that I let free the bolt of my crossbow- striking true in the aforementioned tendon binding wing to scapular. An ear grating screech sounded from the beast, sending me backwards some and depriving my grip of the crossbow I once clutched. Still, I saw Masuo above tangling with the beast, managing to grip upon its wing with his rope dart as it plummeted, grating at its ribcage with his blade. Even when on ground, it was still a beast of great ferocity, launching Masuo a great many feet away from it, even ripping his rope dart out of the wing from the sheer force of the blow, as well as his unwillingness to surrender his grip upon the chain. It is then that I proceeded forth, and made my greatest blight- an attempt to strike at the beast head on. It made no hesitation as those three talons ripped through my chest, one breaking deeply enough through my armor to leave a scar I am certain shall remain until the end of my days. 

 

For many more minutes we exchanged blows, but without its aptitude for flight, a well placed blow through its nape made due for a certain end to its terrestrial ravaging. Still, despite its many injuries, it ensued its battle far longer than we could have anticipated. It is this fact which led us to our next discovery- for no more than a few hundred meters past the very mountain upon which we stood, on a terraced hill surrounded by stone a perched nest did sit. When we approached it we found a great many mutilated remains of soldiers and farmers alike, and upon the nest of seven eggs, only a single remained unburnt or crushed. The Imperial Griffin was a mother, which made due cause for the expansion of its perceived territory in the recent months, and its further reason for fervor in battle; defending its youth against those who had sought to slay it. Further inward we also found the form of a much smaller Griffin, an average one, and a male, who had been pierced by what was at least thirty-four pierces and lacerations by a steel blade.

 

Still, it is a lusty beast far too consumed in its pursuit of mate and meal to be afforded more than a moment’s empathy. It is from this fact, however, that the Griffin has long been held as a symbol of valiance, courage and loyalty. It is a beast that finds only one mate throughout its life, and mates no more than once throughout that span. This makes any Griffin who lays egg and offspring a far more dangerous threat than one that does not.

 

It is thus my hope that I will not for some time have to face again a Mistress of The Hills.

 

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Entry 132

Passage On The Entrapment Of A Griffin

Journal of the Hexer: Adeon of Rhoswen

6th of Snow’s Maiden, 1464

 

[An ancient tome, centuries old, preserved through time purely by those so inclined to conserve its knowledge]

 

The spot took three days of soggy travel through the rainy foothills of north-western Oren to reach. We settled after dark, and continued before dawn. Valahan kept chiding the squires about speaking too loud and leaving food out, so much so that I grew tired of his voice. After three days of silent, cautious travel, we saw it crest a mountain further down the valley. The fog made it hard to see, and the rain made it easy to want to sit by the fire all day. It had long wings, and it was too hard to make out from here if it was a Wyvern or just a big vulture.

 

Upon receiving the report, the creature was immediately assumed to be a cockatrice and we had brought with us a means in which to deal with it. When we finally arrived at its nesting ground, Valahan had the squires and sherpas make camp just over the opposite peak, and we awaited nightfall. As the night drew in, we sent three with a wagon of lumber and shovels. As quietly as possible, the men excavated just enough to lay lumber in an effort to maintain the trench.

 

For what felt like hours, the men persisted, and deGrey and I watched with our pipes lit. Once the preparation was done and we had the Ballista’s parts carried in. We called it a night and slept early.

 

Noon of the next day, we started planning our assault and to arrange equipment for the events to come. With Ballista in place, the area was thoroughly scouted and the nest was spotted. It had been empty and there was no sign of the thing, aside from assorted feathers and remains of various prey.

 

Once we finalized the plan, we made our way back to the campsite and laid in wait for roughly 2 weeks. For a time, it had just become another home. Generally untouched, the land had plenty of wildlife to survive on and grain we brought on wagons had made life generally easy. 

 

A few of the men we hired to labor in our stead became displeased despite it, they’d begun discussing returning home but during such disarray, without warning, a shadow cast itself over the camp, moving toward the nest that had been deemed abandoned and useless.

 

With unanticipated fervor, the camp burst to life, men moving to their tents and sliding on their armor or gathering the gear intended for their role. Within the hour, we departed from the camp, the beast was swooping over the men several times in what was likely a probing behavior. Valahan herded the sellswords to the site intended for ambush, as many of them were being picked up and lobbed skyward by what was now clearly a Griffin.

 

Several times it swept over the men, and I watched its talons scooping flesh out of armored mercenaries, then flying out of range before any retaliation could be made- not that anybody at this point had the courage to.

 

The group had split itself in two, with three of us— Morris, Gerald and myself standing before the makeshift ‘bunker’ in an effort to draw it’s attention whilst Temp and Valahan ran into the bunker and tended to the ballista.

 

It was during this time that the massive feathered beast had set itself upon me, and tried to take me within it’s grasp. At the time, I hadn’t the slightest bit of knowledge of the beast. All I could perceive was it’s bald, vulture-like head, pecking at me with the might of a warhorse and its frightful claws nipping at my baldric.

 

From within the ‘bunker,’ as the creature brought itself down for another attack, I heard Temp’s voice order the bolt to be launched and yet, there was nothing. I panicked, and it got atop me, ripping and crushing what felt to be every bone I had.

 

Just when I thought I was done for, the weight was thrown off me, and I looked up to see a huge bolt in its side. The plan had worked.

 

Like wolves, I saw Morris and Gerald immediately set themselves upon it, and hack it apart like butchers. And so it was no more.

Edited December 13, 2021 by Quantumatics

[Joltastik 506]

Entry 6

Passage On Huggers

Journal of the Hexer: Sighard of Halstaig

21st of The Deep Cold, 1640

 

[Although the origins of this old, ice-glazed journal are a mystery, its barely legible contents reveal an entry dated as far back as late Axios.]

 

It has been two months since the Incident; Hatchet broke through the Inner Gates and had his shit-stained marauders set fire to our compound. We had to rout, and lost Vicelin in the process. Viktor ran into the burning building after him immediately, and followed in Vic's footsteps.

 

Two Marked, both seasoned-- lost at the hands of renegade Courlanders and snot-faced marauders. . . The rest, in tow. Such is life in this freezing, god forsaken shit-hole. I often think about how we trudged here voluntarily, like some breast-pumped knights with peas for brains and death wishes. We couldn't have known it would end like this, nay. . . But we've all signed up for this the day we were branded, I suppose.

 

Jin and I made for the outskirts immediately, so as to redirect our efforts at another incursion; but when I mentioned it he turned those ever-sneering eyes to me and promptly said he's never stepping foot in Mordskov again, and that he's going back to Cathant.

 

Bartholomew is gone. Alfred and Renuald have both gone A.W.O.L somewhere in that accursed Cathedral. Can't blame the ***** for compromising.

 

Two canisters left for my respirator. Thanium smog's thick-- getting thicker, unless I'm just seeing things. Shit, I'd leave as well, in his place. I could do it right now. . . let Avenel and his chumps take over.

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Bah. Gotta get Vic's kid.

 

 

Entry 7

 

[!] A crude sketch of a Mordskovian Hugger.

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Emission inbound. Not much time to write, but I got myself stuck in this shit-shack to wait the storm over.

 

I'm hit. Managed to climb the defunct ravine rafters in the outskirts and narrowly avoid an encounter with one of those armored abominations. A woman helped me; not sure how she found herself this close to the walls with her innards intact. Not to matter. Huggers were prowling the treeline on the road leading up to the gateway. We didn't have much time.

 

They sniffed us out fast on account of having ran out of fresh prey in the city. Blood-starved and pitch as black, with the same lanky ass, claw-lined limbs and razor edged teeth I remember seeing before. Only difference now was their overwhelming numbers.

 

Didn't have much to do, so I maimed the girl's leg with my longsword and made a run for it. Left her for bait. Heard the cracks of bone and tissue as the first one got to her. Bah. Compromises.

 

As I was reaching the gates, I turned to notice one of them run past his feasting brethren and charge directly towards me, discarding the bait. It ran with incredible speed, showcasing a string of erratic movements which immediately reminded me of that skinwalker we took on in Adelburg sum' years back-- had me bedridden in Halstaig for half a year, that one.

 

Luckier this time, but I still got hit. ***** took me by surprise and slashed its talons at my thigh. Went straight through tanned leather, fabric and chainmail in a single swing. Without even feeling the wound, I countered in a drug-fueled rush. Cut off its arm. Then its foot, from the knee down. Used to tackle the ones in Oakshade all the same-- Its good to target limbs when handling lanky bastards like these. Anyhow, I immediately rushed for the gateway before any brotherly support could befall the crippled monstrosity.

 

Sure as hell feeling it now that the quartz dust's worn off. Got a big ass gash on my leg which has me move like a ******* cripple once more. Stash is nearly all finished and I'm out of concoctions, so I've got 'naught to treat the pain with besides a quarter of an 8 ball of fisstech. Storm is calming, which means the emission is nearly done and over with. I'll have to push on then; limp towards the keep and hope to whatever God which deigns to look over this snow-caked shite-hole that I ain't spotted.

 

Compromises. Always gotta compromise in this place.

 

****.

 

 

[Banard 116]

Entry 3

Encounter With A Skinwalker

Journal Of The Hexer: Bartholomew of Aldersport

Fifth of The First Seed, 16**

[An entry out of an old and forgotten journal, from a past age, recording the toils of past hunters.]

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In order to kill a monster without fear, you must first know it. From head to toe, you must study every stain and splotch, ogle every ridge and bump, and measure every fang and claw. You must turn it inside out, spill its innards, and carve out its eyes, if only to see what lies underneath it all. It is only then, when the beast has been shaven to the bone with all of its secrets scattered around it and made into pulp, its likeness humiliated and erased, when you finally know it. You know its age, what it eats - even what it thinks. But most importantly, you know that despite all of the power it dominated with in life, it ended up slaughtered, shamed - made to die in the mud like a common pig.

 

And you don't fear pigs.

 

But there are some beings out there whose hide you can't study. Whose guts you can't empty on the floor and pick at. Whose eyes you can't rip out and shove into jars. Beings who render the legs of even the toughest warrior into jelly. Beings who you can't be brave against, no matter how damned hard you steel yourself, because they eat courage, and feast on fear.

 

Skinwalkers number among those beings. And of course, it was just my luck that they were to be one of the first monsters I ever encountered.

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I had just joined the Manticore Initiative. Vicelin figured I should learn my way around the land, so he sent me and Alfred to scout the Oakshade ruins. You could already sense back then how there was something wrong in the air. How the nature that had taken over the dilapidated houses and its streets had done so cruelly - possessively.

 

We made it to the church without trouble, naturally only to find it waiting for us there in the form of a Quotpede. Crawler slipped in and out of the broken walls as I fought with spell and sword, and Alfred with those enchanted gauntlets of his. I think Avenel fashioned them for him - nifty things, but they render you a little too close and personal with your opponent, which typically does not suit the purposes of the Marked. Something that the beast proved when it swallowed Alfred by the arm.

 

He made it out in one piece, but it didn't take long for the venom to set in. Poor man began to puff and swell up like a prick in a brothel, skin turning purple and blistered, so getting an antidote became a priority. Alium, pine resin and mistletoe, harvested at midnight. To our luck, Oakshade was as ripe as any forest, and we were already late into the evening. Things would be fine.

 

Or so we thought, as we stumbled out of the building, and into the dark.

 

It took us a while before we realized we were being followed. I'm not sure we ever would have, were it not for that intuitive feeling you sometimes get when you're being watched. There was this cat. Mangy and sallow, it pawed after us, mouth agape, glaring us over with broad eyes, and needle-thin pupils, stopping whenever we stopped, walking whenever we walked. I brushed it off at first as a stray left behind after the abandonment of the village, but then the night began to turn.

 

Out of nowhere, the song of the crickets died, and the wind stopped its rustle of the trees. Only the mew of the cat pierced the silence.

 

I looked behind us. It was no longer a cat that sat there.

 

We ran.

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A Skinwalker's most precious weapon is fear. It is the inspiration from which they weave their illusions. The roots of the branches that twist around your mind and dig into your sense of reality. The longer it looks at you, the harder that invisible hand around your throat squeezes, demanding that you puke out every last bit of resolve left churning in your soul, before bloating your belly with black terror.

 

It got a good, long look at me and Alfred, as it chased us through the living nightmare.

 

I don't know how we made it to the house, but as soon as the door shut behind us, the frights died down. Its claws had caught me on the shoulder, and Alfred across the leg. He was in bad shape - all of the panting hadn't exactly helped the spread of the venom, and while the man was as tough as nails, if he didn't get the antidote soon, it would be it. We were missing the mistletoe. I had to go out there again.

 

And so I did, with every nerve in my body screaming out in protest.

 

I managed. Snuck out to the edge the ruins and plucked the mistletoe, before hefty snow swept in, and the mewing of a cat sounded out in the distance. I collapsed into the grass, summoned enough heat to keep me warm, and shut my eyes. 

 

I could hear it walk through the snow, and then move on.

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In the morning, we shambled back to the keep, spent and disheveled, if not counting that clump of steel fixed above Alfred's mouth that he calls a moustache.

 

We have since killed the Skinwalker, and its master. But those are stories for other pages. Back then, we were unprepared, naive, and I was all but untested. Today I know better. Today I bear the brand. And I will never let them get in my head again. 

 

Marked Men are the hunters. Not the hunted.

Edited December 12, 2021 by volcel