15th of Mistveil, Year 1292 AD (After Darkness)

Darkharbour Guard: Captain’s Logbook

Account of Former Prisoner 6124 (name unknown, aka the “Babbling Man”) concerning Incident Report 92007 (aka, the “Wharf Event”)

Provided by Holmgrinn Asylum, Head Caretaker

Pray listen and I shall tell of the most strange and ominous of happenings to ever befall me. Little though I am certain that it was even real, that those dark and twisted things were truth and not the product of my addled mind, I must put forth this account in ink if for naught else but to slake the indomitable lusting in my veins to do so. That others should know.

It begins, and perhaps ends, with a coin.

Before this asylum to which I am now bound for the very ramblings which will populate these pages I was a tradesman, peddling my wares by the wharf. It was in due course of my trading that I came upon it, or rather it came upon me. It was not an outstanding day, mired in sleet and a bitter wind, when that curious stranger entered my shop. I thought him at once a sailor by the state of his cloak and the wear of his boots. Little else could I ascertain because of his cloak, which obscured his face, but he appeared at first glance an entirely unremarkable fellow, a hunchbacked old crook with a dragging limp and rasping breath. Then he reached the counter, laid one grizzled hand upon it, and he spoke.

Having been so prejudiced against him by his appearance, I was entirely taken aback by the melodiousness of his voice and the eloquence of his speech. His words were a cadence and his grammar flawless. He was a beggar in rags with the wisdom of a learned scholar. However, pleasant as he was to converse with, our conversation was brief, even fleeting. He inquired only after the price of certain wares, conducting his business with haste and efficiency, until it came time to settle his bill.

It was then that he produced it, from a pocket so deep it nearly swallowed his arm. He drew it out and laid it upon the countertop, the object of my account: a singular, worn, greyish coin.

It was round, as most coins are, save the odd square currencies of the Far East. The inner part was rimmed by a thin outer ring like a halo, which was joined to the inner part by a series of sharp points like blunt needles, protruding from the center. This gave it the appearance of a poorly made ship’s wheel in that the spokes were neither perpendicular nor parallel but rather stuck out at odd angles here and there around the coin’s edge. This shape was like nothing I had ever seen before, to say nothing of the inscription upon it. The face was of no king, nor country, but rather a twisted mass of tendrils, like unto intestines or a nest of serpents. The flip side, by contrast, was a perfect geometrical representation of a pyramid with an ovular shape at its base. At first, I thought this to be a mere shape until upon closer inspection I saw that it was a great eye with a slit for a pupil. So, these were the heads and tails of the strange mark, which the stranger had placed before me.

I cannot answer as to why I voiced no protest since he had just agreed to the sum which I had quoted him. The coin was of no currency that I recognized, having seen my fair few of them myself from sailors come and gone. It was no matter, however, for from the moment I saw that curious coin I found myself entirely unable to withdraw my gaze from it. It was as if I had been bound by some enthralling captivation. God help me, I picked it up and turned it over in my fingers, marveling at the strangeness of it. I cannot even say for certain how long it was before I looked up again, and only then did I realize that my well-spoken patron had departed, taking with him not one of the goods for which we had bartered. The ink of our agreement, penned by my hand as we spoke, was still wet upon the forgotten bill of sale.

Curiosity might have been my salvation then, for I sought an expert in the matter of currency to show him the object I had acquired. He found no such fascination in it as I did. He merely scoffed at its crudeness. He knew nothing of its origin, nor its purpose, nor its worth, and could tell me only that it was forged of solid iron.

Heaven sought to preserve me then, for I doubted. I had heard rumors from abroad that iron-forged artifacts were often the work of occult practices, relics of worship to ancient pagan gods. The symbols upon its faces did certainly lend credence to such suspicion, and so I put it away and thought not of it for some time hence. However, it would seem that to my fate I was bound, for I did not do as I ought to have done and throw it into the sea. God help me, I kept it, and as time passed curiosity once again reared its ugly head.

I retrieved the coin from where I had stashed it and was instantly enthralled by it once more. I took to keeping it in my pocket and placing it upon my nightstand, often turning it casually in my fingers as one does with treasured objects in times of stress or consternation. It became an object of comfort, of familiarity, and I quite entirely dismissed any notions of occult forgery or dark intention. The iron coin became to me a facet of daily life, as common to my routine as my clothes, and I thought little else of it for nigh on a year.

In fact, a year it may have been, exactly to the day I acquired it, that my shop was visited by yet another sellic stranger.

This one came not with gentile words and soothing speech as had the first, but rather in a feverish panic, a dwollic frenzy, as though the fellow were possessed by some demon of the spirit. He came crashing through my door, frightening me so that I dropped a priceless antiquity which I was midway through shelving behind my counter. Scarcely had I the opportunity to chastise him for barging into my shop in such a state than he attained the counter and spoke to me, eyes bulging and knuckles white.

“Friend, say nothing more than to answer the question I ask of you!”

“I shall answer nothing to such a vagrant!” I protested angrily.

“Please, sir! You must heed my words!”

“Out with you! Away from my shop, or-”

“Have you not in your possession a coin of solid iron?”

I confess, I was dumbstruck, and the shards of the antiquity upon the floor became as dust to me, rapt as I was upon the delirious stranger. In my stupor, I answered him in the affirmative.

In response, he uttered a cry and said, “I pray you, my good fellow, produce it now and show it to me!”

It was then that apprehension fell upon me. In this frenzied young man, I saw suddenly a thief of priceless goods and treasured artifacts. My hand ventured habitually to my pocket and betwixt my fingers I began to turn it, but I did not withdraw it.

“What business is it of yours?” I inquired sternly. “As you may ascertain by its absence from my shelves, it is not for sale.”

“But a sale it must be!” he shrieked at me. “Or rather, a trade. Trade with me now, my good fellow! A simple coin for a simple scope.”

He then produced the most unremarkable set of optics, well-worn and faded, its lenses dark and dirty. It was worth less than the bronze it was made from, and I flatly refused. He made immediate protest, indicating the worthlessness of the coin itself, but to this I charged him with his obvious ardor at obtaining it, to which he replied that I had no reason to withhold it. It was neither valuable nor precious, and I should hand it over to him at once. Again, I refused, and at this he became so adamant that I began to fear for my safety. I retreated towards the shelves behind me, where I kept a loaded pistol for just such circumstances, but he must have discerned my intention for he lunged over the countertop as if to lay hold of me.

It happened then that as my body tensed my hand clenched around the coin in my pocket, and several of its blunt-tipped prongs punctured the flesh of my palm.

What followed then, well, the story which I have told the authorities, the judge, the prosecutors, the victim’s families, and all that have taken my account of that day since. The story for which I am committed to these sheltered walls. Am I insane as they say? Perhaps, for it is not nearly so insane to account for as it was to witness.

I exclaimed in pain and drew out my hand. Upon seeing the coin as it lay in my palm, the delirious man’s demeanor changed instantly to screaming terror. He ran for the door at once, as I stare at the coin in my palm, drenched in viscous fluid that was gushing from the pinpricks in my hand. Not blood of mine, but ink. Blackest ink. Ink which smelled of the sea.

No sooner had I beheld this phenomenon than the ink that I bled seemed to leap up at me and flood my eyes. My vision was entirely obscured, and strange visions began to dance behind my eyes, visions that I can scarce tell of here for our language is entirely lacking in proper words. Into the yawning abyss I gazed, and then I returned. I returned to the devastation for which I have been condemned.

My shop, a mess of burning rubble. The stranger, a pile of sizzling flesh. The adjacent buildings, similarly, destroyed. Dozens of fellow shopkeepers and citizens, charred husks upon the ground. So much death and destruction, it was as if a great fireball had crashed into the wharf, and yet there was I, amongst the absolute destruction, unharmed and unmarked but for the pricks in my palm.

And so, I was condemned. To the authorities, there seemed no plausible explanation but my culpability. How else could I have survived unscathed where so many had died? And yet, how can it be explained that I did survive save the impossible story which I have now committed to page? It was not me. I am innocent. It was—it must have been—that accursed artifact that now haunts my every waking moment.

I cannot rid myself of it. Every attempt to remove it from me has failed. Every attempt of mine to dispose of it has been in vain. Always it appears, in moments when my mind lapses, there in my scarred palm, as if I had been holding it all along, though there are scant few such moments since my mind is now abuzz, day and night, with indescribable imaginings. Of abstract concepts too bizarre to express, of depths so deep they can never be reached, of heights so great they exceed the heavens, and of strange beings that dwell there, watching me when I shut my eyes.

They’ve locked me up with those alien creatures. Day and night I stare at the walls of my cell, and there I see them dancing. There is nothing for me to do but entertain them. I am their plaything. Their entertainment. They visit themselves upon me when they please and toy with my mind as a child with dolls.

I come now to wonder, was that cloaked, well-spoken stranger once like me? Did he do what I cannot? Was our bargain no bargain for goods, but for life?

Close of Report

Signed – Capt. Cassius, Darkharbour Guard