The greatest failure of the Arch Mage Calypso is his one legacy sought by Emporers, Dragons, and Gods.
This is a wretched tome of oceanic blasphemy; a foul water-stained, bone-white binder of bitter dead-men’s secrets and a guide to Nautical Necromancy useful in the hands of the young sea-faring necromancer or the Great Lich Umeen herself.
A vast tome of knowlege that literally gives you the creeps…
A standard book of evil.
An (un)holy book written in ink created from a Shard of the Storm.
It is a personal journal tucked away in an library. It appears as an ordinary journal or diary from the outside and inside. In the spine or binding there is always a tiny strip of metal that other components and symbols are attached. Yet there is more, if you read carefully.
Exerpt from the Introduction:
I know the ultimate weapon. Humans commit folly after folly because they are afraid. Fear was once Humankind’s most powerful ally, giving enormous potency to the instinct for suvival. Now, fear has become Humankind’s greatest enemy, and such is the obtusemenss of my species that is members do not realize it is the most powerful element of Human existance.
“It is your move.”
It appears to be a very nice holy book of the dominant good faith, the kind that his passed down from generation to generation. The binding is leather and quite plain, but the inside is nicely scribed and occasionally illuminated. A pity that it will lead you down the Path of Darkness the moment you understand its secret.
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.