Goggles of Diabolic Vision
Classification – Cursed Artefact
Threat Rating – Contained
These hellish lenses were crafted by the mad artificer Nimmud Timmus alongside many other devices which perverted the science of optics. These included the sinister Carnivore Mirror, and the infamous Doppelgänger Box.
Believed by experts to be one of his earlier works, the lenses were originally set into a featureless brass mask. The wearer would barraged by a series of visions, such as the Heavens, Hells and even External dimensions. Keeping the head perfectly still would allow the wearer to view one of these places continuously, but even the slightest movement would break the image apart into a kaleidoscope of fresh horrors.
As a result, scholars theorise that the lenses actually allow the viewer to pierce the veil between our reality, and whichever plane is targeted by the fiendish device. Factors such as the person's age, height, birth sign and current facing are all used to determine what they will see. Added to this the fact that even a millimetre's difference in placement and bearing will change what the wearer sees, means they are essentially useless as a reliable means of remote viewing.
At some point the lenses were removed from the mask and physically bolted to a woman's face. Her eyelids had been removed, and the space between her eyes and the glass filled with an alchemical mixture to keep them moist. She was then given paper and charcoal to draw what she saw. It is not known if she was a willing participant in this experiment, or a victim of malice.
Since her death during the Harrow's Gate Incident, the lenses were recovered and placed in storage in the Capital's forbidden archive to ensure they never again blight this world.
Brother Belger's Reward
Brother Belger loved to talk. He would softly mutter to himself as he laboured in the scriptorium. He would engage in idle chatter while preparing inks in the workshops. He would even try and talk during mealtimes, a terrible breach of etiquette. No matter how often he was punished for this behaviour, he would not stop.
As the High Reader's plans gathered pace, his habit only escalated. He would abandon his duties to wander the monastery aimlessly, engaging any pilgrim or priest he came across in inane conversation. No topic was ever too small for him, and no situation too sacred to prevent him from opening his mouth to let loose another torrent of verbal garbage.
When order broke down, some of the monks noticed he seemed to be chattering on with little to no pause. His mouth ran at full tilt with nary a breath taken between words. As they barricaded themselves away in a futile attempt to hide from the disaster, they begged him to be silent so they could remain hidden.
But Belger prattled on and on without cease. Even when they beat him. Even when they stuffed a rag into his mouth. Not even kneeling on his chest stopped his monotonous monologue. As the doors were torn down, and the curse fell upon the screaming monks, Belger's chest began to fill with so much breath that he would never, ever run out.
It is a pity that he no longer has the wit to say anything of worth any more.
The Token
Amton hurried through the filthy streets, doing his best to avoid the Inquisitors and any desperate enough to kill him over the package he carried. His hands tightened around the pitiful bundle of meat, tucking it closer to his rags. As the oldest of the gang, it was his duty to deliver this year's token. With starvation and plague stalking the Low City of Roche Divine, they needed all the help they could get.
He ducked into a doorway without pausing. Speed would be key to his survival now. The dead, still air hung heavily as he approached the desk. He knew the ritual, whispered about by gang leaders and derelicts alike. He came to a stop, one hand hovering over the tarnished bell as the other kept a tight hold on the old beggar's severed foot.
He slapped his palm down on the bell. Ding! The sound of it echoed through the hollow, seemingly abandoned structure. Now he had to move again. His heartbeat thudded in his ears as he raced for the steps. Up he went, two at a time, while he fumbled in his pouch for the little, metal token. The words 'Bread, Please' were crudely scratched into the surface. He jammed it into the severed ankle as he reached the landing, just as he had been told.
He froze for an instant, scanning the darkness for threats, then began to make his way down the row of empty room. The stench was overpowering, but he had to get as far along as possible. Everyone in the district knew that the higher the room number you dumped your offering into, the more likely your prayer was to be heard. He passed the halfway point and hesitated. Surely this would be enough?
Something shifted in the darkness ahead, and Amton could not make himself go a step further. His bravery faltered, and he tossed his offering into the closest room, where it thudded down onto a pile of remains thankfully obscured in darkness. He turned...and stopped dead. They were already behind him.
His brief, terrified scream was ignored by the peasants in the street.