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In: Deadlands, Fallen Flags

Dear Diary, our train has finally come to a stop behind the twisted, torn out shell of the last train that went through. The warped rails rattled me to my bones, so I was looking forward to having a short walk on Terra Firma, but the train was apathetically beset by men and women in black dusters before we got the chance. Seizing the opportunity, I managed to extract a good deal of information from one of the greener looking ones. Apparently, the team that supports my quarry, having ingratiated themselves with the local law enforcement, were taken by █████ ██████ to a place called ███ ██████. There, the group known as ███ ██████ asked them to contain a rather powerful ████████, as they’re called. It’s my understanding that ████, one of the group I follow, had no choice but to reluctantly accept. With any luck, they’ll fall, and the gun will be a few reams of paperwork away from my possession. I’ll simply have to wait around and see if they manage to ██████ ███ ████ ██████ ██ ████████. My next entry will be on the page following, however. The dark-dustered fellow I was speaking to has asked to see my diary for a moment, and I prefer to write my entries in full, with no interruptions.

-Recovered from a hastily redacted page in the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877

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In: Curse of Innistrahd, Dungeons and Dragons 5th Ed

Bone dust, bone dust… The Church folks wanted bone dusts. The vile siblings stirred in their home, the scent of sickly sweet pastries and dried fungus melding in their breaths. Whispers amongst them, some wordless, some stated to express the feeling. Bone dust he wants. The church folks step back at the word of the witch boy, but sit idly by at the works of their magics. The black mana, seeping from the swamps and fetid places of the valleys, the fallen cities and graves. More scoffs. More shuffling. But then the question comes: Would we avoid such magic?

The crones had persisted. They were practically features of the land, though not all visited their decrepit home for fear and rumor, let alone the avoidant signs of life on the inside. Peddling pastries made from questionable things, things the consumers wouldn’t want to know fueling their dreams and peace. But what was persisting in the face of change. What was existing against the path of magic.

Morgantha, oldest, grown brazen in her fell confidence leaves first. Her sisters follow after, packing their goods and ingredients with low grumble. There would be no home to return to in the face of these slayers. They want to argue, to trap, to plot. But Morgantha is not one to lose an argument. They know her answer as it echoes painfully through their shriveled minds:

“The stirrings of the dead and the rise of hungry magic are the change in this land. And that change will bear us to greater heights. Be patient sisters. And for now: Serve.”

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In: Deadlands, Fallen Flags

Dear Diary, bad news and worse news. Bad news, my train is scheduled to be delayed, to ensure the -previous- train’s recent combat didn’t leave wreckage on the tracks to destroy the -current- train. Even worse, there’s no sign of the deceased near the wreckage, save a few previously rotting fellows, so either my quest maintains the status quo ante, or my quarry is halfway down the windpipe of a Rattler. I shudder to think of the amount of money it will take to bribe someone in there to check. On the bright side though, I should be on my way to catching up. The team I follow seems like a team of do-gooders, and from what I hear, Denver and officers of the law make for lousy bedfellows for more than the usual reasons…

-Recovered from a page of shaky penmanship in the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877

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In: Curse of Innistrahd, Dungeons and Dragons 5th Ed

Plotting in secret was a hallmark of Innistrad. Scientists in labs slaving over slabs and vials or nobles and vampires confined to winding towers and darkened rooms lit only by whispering candlelight. Which is why it was so refreshing to the crystal eyes of Inghild to see the tinkerer working in the open, stacking heaps of slag and salvage toward his plans. He wasn’t tireless, but he was dedicated. She exhaled, some emotion between exhaustion and disappointment buried beneath placidity as she tightened her pale grip on the shattered neck of the still straining vampire at her side. Keeping it a secret forever would be impossible. But perhaps with some effort, it could be played down. Perhaps this was the first step to stopping him. She gave a light calculated grin as she vanished back into the embracing shroud of needles and leaves. Things were going… Deliciously.

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In: Deadlands, Fallen Flags

Dear Diary, I have finally recovered from a terrible bout of nausea from a rather unsavory drink. I suspect foul play, but I can’t rule out the possibility that the alcohol has simply absorbed some of the rural charm of this place, and my prim, bourgeois tastes were unaccustomed to its… natural charisma. In the course of my recuperation, it seems that my quarry has evaded me yet again. As hard as that was to tell among the rabble jabbering about the downfall of poisonous natives. Perhaps I was the only one -not- delirious. Either way, I’m certain I’ll regret not being on the train with them. Nothing for it but to wait for the next one. Perhaps it will have a bar car that suites my apparently prissy palate. Either way, as long as its quiet. Loud railcars are no good in this part of the country…

-Recovered from a fluid-stained page in the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877

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