The Journal of Osric Locke.

[Father Time]

Faith wanes, axe corrodes,
Agaslakku's strength fades fast,
Warrior's doubts grow.

Maribeh 8th, IY 7788. A time where the great Caliph is honoured.



One, two, three.
Fountain, forge, lamp.
Four, five, six.
Mountain, road, comb.


The stagnant air wraps around me like a suffocating shroud in this place, its heaviness pressed upon me, choking me. The faces of those around me mirror my own situation, each one etched with miserable lines of failure.

Here, familiarity breeds complacency. The once sharp edges of my faith have dulled, blunted by doubt. Agaslakku, whose name once poured from my lips with fervor, now feel like a stale wine.

I grow concerned for myself.


Osric Locke.

[Father Time]

Wooden wheel takes shape,
Craftsman's hands guide with knowledge,
Spokes whisper secrets.

Maribeh 14th, IY 7788. A time where the great Caliph is honoured.


Recent days have seen a great weight lifted from my shoulders, the Wheelwright has explained perhaps more then I suspect I can understand about the nature of faith. Perhaps the tide begins to turn.

Sleep continues to provide little in the way of comfort, the Hound watching. Drip. Drip. Drip. Hunting something, prowling from a distance. My concern continues to grow about the nature of such a creature.

"One and three makes a triangle." Important words with the right context, I continue to pursue them. Don't let yourself forget them.


Osric Locke.