“BOOKS ARE THE MEMORY THAT DOES NOT DIE.”

– Inscription above the door of Hush House

As Lottie and I work on BOOK OF HOURS, we’ve become better acquainted with the long and layered history of Hush House, the library where the game takes place. Lottie’s worked on recapturing the House’s look and feel over its many eras – Roman shrine, Dark Ages monastery, mediaeval abbey, baronial seat, institute of learning, and finally (whisper it) a highly select reformatory prison. I’ve been digging into the history of its inhabitants.

Resources on Hush House’s history are hard to come by (and no I can’t just make it up, good heavens). Fortunately on a recent research trip I happened across a 1930s tourist pamphlet produced by the rector of Brancrug Village.

I do take issues with some of Reverend Timothy’s scholarship. He passes over the details in the death of the sixth Baron Brancrug – did he leap, did he fall, was he pushed? – and he’s clearly a bit of an Eva Dewulf fanboy. But then, aren’t we all?

HUSH HOUSE – A Visitor’s Guide 

by the Reverend Timothy MacDonald

(price fourpence)

Dear Visitor,

I would like to welcome you to Hush House, one of the unexpected treasures of our Cornish coast. I have set aside considerable time to research the thousand-and-a-half years of its history, and I am pleased to share the fruits of my researches with you.

The history of the House is complicated, and can be bewildering to the ‘uninitiated’! To ‘ease you in’, I have identified five distinct periods or ‘phases’ in Hush House’s history.

Access to Hush House is by appointment. Please inquire at the Rectory. I regret that tours are not possible at high tide, on Church holidays, or while the Moon is visible in the sky. All proceeds from the sale of this booklet, or donations to tours, will be donated to the St Rhonwen Trust for the Advancement of Education.

DAWN PHASE

In the sixth century, the Abbey of the Black Dove – sometimes called also the Abbey of the White Crow – is established as a double foundation of monks and nuns, surprisingly common in those Dark Ages. 599 A.D. is traditionally celebrated as the date of the Abbey’s foundation, although I believe the island church of Our Lady Beneath – regrettably unsafe to visit due to flooding and subsidence – dates from the third century. 

The Abbey was subject to Danish raids on at least two occasions in the ninth century, although the raiders are also recorded as mercenaries quartered here against the incursions of Egbert of Wessex. One raider apparently becomes a brother of the Abbey under the name Thomas, and later rises to become Abbot. Abbot Thomas evidently finds it difficult to leave his savage past behind, and dies in circumstances too violent for me to describe here. “Live by the sword, die by the sword”!

SOLAR GOTHIC PHASE

The splendid Abbey Church we see today – St Brandans – dates from the eleventh century. The Watchman’s Tower and its fortified gatehouse were built in wood as a protection against Saxon rebels after the Conquest. They were later rebuilt in stone, after the Abbey gave shelter to a tree brought from Normandy by the new Earl of Cornwall. The tree is said to flower white, black and red in consecutive springs. Perhaps if you keep a sharp eye out, you can identify one of its descendants!

Its substantial expansion in the thirteenth century was funded by an endowment from Eva de Braose, a noble lady of the Marches whose husband was hanged under undignified circumstances. The Solarium and Chapter House date from this point. St Brandan’s is by now established as a centre of learning and healing, and no doubt they were of assistance to Lady de Braose in some manner.

The Winter Tower, later called the Long Tower, dates from 1322 – curiously, the same year as the collapse of the tower of Ely Cathedral. The Tower stands alone in the gardens, and is fortified to no obvious end. I have examined what remains of its frescoes and I believe it was built in dedication to the Sun Before Dawn, according to the pre-Reformation solar traditions.

The Barber’s Tower was constructed in 1450 to house the healer Natan of Regensburg – as a sanctuary or perhaps a prison, since Natan is a learned but a Hebrew gentleman, and his people are regrettably unwelcome in the Kingdom of England at this time. The Crucible Tower dates from a little later. The fire of 1929 has left this tower unsafe, and I recommend strongly against close inspection.

BARONIAL PHASE

In 1537, as part of King Henry’s reforms, John Tregonwell is appointed to investigate St Brandans. He uncovers evidence of indulgent, corrupt and scandalous behaviour. The monastery is dissolved and the isle of Brancrug granted to Hendrik Dewulf, one of Tregonwell’s captains, formerly a Guelders mercenary. Dewulf is clearly an uneducated and violent man, and he suppresses a local rebellion with intemperate brutality. One story tells of a local oracle who places a curse on Dewulf in revenge: “There will be no seventh of his line.” Dewulf has the man dragged before him, tells him “There will be no second of yours,” and unmans the oracle with his own knife!!

Nevertheless, the Dewulfs grow more temperate over time. They treat the Abbey Church with respect, and their seat, Brancrug House, is the core of the other buildings that grace the Isle today. Thomas Dewulf, the second Baron, is nicknamed Baron Silence by the poets and playwrights of London – this I believe may be the origin of the later Hush House ‘moniker’!

Thomas restores the Watchman’s Tower and builds an observatory there in 1576 – with some foresight, since the Great Comet passes in 1577. His son Giles runs away with a Bristol girl, although he and his father are ultimately reconciled. The Bristol girl, named Hafren, has the pale hair and eyes notable in the later Dewulfs.

The third Baron, Walter, remodels much of the interior of Brancrug House. Many of his innovations have been lost beneath later work, but you can still admire the Grand Ascent that unites the House’s various levels. Walter supports King Charles in the Civil War, but in 1648, Walter’s son Bryan is hanged for treason that same King’s men. Walter’s heart bursts with sorrow, and his son post mortem receives special dispensation to be buried with his father. You may see their gravestones to this day, just to the west of the church.

In the 1650s, The fourth Baron, Musgrave, ‘the Lamb Dewulf’, restores the Winter Tower as a residence for Julian Coseley, the scholar and antiquary, who assists with the cataloguing and expansion of the library. Musgrave’s son, Gideon, is wickedly nicknamed ‘the Motley Baron’ for his odd and brindled appearance, and so the Motley Tower – once the Barber’s Tower – wins its name.

The sixth and last Baron is Valentine, an eccentric gentleman who builds the Gullscry Tower to house his aviary-collection. When Valentine falls to his death from the tower top, his daughter Eva inherits the estate at the age of nineteen.

Educated visitors will already know the name of Eva Dewulf, the Pale Lady, who cuts quite the ‘figure’ at court! Alas she is engaged to a rapscallion named Abraham Wheelock, who abandons her at the altar. Eva returns to Brancrug to recover, and is not seen at court again. However three days after her departure, Wheelock’s body is found on the beach near Gravesend. His face is so badly pecked by birds that he is only identified by his belongings. These include a waxed pouch containing a letter addressed to Wheelock, whose contents seem to show he is a spy in the pay of the Austrians! I suspect the matter has been ‘over-egged’, but Lady Eva no doubt would have found it all something of a relief.

Lady Eva never marries. She opens her library and draws visitors from across Europe and beyond. Some of these visitors are selected by peculiar and exacting criteria to attend sophisticated feasts in her Hall of Division. Others are drawn by Lady Evan’s reputation for scholarship – including the notorious Franklin Bancroft, whose deep friendship with Eva inspires wicked gossip.

THE CURIA PHASE

In 1759 Lady Eva’s heir, Captain Sebastian Dewulf, is drowned in battle against the French at Quiberon Bay. Lady Eva comes to a tragic end, and the Dewulf line ends. Brancrug House is all but abandoned, and the caves beneath the island become a smuggler’s haunt. 

But in 1785, a group of scholars acquires the deed to the Dewulf estate, establishing the ‘Curia of the Isle’ as an institution for the preservation of knowledge. Ambrose Westcott, Kitty Mazarine, Solomon Husher – all these names

[water-stained and unreadable beyond this point]

Tabriz
January 1866

My dear nephew

What a surprise and a pleasant one to hear from you. My warmest congratulations and wishes to your new wife, except that it is a year since the date of your letter and so I suppose no longer new. I hope indeed by now you are blest with children. Alas I must refuse your kind invitation though with the deepest regret. But your other question, I will answer. I will try.

You speak kindly of my gallantry and less kindly of my desertion. Yes I acknowledge the word.

Forgive me the shame of it which you must carry. There is another History no doubt where I continued in the Empress’ service and I think of it sometimes with regret. But you see my sword was broken that day…

So much to explain and I must choose my words carefully. I wrote to your mother that my horse took an unlucky ball from a Khusgai musket. This was not altogether honest. The truth is lesser, and greater.

We numbered barely a hundred (the squadron being somewhat below strength) and the Khusgai eight times that. And my nephew if you think the Persian is to be disregarded against the Irishman, or the musket against the rifle, let me rid you of that thought today. Captain Forbes had taken them for cavalry in the morning mist and they were not, they were of a Guard Regiment, the finest of their infantry, and they stood ready in a square with bayonets fixed against us. But we were all of us in fine spirits and impatient, and Captain Forbes saw that in the mist they had come unstuck from the greater Persian force and were not supported. Here was glory and when he ordered the charge we cheered.

It was foolishness on foolishness and I have not told you yet of my own foolishness and yet all those were glory also. The Empire wished to keep the Shah from Herat (which was under our protection) but not to defeat him (for we needed him against the Russians). So we were fighting but not for victory. Then Capt. Forbes’ decision to charge them. And your uncle at the head of the charge with his sabre – I wish I could say it flashed in the sunshine as I brandished it but the mist, the mist. And the mist of course saved us or their muskets would have ended our charge untimely, but it deadened the sound of their fire so we knew not how close until we were on them. Suddenly your uncle sees their shakos and their fierce frightened faces and their bayonets like a fence of knives loom up before him, and poor Menander seeks to swerve aside but it was altogether too late. What am I to do but try to pull his head straight and have him jump that fence like any other.

Well it ended badly for us all and it might have ended worse. Menander crashes down upon their ranks and he is pierced all through by their blades and I think he is dead by the time I haul myself from beneath him. By the Light that was divided I pray it so for he deserved better than I gave him in the end. As I say I haul myself out, and my left hand is crushed, but the other fellow on whom we fell is worse, Menander has broken his neck and he is lying all wrong. My right still serves to swing my sword and when another comes at me I give him what he merits but it is all my luck again, for as he falls and I draw the sword back from him I see that it was broken too by Menander’s fall.

There I am then in the very ranks of the enemy but my brother-soldiers cutting at them too and the square beginning to break, so the Persians have other things to worry about than me. Still lamed as I am with barely a sword worth the name I have very little confidence in my situation. The chaos when cavalry crashes upon a square is like a wave upon a cliff only if the cliff was flesh and stones the wave upon it. There is no part of my world or theirs that is not furious blood…

Now comes the part that you can credit or not, as you choose.

The tag-end of the story you will have heard is almost true. Lt Malcolmson saw me fall and he fought his way through and he lent me his stirrup and we came free and by the time he had seen me safe and turned around again the action was all but done and the Khusgai casting down their weapons. Those few who lived. Of those eight hundred, we took only twenty alive. A famous victory.

Nephew I hope you had too much sense ever to credit it. One hundred against eight hundred. A man on a horse cutting his way through lesser men as if they were wheat, to save his brave comrade. We both were decorated for it – decorated to the highest degree. What else could they do?

But every lie is truth’s shadow. There is always a shape they share. I learnt that later in the Labyrinth. So Lt. Malcolmson – I still call him that though it was never his name – rode indeed to my rescue. But what he rode was nothing like a horse, even a cavalry-horse. Something more terrible – something above all more golden –

Nephew, make a fist of your hand. Muscles move beneath the skin. So powers move beneath the skin of the world, at impulses equally invisible, but greater. A light seen only in sleep; words spoken first by fire. Even the shattering of a sword. In the land where I nearly fell, they used to call that the Shahpur’s Lesson.

That is part of why Malcolmson unmasked himself that day, and the other part is between him and me. Later he took me West on a kind of pilgrimage. I cannot tell you where. (‘Mercy is found only in shadow,’ and there are too few shadows on this letter.)

But you have bound me to speak to you of my desertion, so I will tell you this. In a place far from Carlingford where you will read this, Saul the Illuminate consecrated a church Invictine. Beneath that church one lies sheathed in black corundum, neither Long nor mortal, neither man nor woman, neither real nor imagined. I have seen what is written on his shining skin. And so I can never return to Carlingford.

My nephew, I have said that the powers of the world are moved by secret impulse, but the converse is true also. The fingers move the hand which moves the soul. This is a secret I do not yet entirely understand but I have learnt to call Illumination.

If you have inherited your mother’s good sense, you will leave the matter here. But it is always the women of our blood who are wiser. So perhaps you are as foolish as me. And so I will say a little more.

The Khusgai that we slew. On their standard they bore a silver hand. We took it as a trophy and it graces now the standard of my regiment. I still write that – I will not strike it out – but of course I cannot no longer claim that honour. It graces now the standard of the Poona Horse. If you ask to see it I think they will show it to you – if you use Malcolmson’s name and not mine. It is older than the regiment, old I think as England. But no older. There is a lesson in it.

Greatest among the powers who illuminate is one called Watchman. He it is who says ‘Mercy is found only in shadow.’ But he does not say that mercy is nowhere found; and shadows lie long at the Labyrinth of Lions.

Yours ever

your uncle

Arthur

Aficionados of the Secret Histories may recall that Blaine was killed in a duel. There were no duels in the British Isles after the middle of the nineteenth century, so Blaine’s information is probably at least one feasting-hall out of date. If it was ever true to begin with. Although when I was fact-checking dates just now I learnt that the most recent non-fatal duel was apparently 1994, when a lutenist by the name of Salfield fought another gentlemen with antique cavalry swords over ‘an insult made to a lady’.

The only source given for this is ‘Radio Cornwall’, no details or audio, so it’s not clear whether (a) Salfield was avenging or upholding the insult (b) someone made the whole thing up. It happened in the town of Battle, which as UK-dwellers will know is a real place, though the name is suspiciously appropriate. It’s been widely assumed that Battle is not far from Kerisham, which might I suppose be relevant.

The moral I draw from this: it’s easy to overlook things. 2021 was a chaotic year for us as for everyone, and all our plans were repeatedly upset as yours probably were too. But we got a lot of stuff done. Here’s a quick roundup:

• Cultist Simulator rewrite. This took up an appalling amount of my time and is the least interesting thing on this list. I needed it to address some horrible issues left over from the game’s breakneck development in 2018, to add some QOL features, to support more modding, and to provide a solid base for Book of Hours. The rewrite’s on the beta branch now and I’m damned well going to get it live before January ends.
• Book of Hours. Yup, we’re still making it. Coming 2023.
• Against Worldbuilding, and Other Provocations. A good-sized collection of the essays and columns I’ve written elsewhere.
• The Snare of the Tree, and Other Perilous Delusions. A new very long essay or very short book about game design and its dangers. It’s about the size of one of those reworked Orwells or collections of uplifting cat poetry that you buy on impulse at a bookshop till.
• The Lady Afterwards. Lottie’s first project as creative lead: a luxury boxed TRPG experience not quite like anything else I’ve ever seen. You can’t buy it at the moment. The first run of 100 copies sold out in literally a minute, the preorder run of 500 copies sold out a few days later, but we’ll probably do another run this year.
• The Lady Afterwards digital edition. First time a TRPG’s been sold on Steam, which has confounded some buyers who thought they were getting DLC, thank gawd for refunds, eh.
• A whole nother season of our Skeleton Songs podcast.
• The Weather Factory Catalogue. It’s ongoing.

That’s a longer list than I realised when I started writing it, honestly. What we plan for 2022 is a lot more focused.

• Book of Hours limited preview release. It’s not early access, we’re not calling it a paid beta, it’s the Secret Historian’s Pack. More on this soon.
• My third book.
• The Lucid Tarot. Lottie: “… a world-first: we’re making a stained-glass-window-inspired deck, opaquely printed on transparent PVC. This means light (candlelight; moonlight; King Crucible) shines through some parts of each card, but they have an opaque back so you can’t see the image on the other side.”

• And the Locksmith’s Dream, but we’re working with a partner on this one, so Lottie and I really are focusing on three projects between us this time around.

And I’m back on to that as soon as I’ve posted this and trudged through two weeks of support emails. See you in the feast-halls of the Hours.

First, that it explains with more clarity than usual the purpose and abilities of the Librarian of Hush House.

Second, that the ‘secrets of inks’ are discussed with the candour of assured destruction.

Third, that the letter was evidently not destroyed, leaving one to wonder what that meant for F., Christopher, and the unwelcome attentions of the ‘Fine-Takers’.

But we cannot speculate with any accuracy. There are many Histories, and in each one, always a sea and a tide.

‘The Sweet Bones’, Brancrug
June 28th, 1929

My dear Christopher,

I am so sorry. I would very much like to help, but I deeply regret that I cannot – and I’m afraid in any case that you’ve been terribly misled. The matter is a complex one, but I know how your heart must ache, so I wanted to begin by making it clear at once that I cannot do what you ask of me. Now I will explain why.

I know the ink that you describe. It exists. I shouldn’t tell you even that, and for the sake of our friendship I ask you to burn this letter after reading. The ink is called here encaustum terminale and it is a great treasure of the House. Its making is a closely guarded secret. Its use by any but the Librarian is punished without mercy. When we become aware of delinquencies or abuse, we despatch the Fine-Takers in their ultimate mode. Even I could not frivolously lay hands upon a sample without suffering the severest consequences.

But more importantly, the encaustum is not what you have come to believe. Yes, it is used to curate the Histories, which is why it is so carefully guarded. But it has no power in itself. It cannot change the past. I do not think it is even possible to change the past, not in the sense you mean.

There are many Histories, as you yourself have written. The Hours of the Mansus determine what events are considered a History, and which Histories are braided into the future – the future in which you will read (and burn!) this letter.

But the Hours are not all-knowing, nor infallible. I do not think it is even accurate to call them gods, although we so often revert to that convention. (I do not believe – and for this I am grateful – that there are such things as gods.) They do not take direction, but they have been known to take advice.

You may know that Hush House lies under the hand of certain Hours. I have no wish to draw their attention, so I will not name them, but they are most of them those who seek to preserve the world as it is. In our smaller way, that is also the goal of our Curia. The Librarian of the House is provided with texts that qualify as Material, the unintersticed elements of proto-History, and they make their curations and determinations upon it. When they make those curations and determinations in the encaustum terminale, the Hours take note, and they value the Librarian’s opinion… if the Librarian is of sufficient significance.

So that is all the encaustum can do. When it is used the right way by the right person in the right circumstances, it can draw the attention of the Hours. And that is a very considerable thing! But it is not something you could use, and if it were, it would not have the effect you desire.

I am sorry, my friend. She is lost to you. I can offer you only this slender comfort – one that you love has that for which she so dearly wished, and you had your reasons not to follow, and those reasons, I think, are very noble. You cannot change the choices you have made. None of us can. But I earnestly believe that you both made choices you should not regret. The sea does not regret the tide, and after the tide withdraws, something always remains, which we call memory.

In very deep affection,
your friend,
F.

P.S. I know I can be an old bore, but for a third time, I must beg you to burn this letter.

For now, a tarot update! I have learned a great deal about DIE CUTTING (goth) and BLACK CARD (goth) and 350GSM ZANTA GAME BOARD (………………post-goth). The short version is our test deck showed me I needed to pay more for a black-card deck, lest the edges of our glorious set look like they’ve been nibbled by Worms when they’re still brand new.

I can at least start confirming some of the correct guesses I’ve seen about our suits and face cards. I’ve only seen two correct guesses so far, so if you think you can work out any of the below, leave a comment and I’ll update the chart!

Finally, a pre-Christmas treat for the last production update of 2019. Some of you may remember a certain Serena Blackwood from the last letter to cross my path from Hush House. Well, an official missive from Serena herself has come to light. Read the original below, or a transcript at the bottom of this update. Click for larger versions.

Thank you to everyone who’s been supportive over these last few months. I can’t tell you how much it’s appreciated. Take care, Beloveds, and see you on the other side. ♥

OFFICE OF THE CURIA
Hush House, Brancrug
June 22nd, 1924

Detective-Ostiary Pender –

Thank you for your time last week, and for your patience. I’ve reviewed your requests for limitation. Most are acceptable to the Curia. Some are not. In this letter, I’ve outlined our objections. I hope that we can find common ground, and an acceptable compromise.

Nix Abolix. You marked as ‘Suppress’. No arguments here. Quite frankly, I don’t know how it ever made it to the main collection. We don’t need any more Worms in the world. I mention this only to say that we do, despite our differences, appreciate the Bureau’s efforts and contributions.

On the other hand, My Most Violent Enterprise. You marked as ‘Restrict’. That’s a little extreme. I really don’t think it even merits an ‘Advise’. The contents are certainly pretty despicable, but if Enterprise is limited, we are going to have to revise classification for a great many other equally despicable items. The function of Hush House is not to protect, but to preserve.

The Almanac of Entrances. You marked as ‘Suppress’. I can see the risks, but I don’t believe suppression is merited. We’ll agree to ‘Restrict’.

OGHKOR OGHKOR TISSILAK OGHKOR. You marked as ‘Restrict’. I understand your concerns, but the author has not been witnessed abroad in the world for at least two centuries, and can reasonably be considered defunct. I’ll allow ‘Advise’, and we’ll revise to ‘Restrict’ if the author is ever verifiably reported active again.

A Child’s Treasury of Golden Afternoons. You marked as ‘Expunge’. This is a proposal we would consider only in the most extreme circumstances. The text is already categorised ‘Contain’. I’ve discussed with the Librarian and we are confident that the theoplasmic contamination – which is, I grant, quite advanced – can be purged. If it can’t, then we will consider the ‘Expunge’.

Codex Acephali. You marked as ‘Contain’. I agree that this is a reasonable request, and once again, I wanted to thank you for drawing it to our attention. As a matter of fact, the contamination has also reached the neighbouring texts (The Radical Measure and In the Malleary) and we’re going to mark those ‘Contain’ too, pending review.

The History of Inks. You marked as ‘Suppress’. Now this is not the first nor indeed the second time that the Suppression Bureau has taken issue with this book, and I do see your point, some of the inks are extremely significant, but with all due respect, Hush House has its purpose, as you must know, and the Suppression Bureau’s place is not to question that purpose. Your Suppression request is denied. My patience is wearing thin. If I see another such request for the History in future years, I’ll take up the matter with our patrons.

The Kerisham Portolan. ‘Suppress’. I don’t think so.

Blackwood’s Magazine, January 1922. ‘Restrict’. I assume this is some sort of joke. I must assure you that no-one in the Curia is laughing.

Yours sincerely,
Dr. Serena Blackwood, D.D., O.F.S.B.

Yes! This should really be called ‘NOV #1: WESTENRA’, but this producer is Off The Rails. You can’t stop me. I’m naming this sprint update after the rather curious case of D and The History of Inks, written to a Dr. Serena Blackwood at the Office of the Curia.

Click to read photographs of the original letter, long now lost to a fire. Or if you struggle to read D’s handwriting – well, she should have delegated to Propsy, now, shouldn’t she? You can scroll down to the bottom of this post for a transcription in plain text, anyway.

This sprint I’ve also been hard at work with some new merch. I announced what that was to the select few of you who follow me on Twitter: a 78-card, full-colour, totally illicit TAROT OF THE HOURS.

(The dark background detail on the card backs / box are quite hard to see if your monitor isn’t set to ‘Mental Artist’, so if all you see are white lines on black, TRUST ME THERE’S MORE THERE.)

I’m waiting to receive a test print of the whole thing, to check all the art looks nice. Then it’s a matter of buying a tonne and making a new listing on the Church of Merch.

The question in the meantime is: who are the Pages, Knights, Queens and Kings of each suit? And which Principles correspond to Swords, Wands, Cups and Pentacles? Try your luck in the comments below, and I’ll reveal any of the correct cards in next sprint’s update…

The rest of this sprint was devoted to, oh, you know, launching our Russian beta on Steam and participating in this year’s Singles’ Day, which you probably all know is a manufactured celebration of both being single and being in a relationship which Alibaba co-opted to sell stuff, but hey, it’s 2019, and it makes me feel all Blade Runner-y to put Chinese text on my designs.

Any Russian speakers waiting until the beta’s complete have only another WEEK to wait until Russian’s live in the main game on Steam, GOG and Humble: that update’s coming on Monday 25th November. So yay, my drugis, which is the only pseudo-Russian I know from reading A Clockwork Orange when I was sixteen.

Enjoy your weekends, Believers.

“VIENNA
January 15th-ish, 1906

Dear Serena –

Got your book. Pretty good condition, too. Bit blurred round the edges, but the little fellow’s taken good care of it. Not what I expected, though, rum business all round. Tell you how it was.

Trail in Venice long cold, obviously. They still tell stories about old Hokobald, say the place is cursed now, but it’s mostly cursed with rising damp. Don’t know how anyone lives there. Anyway, no trace, so I thought, all right, D., my girl, get your head down, get seventy-seven winks, see if the Sage-Knight’s entertaining, he’ll know what’s what.

You’re reading this and thinking, come on, D., you know better than that, Sage-Knight’s a bit high in the Mansus to be talking to Raw Prophets, what? But here’s the thing, Sage-Knight knows the odd Ivory, Ivories know the odd Thirstly, Thirstlies know Raw Prophets. So I’ll put the word out.

Sage-Knight’s in a helpful sort of mood, so we both have a cup of that wine of his and then another cup and then another cup and we get to gossiping. He’s all right for a Name. Shame he doesn’t keep proper port, even dream-port, but he’s all right for a Name. And I wake up and I pop out for a dawn smoke and a bit of the old practice and when I get back inside there’s an address written on the mirror. Not bad for a Name at all.

Address is in Vienna. Now you know how I feel about Vienna, never quite comfy there since all that with the Club, but I think, Serena’s a good sort, owe her a favour or two, not so far on the train. Off I pop.

Vienna, two days on. Find the address, have a snout about, you know, see what’s what. Nasty little den, full of the wrong sort of the wrong sort, and they’ve got their own little shrine for the Raw Prophet. (Sage-Knight gave me its name, I tried to write its name, won’t fit in this alphabet. Let’s call him Propsy.) Little cult for Propsy. Now you know me, Serena, live and let live, all sorts, but a shrine to something like Propsy, I always thought it’s like building a shrine to a lamb chop. You’ve seen Prophets, haven’t you? They look like a horse stepped on a starfish. But bigger.

But, dashed odd thing… Propsy’s not a bad sort. Can’t talk, of course, but the little feller can write. And I don’t just mean write like I’m writing this letter, express itself, put its point of view, sort of thing. I mean it’s a calligrapher. Dashed good calligrapher. Every one of those little tentacle things, good as a Japanese paint-brush. Where does it get the ink, you’re wondering, aren’t you, Serena? Be glad I’m not telling you.

Long story short, Propsy reckons it wrote the ‘History of Inks’, reckons it was stolen, reckons all sorts of the worst about H.H. (Sorry, Serena.) So we had a good old chat, and I did knock it about a little bit, but we agreed in the end, and it gave me the book back, but it wanted paying. Seemed fair enough. And I’ve added a line to my bill for that. Bit of a sum, I’m afraid, try not to kick. Sure you won’t, know you’re a good sort.

So here you go, bill, book, all we’re missing is a candle, ha ha! I’ll be by again for the Equinox. Could use your help on a thing with the Mausoleum. And the Club, actually. Bit of a business, there.

Pip pip
D.

PS! Propsy wants proper attribution. Name in the catalogue. Course, can’t write its name here. Won’t fit in this alphabet. Hope you can sort that out. Might cause a bit of a stink if not. Leave it with you. Best of luck. D.“

“Fucine was spoken in the dry country. It is the language of witches. It shares words with High Aeolic.”
Addendum excised from Sir William Colt Hoare’s Hints to Travellers in Italy, 1815.

“Around 1890, in the Third History, the Crowned Growth could be perceived through the White Door.”
Oriflamme’s, Lot 5, Auction 5th May ’57. Fragments of the notebooks of ‘Parsival’, recovered from the wreck of Mr Strathcoyne’s private library. Extensive fire-damage, reconstructed in part.

“Theresa Galmier wrote to a dear friend describing, elliptically, her experiences in the port of Noon.”

We’re still on course for the Explorer’s Build release (note because of untidy month endings and Easter, that’ll be April 9th…. WE ARE STILL ON TIME this was always the plan). That’ll have Expeditions, Mansus access and very nearly all the final game tomes. Talking of which…

The books in the game are written in English; in Latin, Greek, Sanskrit and Aramaic; in Deep Mandaic, Fucine, Phrygian and Vak. Some of these languages are more fictional, or more dead, than others. I can happily make up phrases in Fucine (which is based on Marsian, a language that exists now only on half a dozen inscriptions and a stolen bronze) but Sanskrit demands more than a bluffy Google translate.

So we actually contracted a university lecturer specialising in Sanskrit poetry to translate a dozen-plus occult formulations into Sanskrit. Here are a few below. Two of them are, in fact, quotes from real-world tantras that she suggested would fit the context; the others are invented. See if you can work out which.

ACTUAL TANTRIC PHRASE OR OCCULT INVENTION?

MARRUVIUM was the chief city of the Marruvii, a mountain people who rebelled many times against Rome. The city was established as a colony after their final pacification. Today it is a little provincial town, San Benedetto dei Marsi, which has not much to recommend it to the young tourist. The tiny church of St Agnes of the Serpent has a gloomy charm, and the town lies almost at the shore of Lake Fucino, which offers picturesque aspects, despite its evil reputation. The Emperor Claudius identified the lake as a source of the mal aria, to which the reader will recall I lost a valued friend in the Pomptine Marshes. Horace identified it, rather, as a source of witches. I wonder now whether Horace’s assessment might not be the correct one, but I should not run ahead.

Lake Fucino has been reduced many times, though it creeps back when the drainage fails, so that even now the locals refer to its margins as ‘the dry country’. A bronze bearing an antique inscription in the tongue of the Marruvii was found in the dry places, and is now kept in the church. The priest is severe on its dangers – it has been touched by the lake-witches – but nevertheless will show it to the curious, for a small donation.

On the matter of the witches. They are seen in dreams, particularly when one dreams before a cracked and uncovered mirror. On nights of the greater moon they arise from the lake and generate unwanted multiple births, inspire follies of passion, and blend flesh to flesh. The locals turn for protection to St Agnes, but I have seen that they also make poppets – of two heads and four arms – to placate the lake-witches.

As to why I came to San Benedetto dei Marsi: I had heard in Rome that the inscription of the bronze employs a script not seen elsewhere, and I wished to study and record that script. My informant was correct that the script was unusual, and I have retained the notes for study; but I can attest that the script survives in a book, which a woman of the area was kind enough to show me. The book, she said, was not for sale, and I have given my word that I will not speak further of the woman or of her companion. I was permitted to examine the book. It is not from the time of the Marruvii – it is much later – perhaps of the vintage of Charlemagne. The woman and her companion told me wild tales of its origin, and of the witches of the lake, and I had ceased to pay close attention when they warned me of the dangers of the book. This tale at least was true: the page-edges are sharp as a barber’s razor, and I cut my hand badly and had to bind it with my handkerchief.

I thought to find a doctor lest the wound go bad, but the doctor was lost to drink, and my host directed me to the sanctuary of St Agnes. I would not choose a priest as a physician, but the sanctuary has been a place of healing since, I am assured, the time of the Romans, and the cut was very deep.

Still when I came there the priest would not bind my injury, averring that wounds are holy to Agnes. He promised to draw the poison from my flesh and I sat upon the altar steps and he set his mouth to the wound and my senses failed me. When I awoke the priest was in a shouting rage, and would not minister to me further. In my dizziness and fear my Italian had all but abandoned me, but I understood this: ‘the Twins! You have kissed the Twins!’

My wound did not turn, and I will have a story to tell with the scar. Perhaps after all there was a virtue in the mouth of the priest. When the moon is full I still dream of San Benedetto dei Marsi, and of the drawings I saw in the knived pages of the book.

(Click for transcript)

“Madame,

Herein I have set down  my recollections of my time with the Society of the Noble Endeavour. I write in haste & may be lacking clarity. Make what you will of it.

In preparation for the Riddle of the Stag Door (which I will describe later) a dreamer passes through the White Door, not once but many times. The White Door was known anciently as the Bone Door or the Ivory Door. Speech may not pass its valves, and dreamers are mute when they enter the House.

The White Door is fickle. I had prepared the proper tisanes & I had some hope of entrance that night. You should know that once one has entered the Mansus, the memory of it hooks & tears. One recalls its stairs and galleries and the light of its windows with a sentiment like that of half-waking memories on clear autumn mornings… I found then that I prepared my limbs for sleep with the trembling anticipation of one who awaits a fickle lover, and that sleep, indeed, was fickle…

But at length I walked again in the outer precincts of the Mansus, that place we call the Bounds, which we dare to believe above the Wood. The Bounds breathe & change – they are some say the limbs of the House – but I have never subscribed to the notion that the House is an organism. It is not stone, but it is more like stone than flesh. That night they were hued with what we in the Society called the perilous colour. I had a considerable apprehension, before I ever saw the door, that this was not a night to be abroad in the precincts of the House of the Sun. But one does not surrender easily even the White Door, and I had high hopes that year of passing the Stag Door early… so on I went.

I rounded the high rock that  is called the Temple of the Wheel, and the White Door came in view. There was a crowd of the Dead before it. Even at that distance, it was clear that is what they were. You may be aware that some Dead pass the White Door – their speech is taken from them, as the speech of dreamers, and that is why the Dead we meet in the Mansus are so often mute. But their movements, I quickly saw, were not the movements of the Dead.

There was –

I shall say there was a river flowing through the door. It was not a river, and neither was it pus, nor joy, but when I tried to articulate it better, my pen snapped in my hand. I apologise for the apophatic ellipsis, Madame, but I have no wish to tempt that Hour into my dreams. The Rising Spider wishes dominion, but the Growth wishes only to infect and become. I do not believe the Bounds are the limbs of the House, but I must aver that the Dead that night had become the limbs of the Crowned Growth. Should you meet them, do not permit them to touch you. Do not even look upon their faces. I thank the Sun for the Horned Axe, the Black-Flax, the other older Hours. Without them I wonder whether we might not all be the Growth.

I did not pass the White Door that night. I ran crying into the night and I recollected myself only curled among the roots and blades of the Wood. To that episode, I ascribe my affinity with the Moth…”

The Locksmith’s Dream, Teresa Galmier

“I suspect that the Locksmith’s Dream has a total of three books, as this would fit the escalation that occurs between the first and second volumes. The first volume begins unassumingly enough with an esoteric, almost scholarly exploration of artisans dreams (sounds harmless, doesn’t it?). The second volume becomes more theoretical and crosses a number of lines in the process, resulting in copies of it being mutilated and suppressed. It seems likely that there’s an unpublished and very supernatural third book out there somewhere, written right before or sometime after Galmier went through the Spider Door. Furthermore, Galmier’s focus on artisans implies some sort of correspondence between the medieval building guilds and the Mansus, with the dreams of the locksmiths in particular being her key to understanding and ultimately opening the Mansus’ doors. Everything in the visible world has some sort of relationship with the powers of the invisible world. (“Thus the essence of these visions: what is below can’t escape what is above.”) Like to like is very much in effect.”

Traveling at Night (Vol. 1), Christopher Illopoly

“The key word in its title is traveling. Illopoly’s work is a night by night travelogue of his dream journeys. And like any journey, there is movement from point A to point B – in this case, from the margins to the center. The first volume begins naturally enough with Illopoly on the outskirts of the invisible world, introducing the Wood. Later volumes will probably focus on Illopoly’s journey through the Wood towards the Mansus. Will he find a way to open its doors? That seems the real question. Consider how much time, effort and research it took Teresa Galmier to gain entrance.

Speaking of Galmier, her methods contrast markedly with Illopoly’s. Galmier began by intensely studying the mystical dreams of others and then theorizing about them, before taking the plunge herself (presumably the subject of her third book). Although Illopoly has done his share of preparatory reading (“as any student of the Histories knows”), he’s far less academic and much more learn from experience. The dreams he studies and utilizes are principally his own. This more narrative approach seems to have made Illopoly’s work more popular than Galmier’s – although Illopoly’s book is “bewildering,” he is “sometimes called the only readable occultist,” which leads me to suspect that he has a larger audience.

This makes me wonder about Illopoly and Galmier’s relationship. They appear to be contemporaries (their books are all recently published). Were they colleagues? Rivals? Did they have any encounters, in the visible world or in the Wood?

In the Alpha it is possible to get lore from both studying and dreaming. Perhaps Galmier and Illopoly are each meant to represent these two different methods of progressing in the invisible arts. ”

Julian Coseley’s Six Letters on Necessity

“There isn’t really anything I can say about the book that isn’t already provided by its description. So instead I’m going to focus on how your character makes use of Coseley’s work. There is a major conflict between the clear intent of Coseley’s Six Letters and how the protagonist chooses to use them. Coseley is writing on the eve of personal catastrophe to warn one of his students away from the seductive and terrifying power of the secret arts. So, what is the quote that the game uses to sum up what your character learned from reading the Letters?

“Even the Sunne can be divided, though it require the Forge of Dayes for its division.”

And they get Ardent Prayers, lore which is about destructive/self-destructive transformation. Meaning your character has flipped or reversed Coseley’s warnings about the dire costs of occult power, turning them into instructions on how to acquire and pay for said power! Adding to the irony, Coseley’s student might have had the same idea when he compiled and published his masters’s Letters. ‘Look how awesome my teacher was! He knew how to split the sun!’

‘Do not do this cool thing’ fails yet again. I suspect it won’t be the last time.”

A dusty display case of flint tools; a stuffed hare; an inexplicable box of yellowing wool; a full-sized model of Queen Victoria, who visited in 1885; and this.

It’s the ‘A Feast’, the first volume of what was later called the Orchid Transfigurations:

You get the cover, but you don’t get the interior. I’m already seeing odd traffic to the blog. I don’t expect the Long will do anything, as long as this looks like a casual frivolous bit of marketing puff for a minor indie game. So I don’t want to be too convincing.

I wasn’t allowed to handle the book directly, anyway, though I managed to talk them into opening the case. I didn’t get much out of it – it’s not like I can read Latin anyway – but it’s exciting to see the thing in person. And it’s true what they say about the illustrations. I expect to dream vividly tonight. I get flashes when I close my eyes. I am trying not to see shapes in clouds.

But here’s the other thing. I was chatting to the volunteer who opened the case for me, and she recognised Teresa Galmier’s name.  At one point, Galmier was on the list of trustees for the museum. She lived locally, apparently – right into the 1930s, after she was gone from other records. I have – I think – her old address.

Hi @alexiskennedy A quick question before I sign up on your thunderclap: will there be same-sex romances in Cultist Simulator? Thanks!

— elidoo (@elidooooo) August 17, 2017

The answer is ‘yes’, but this is a sensitive and complex topic, so I want to respond honestly and to make sure that player expectations are met.

In every game I’ve ever made, gender choice for the player has been cosmetic, and there’s been a non-specifically-gendered option. NPC romances have taken the ‘everyone is bi’ approach. I’d expect to continue this tradition with Cultist Simulator. You’ll be able to romance NPCs, and your chosen character gender will have little to no effect on which NPCs are available for romance.

But:

(1) this approach also means ruling out specifically same-sex or other queer romances, just as it means ruling out specifically straight romances. In some games, the ability to have a queer romance is explicitly part of the artistic intention and the promotional appeal.  That isn’t the plan here. I know that’s what some people might mean when they ask the question, I know it’s important to some players, and I don’t want to mislead anyone.

(2) That ‘little to no’ effect above. I want player characters to be able to start families in Cultist Simulator, for the drama and dilemmas that will allow. Getting into the details of this – whether a player character gets pregnant, or whether an NPC is a blood relation for occult reasons – can be tricky. I ran up against this exact problem in Sunless Sea, and I found a way to write round it and make all options, including adoption, equivalent in game terms. But that might be trickier when the character isn’t constantly off on long sea voyages. Honestly, I think it’ll be fine, and the approach will be abstract and completely non-restrictive, but I don’t want to commit to that. You might end up being asked, e.g., “is your character capable of bearing children?”, and that might affect some of your story choices in the game. We’ll see.

But the bottom line is that I’ll take the same approach that I have in my other work, and that hews as closely as possible to equal opportunities all round.

Firstly, the town named on the postcard doesn’t exist on any map of the UK. This is unnerving, but it’s to be expected. The Histories diverge much more recently than 1927, and it’s not surprising that a minor urban centre would be out of luck in the Hours’ consensus. In any case, I’m glad I didn’t reproduce it online.

Secondly, I said that Teresa ‘wrote very winningly about the wind.’ The phrase was familiar, and now I think I know why. It’s a paraphrase of something that ‘Fludd’ (though no-one seriously believes it was actually Fludd) wrote in the ‘Orchid Transfigurations’.  I had come across a running joke that a copy of the Transfigurations was on display in one of those little provincial museums in Sussex.

At least, I’d always thought it was a joke. I’m inclined to look into it. I wouldn’t mind a drive over the Sussex Downs.

I found it in a bookshop in Camden Lock Market. Galmier actually lived in Camden for a couple of years, after the court case, tutoring undergraduates in Italian and writing furious letters to the local paper. I don’t know where she went after that. But this edition was published in 1923: the year she passed the Spider’s Door.

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