|Released||4 January 2018 (Update)|
|Examine||The Weeping by Herbert Dunwich.|
|High alch||0 coins|
|Low alch||0 coins|
Transcript[edit | edit source]
There are some things that are best left forgotten. Some stories that people prefer not to tell. This perhaps should be one of those, but I am bound by my oath to record all the strangeness I have encountered.
My story really begins when I was wandering the norther most shores of Forinthry. I walked amongst the ruins of abandoned cities and forgotten temples to a slain god. I walked alone, for the world had gone mad and the gods themselves warred with each other. Man fought against man and monster in the names of Saradomin, Zamorak, Armadyl and Bandos.
The streets were lined with bodies. It is with terrible sadness that such a statement is not hyperbole.
I chose no side. Making me an outcast to everyone. A fate I could happily endure.
I instead sought out the silent areas of the world. The forgotten nooks and crannies that no one ever seems to find by accident. I found one such nook in the northern most part of the world. It was a hole in the ground, surrounded by verdant overgrowth and the bones of fallen soldiers. The hole was deep, impossibly so. Even by lantern light I couldn't see the bottom and stones dropped were eerily silent as though the hole went on forever.
There was only one sound that came from this hole. A soft, sorrowful, weeping.
A woman's voice I recall. I could not determine her age, nor accent, but her sorrow was palpable.
She seemed lost, lonely and in dire need of aid and yet there was none[sic] around for miles who could save her. I was her only hope and I may be many things, but heartless I am not.
I lowered myself into the darkness, a rope wrapped around my waist and securely tied to a venerable tree that sat at the entrance to the darkness. My lantern light showed that the walls of the hole retreated away and I found myself descending into a deep dark cavern.
After what felt like an eternity, I rested my weary feet upon solid ground. It was cold and solid. Stone. Carved stone, a man-made cavern. I brought my lantern up to the walls and scanned the plane. The walls held long weathered murals and symbols of forgotten creatures.
I recognised the image of The Empty Lord himself, the ancient and powerful being who had once named this place as the seat of his empire. He was warding something back. What that was I could not see, for where the picture should have been, instead there was a hole as though someone had torn the picture from the mural and destroyed it.
I should have left right there and then. But I did not.
Instead I listened for that weeping. That perpetual weeping. That perpetual sorrow that called to me like a siren song. I so wanted to be a hero, to rescue the poor damsel in distress.
I should have known better.
The pitiful keening led me deeper into the darkness. Down a strangely carved corridor devoid of lantern or torches. The only source of light available to me was the lantern that I clung to as though my life depended on it. Yet though the light remained constant, I could feel the world growing darker.
Cold seemed to be seeping in from everywhere. Beneath my clothes, down my spine. I felt the chill touch my very soul. Yet I persisted and pressed forward, because I was a fool.
I cannot tell you how deep that tunnel went. It felt like an eternity, yet it could only have been a few metres deep.
The woman's cries were much louder now. They were emanating from behind a great stone door covered in strange markings that I did not recognise. In hindsight they must have been warnings. If they were, I could not read them.
Instead, like the fool I am, I heaved the ancient door open. The air behind them was stale and rotten. The stagnant air of centuries. Yet here was the source of those tears, loud and terrible. I felt the sorrow and anguish creep into my bones with a chill greater than the cold. I felt the sorrow wrap around my heart and squeeze, it was unbearable.
Then, it stopped.
There was movement in this room. Something hulking, with spindly arms and a flash of razor sharp talons. It rushed towards me and as it did so it wailed a terrible scream. Not a scream of rage, but of great, such complete and absolute grief that my heart stopped for a moment.
It was almost upon me when I could move again and I had just enough time to slam the door closed and then to run as fast as I could.
I had no light, so I ran into pure darkness, only blind luck as my ally. Behind me I heard the door torn open. I heard that scream, now interspersed once again with that same sorrowful weeping. My life flashed before my eyes, a terrible cliché but a true one and I knew that I had wasted it. I knew every despair and every regret of my life and they would haunt me and drag me into the afterlife like weights wrapped around my neck.
Then, by providence or divine aid, my fingers brushed against my rope. Still secured to the tree above. I climbed. I climbed with all the energy I had. I climbed because my life depended on it and when I reached the top, I cut the rope free and watched as it fell into shadow.
I watched and I listened as the weeping below me grew so loud as to be deafening.
I am not ashamed to say that I fled from that scene. I have never returned to that spot and I pray I never shall. I write this memoire both as a reminder and as a warning to any that might read it.
There are mysteries that should never be solved.Some secrets should remain buried and forgotten.
Trivia[edit | edit source]
- The Weeping was written by Mod Raven. When asked what the author in the book encountered, he responded that it is "a sinister story with a sinister monster-y thing in it... it's a horror story basically."
- The author's name, Herbert Dunwhich, is a reference to both Herbert West–Reanimator and The Dunwich Horror, who were both written by H. P. Lovecraft.