What is Object 105...

This was a little something from my current campaign, and I haven't posted anything here for a while. The PCs broke into the old Mercykiller archives under their fortress in Acheron on the cube of Marsallen. The PCs were there searching for the diary of a 'Reformed Bariaur' Mercykiller Commandant who had been in charge of a mercykiller penal colony with a link to something known as Object 105, which was apparently some sort of centuries long joint project between the Mercykillers, Harmonium, and Fraternity of Order. Several years after the Faction War all three factions apparently washed their hands of it and seemed to have undertaken a systematic purge of all records and direct references to it. Nilesia's immediate successor seems to have put the final nail into its coffin, but the whole project, whatever it is, is something of keen interest to the patrons of the PCs in my campaign.

This particular diary which the PCs found, was partially censored by the Mercykillers initially, but somehow overlooked in the purges of their records. It was also defaced by its author shortly before she slit her own throat.

Here was the cover page: [url]http://arcanofox.foxpaws.net/Cover%20Page%20to%20Diary%20of%20Alissira%20the%20I ronshod.doc [/url]

Aaaaand the text:




“The Multiverse has always needed someone like us.”

That’s what my Hardhead colleagues might say. I say ‘what if they don’t?’. That’s the conclusion that I’ve been slowly coming to these past few months. What all has occurred here has fractured my belief and made a mockery of what I took to my heart during my time in the camps of Menausus. They reformed me there, showed me the error my ways, and I was happy. I took to my new life with the zeal of the newly and wholeheartedly converted. Ultimately I wound up here at Setherak, and here it was that it began to unravel.

My previous journal, the one that should rightfully sit inside this leather binding – I burned it last night. Its words no longer hold true after all that I have experienced, and I am no longer that same person who came to Setherak to oversee the punishment of criminals and scum. I’ve not lost my view of Justice as the overriding value in all of this multiverse, I’ve simply come to feel that our organization has stared too long at what is wrong and we’ve ourselves forgotten what it was to be right, rather than to simply punish and ignore our own crimes as we did so.

Setherak has two purposes. Supposedly they are distinct and unrelated. As commandant of the prison camp on this cube, I was put in charge of some 25,000 prisoners. Reformation to some is forced labor to others. Mainly the prisoners mined certain types of ore from the cube, extracted it, smelted it and the refined metals were sent elsewhere. As surely as iron was forged and tempered to steel, so were the souls and natures of our prisoners. They refined metal as we refined spirit.

Setherak also served as a waypoint towards XXXXXXXXX, which we referred to in code as Object 105. Object 105 is simply a placeholder. It’s a meaningless word in and of itself, and it wasn’t explained to me when I was put in command of the facilities here upon Setherak.

My official orders were that the transfer of objects and material to Object 105 were to be sent along without question, so long as the proper procedures were carried out and the proper authorization was in place for such transfers. One thing was ingrained in the process however: No one returns from that place.

NO ONE RETURNS FROM THAT PLACE

Nothing returns from that place…

Nothing.

But all this talk about things coming back or not, I’ve gotten ahead of myself.

The briefing material that I had been given before coming to Setherak as commandant was vague to the point of being worthless. Everything was in code and I wasn’t supplied with much in the way of how to understand what it actually meant to say. I was expecting some form of prison camp full of unreformed mages, sages and priests. We had plenty of those for certain, but I’d expected them to be writing books and forced to expend their energies in the creation of items, scrolls, magical armaments and the like. I didn’t expect them to be working the forges alongside their more mundane fellows.

There was no library. There is no library. Oh we had plenty of books, plenty of them, plenty of them, but not a library in sight. Illumination we had, bright as day, scrawled upon the pages in splashes of color that were all one color. We all XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.

We had books, plenty of books, but gods forbid we had receipts. That was none of my business. I, we, simply shipped to Object 105 their monthly stipend of food, their monthly stipend of mundane supplies, the occasional shipment of magical components that staggered the imagination… could have fought a war with the number of weapons we shipped… could have summoned an army of fiends with the magic she shipped. But it was all about books, receipts, and catalogs of them all.

I am sorry.

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We were unnecessarily harsh to the prisoners upon Setherak, and it was rumored among our wards that those who did not work, who did not pound out the last scraps of steel would be executed or tortured. Yes, we did this on occasion, but only on those instances where we faced hunger strikes or open rebellion by certain of the prisoners. I would not have charismatic leaders arising among the prisoner population under my watch. If I had to execute a man and make him a martyr I would. I had no compunction against this. I did it myself on forty-two occasions and I will go to my grave knowing that I did the right thing in those instances. I harbor no regrets for that. My regret is saved for XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.

Summary execution by the Wyrm, in public, in full view of the prisoners worked best of all, second only to strangling them myself when I entered the common yard by myself without a contingent of guards. Strength garners respect, harshness and principle garners respect, and the power of life and death garners respect utterly. I never had another uprising after we executed a group of forty-nine former clerics who were intent upon revolt. The Wyrm fed well those days and when we sent it away for the bodies to rot, the prisoners fed (we’d withheld their rations for a week when they had threatened a hunger strike after I proclaimed sentence upon their would-be leaders).

I do not regret this.

The entire prison colony was devised to prevent secrets. And that is something that I now laugh about, what with my Library, my great appendix of books that I was lord over…

A man who has no secrets, who has no privacy, he cannot conspire, he cannot plot, he cannot revolt where others will not stop him. From the moment that a prisoner was transferred to Setherek he was ours to break and remake. Some took the lack of privacy harder than others. Some died or went mad, some simply vanished and XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.

But all those others we broke and remade into docile beings worthy of knowing justice, its meaning, and that they would serve their sentence for their own good: just as I had done when I was in their place so many years ago. I was remade and so I would do to them, no matter the cost. I was saving them.

Everyone was equal in the eyes of Justice, and everyone was broken just the same, just as harshly and alongside each other. As soon as a new prisoner was transferred to us, we would place them into one of the communal cells with fifty other prisoners, never more than five new in the same cell, the same group. They new were broken just as the old continued their process of being reforged. The rebel was placed in with the complacent and those who would aid in the dismantling of the young for their own good.

The process of disintegration of personality took place before the eyes of everyone in the cell. A man could not hide himself in the cell for an instant; even their bowels had to be moved on the open toiled, situated in the center of the room. He who wanted to weep, wept before everyone, and the feeling of shame increased his torment. He who wanted to kill himself – in the night, beneath the blanket, trying to cut the veins in his arm with his teeth – would be quickly discovered by one of the cell’s insomniacs and prevented from finishing the job.

It was as simple as that. You learned quickly that cooperation meant a reduction of overt pain, and work equaled food. If you did not comply you suffered and learned through pain, and if you did not work you would starve to death. If you continued to rebel against your instruction, you would be separated into a separate campsite on the far side of the cube near to where XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Object 105.

Simply for the irony of it all, I referred to this second camp under my control as The Scriptorium. The appendix library that did not exist, I made it exist. And in a way it was. I am so very sorry.

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The Scriptorium was a hell of iron walls and iron floor, darkness lit only by the pale flame of the steel pillars that belched their sallow flames up into the darkness of the far side of the cube. They did not forge steel, they probed for ore veins that were not there. They dug holes through ground with the barest of tools, sometimes their own hands scraping against the iron. They dug holes and they refilled them at the order of their taskmasters. The prisoners worked with no breaks, no respite, and little food.

At one point, near to the first XXXXXX, desperate for a day’s rest, they cut off their own hands and feet. We piled them in the center of the Scriptorium and worked them to death, then fed them to the Wyrm. The next set of prisoners worked with that grisly pile of human trophies preserved and in full view of what would happen to them if they did not do as they were told. Those who refused from that point on I sent to Object 105.

That is what I regret.

All were equals in their misery and their punishment. Mothers slaved away next to husbands, sons alongside daughters, those with strong bonds however were never actually physically allowed to touch, or talk or kiss or fuck, we kept them close, all within sight of one another, but always separated by walls of force, Hiter chains strung into fences, and more exotic wards. Their misery made them grow. It was for their own good you see.

Routine is everything here. Shipments of supplies come to us from Marsallen, from the cubes on Avalas, from Sigil (before the Tempest of Doors destroyed its functionality), and we use them. At times, on regular occasion we sent things on to Object 105. Everything proceeds on schedule, by the schedule. Interruptions to the routine stick out in our mind from the disruption that they cause.

Only a few times have we had a disruption to our duties and our work.

During Factol Mallin’s time, when I first arrived here on Setherak, not much happened. I am told that our shipments of food, magical supplies, and raw materials increased ever so slightly from his predecessor. The activities of Object 105, the illumination of books, had been in operation for a very long time.

Things proceeded as normal till Mallin died of heart failure. That was the official line, but I would bet my command that XXXXXXX had him killed so that she would replace him. No matter, she kept things on schedule and things did not vary from Mallin’s tenure as Factol. We stuck to routine and I was happy with this order that we kept to.

Three years after Nilesia became our Factol, something happened. Our normally oneway flow of information and supplies to Object 105 became briefly two way. The trade carrack to Object 105 returned to us with a trio of persons, one each from our faction, the Harmonium, and the Fraternity of Order: each of them a wizard or a sage.

Everything was very formal and they presented me with a letter of XXXXX from Factor NXXXXXX MXXXX. They required more supplies than normal and did not have the time to go through the official hierarchy to requisition them according to the normal protocols. Something had happened, something that made them smile with joy, and they had need of books. I allowed them to peruse the stacks and they took all they required. It was substantive. They asked for 400 volumes and I gave them 400 volumes, no more, no less.

This ultimately caused disruption in the camp and I was forced to execute nearly 600 prisoners before the others would commence their work once more. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. I expanded the Scriptorium in preparation for XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.

The other instance occurred several years later. One of my guards, a Bladeling, something happened to him. He went insane one night, without warning. Normally we can tell when madness is going to succumb to the weak and we send them away till they are recovered. XXXXXXXXXXX was a strong man and one of my lieutenants. He tried to sneak aboard the supply carrack to Object 105 shortly before it was ready to depart with its monthly supply of foodstuffs and a small number of books and several supplies of ink (we had taken to sending a small number of both to Object 105 at their request, and word came through to us from Factor XXXXXXXX that this was appreciated; it supplied their recurrent need for those items, and kept their scribes and sages happy).

My man XXXXXXXXXXX however, he was found attempting to hide among the volumes and other supplies. He killed three guards from Object 105 before he was captured and removed from the ship, but he did nothing till they attempted to remove him from the volumes. He screamed to us that XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
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He was mad, mad as a Bleaker in the ravages of the Grim Retreat. That night he sung to himself in his own language. He stared out to the sky, following the course of the supply ship I believe. Even though he could not see it, he knew where it was. He sung to himself, praying, till his voice went ragged and he collapsed from thirst several days later. He went into a coma with a smile upon his face. I did not know then what he heard, what was calling out to him in his waking dreams, but now I do because I have XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
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That haunted me, but it was only the start.

No one came back from that place.

No one…

Word reached us that Factol Nilesia had vanished and Rowan Darkwood was considered Factol of the Mercykillers. I was beside myself with rage, but by the time more news trickled down to us it was too late to do much. Our lines of communication had gone dead except from Object 105 and our routine shipments to them, those –never- stopped. By the time we heard more, we were no longer a faction. We were no longer Mercykillers but Sodkillers, returned to our roots.

I did not mind, the Sons of Mercy were weak and unsuited to truly castigate those who had sinned. They sought to reform without pain. Iron cannot become steel without the heat of the forge.

We proceeded on our routine while the faction tried to organize itself into a stable hierarchy. In the absence of a factol we followed dictates from the new leaders of the Harmonium and Fraternity of Order. Though in truth we never heard from Faith Sarin or Jamis, only the same Factors and undersecretaries that had served under the first Sarin and under Hashkar.

Then things changed. Nilesia had returned from slavery, returned from the hell that Darkwood had sold her into, and she was rapidly reorganizing the ranks of we, now the Sodkillers, her Sodkillers.

In the X month of the X year post the Faction War, Factol Nilesia visited Serethak on her way to Object 105. I had never before met Factol Alisohn Nilesia, and I was humbled and frightened by her. My factol, she was… I have never before met a living being with the sheer level of intensity that she possessed. Her eyes bored holes in my soul, laid bare what and who I was, and I was humbled and I obeyed. I answered her questions in minute detail, everything that we had done. I showed her my Library, XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX brought her to Object 105.

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No one returns from that place.

She did.

By her direct order our shipments to Object 105 increased by an order of magnitude, and in double their frequency. Our ranks were swollen, our shelves heavy with books, the inkpots laden and waiting, and then they came: the craftsmen, the monastics.

They arrived on the transport from the fortress on Avalas bearing an order written in Nilesia’s own hand. They were to be sent along to Object 105 for the preservation and illumination of those manuscripts already present in that place, and with them we were to ship on a one time basis four thousand books, the normal accompaniment of inks and book binding supplies, and anything else they required.

I did as my factol ordered.

I am so very sorry.

When the supply ship came next, there was a dispute over the size of the goods to be shipped and the size of the ship’s hull. It simply couldn’t fit so many volumes, let alone the other supplies that normally we would ship. And so the ship went back to Object 105 and a second and third ship returned with it. The sages, Librarians, returned as well and they met with myself and the monks. I said little while the two groups talked.

It took us days to load the materials onto the ships such was the size of it all, and during that time the monks did not associate with the other Librarians whom they would be working alongside at Object 105. I thought nothing of this at the time.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. There was nothing beneath their hoods and robes, so one of the XXXX guards said to me over dinner two days before the ships left. I told no others and did not pry into matters that I was not authorized to observe. He was transferred to Marsallen the next day following the Monastics’ departure from XXXX to Object 105.

Later I inquired about his integration into the operations at Marsallen. My inquiry was answered by an undersecretary of Tall Tally, Warden of Marsallen. The man never arrived at there at the mines. The paperwork says otherwise, but the man was gone, vanished on all but the official documents whose worth I doubt now. He packed his bags, cleaned his uniform and left. I do not know where he went, but I can fully guess as to why, and what his ultimate fate was.

No one returns from that place.

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Nilesia is dead, flayed by The Lady. I am at a loss for words.

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XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Justice does not sleep XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.

We set out for Object 105 in the morning. The supply ship did not appear on schedule, and after the other things which I mentioned before, something has gone wrong. I XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
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The great XXXX Object 105. No one returns from that place. Books are sent, illumination performed XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX scriptorium, receipts are written, everything is XXXXXXXXXXX, XXXXX prisoners XXXXXX. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
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No one returns from that place.

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XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. She was XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. Hriste screams in the night for its lost XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX. Receipts burned, ashes scattered over Ocanthus.

I came back from that place.

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And now as I gaze into the ever-night sky and look at the shards of Tintibulos so near that I could touch them with my fingers it seems. Mareck above like a gleaming steel sun, and the dancing widows below, hung in the night like nine-sided iron revelers. Oh the irony of it all.

And now as I gaze out, my eyes seem to track a point in the darkness that lies cold and hidden, and I find myself wishing to sing. The walls they are shuddering, the air it is humming, and I am wishing to sing its song before it comes to claim me too. Can you hear it? Do you hear it? It is singing and I am singing too.

Nothing returns from this place, not whole, not the same. Never.