“Death in his robes, the girl in her cloak,
They danced through the lands of men and of smoke.
Taking step, agile step, their fingers entwined
She waltzed off to Hades, her cloak left behind.”
-Excerpt from ‘The Ballad of Saint Jasmine’
______________________________
You’re very lucky that I am an old fool bereft of hope (and coin!)
I swore to myself that I would cut all ties with your strange lot after my retirement, remember? A retirement, I might add, that I paid for with the lives of a few friends, as well as a few fingers--You’ve no idea how much my hands cramp writing this. I should probably invest in a typewriter...
Traipsing about in search of demons and devils is a young man’s game, anyway, and those nights are long behind me. As I am sure your records can attest, I came to Dirge Hill for some peace and quiet after the decimation of my Lodge (half of them rotting in the ground, the other half gibbering in asylum—I cannot say who fares worse.) I hung up my Crucifix, torch and Pitchfork to drip out what’s left of my life someplace far from foggy streets and mysterious business, yet, here we are, a new Lodge forming not even five miles from my humble little home, and my old friends come asking a broken old man for intel on the region, to aid them in their bloody games to come. Ah, to be young again!
I didn’t need to do this, you realize. Even as I hold pen in mangled hand, I debate actually finishing this little report, let alone sending it. Should you find this reply mailed, instead of crumpled and tossed into Lake Vaulding, I would chalk it up in equal parts to my loneliness and inebriation. Do forgive my penmanship.
There, with preamble and bitterness out of the way, I’ll tell you what I know:
History
A few hundred years ago or so, a strange plague broke out in these parts. Those afflicted would twitch and shutter about, their limbs twisting and violently jerking every kind of way, like some convulsing marionette plucked by invisible, angry strings. Rumors have it that some victims would break their own necks or chatter their teeth to dust. Even after death, legends say that these poor corpses would writhe and sway in their gruesome little death-dance. On one particularly horrific evening, it is said that a line of the deceased were all dancing in unison under the fullest of moons, some undoubtedly morbid song that only the dead could hear.
And thus, Dirge Hill was so aptly named.
They named this peculiar little condition “The Ferryman Fits,” and neither cause, nor cure could be found.
She Who Would be Saint
The most legendary resident of Dirge Hill is undoubtedly Saint Jasmine, who, according to legend, tended to the sick who were afflicted with this morbid little pestilence. Renowned for her mercy and pure heart, Jasmine was said to have always worn a simple cloak that was blessed by an Angelic admirer. It was said that anyone who she draped this cloak over would become immune to the ravages of the Ferryman Fits, and she is often depicted shielding innocent children under its protective embrace.
If legends are to be believed, Saint Jasmine valiantly comforted those afflicted by the Ferryman Fits until she could no longer take the suffering going on all around her. With tears streaming down her youthful face, the girl held up her cloak towards Heaven and shouted unto the Lord,
“O, God on high, I remove this blessed garment and drape it around this most beloved place and her people. I forsake protection from the ravages of death and offer myself up as the Ferryman’s last partner in this grim step of his!”
And then, in that instant, she fell dead, and none more after were afflicted.
It’s a sweet story, but a bit too dramatic, if you ask me. Jasmine was made a Saint, and, as you could imagine, is something of a protector and source of inspiration to the people of Dirge Hill. She is depicted often in its artwork, and famously, her statue is one of the more prominent landmarks in the area. “By Jasmine’s cloak!” is a regional expression that I’m sure you’ll become accustomed to hearing if you spend any time in the area. She is always depicted as a young girl with very curly hair and a simple cloak with a copper clasp.
Lay of the Land
There is a morose tranquility to Dirge Hill and its surrounding areas. The hustle-bustle of London is a faraway thing compared to the eerie tranquility that seems to be this place’s calling card, with long stretches of road linking the various hubs of activity along the way. Times are most certainly changing, and Dirge Hill was always something of a throwback to a quieter, more innocent age, before the massive industrialization of our Empire began belching its black smoke into the weeping sky with more and more regularity. Personally, I came here to enjoy this peace and quiet, but, as is the nature of things, chaos and calamity (and worse of all, change) follows every footstep I take.
The landscape of Dirge Hill is deep green and sparse of many tall trees. Most of the vegetation come in thick, explosive shrubbery that comes vicious with thorns (don’t ask me how I know.) Black and jagged rocks stab outward from the moist earth at seemingly random intervals, like sets of onyx bone spurs that have a polished sort of beauty in their own dreary way. A string of farms and some small estates dot the landscape, with a hub of town ripe with shops and basic amenities.
The People
As you might have surmised from its exceedingly cheery origin story and name, the people of Dirge Hill are renowned as a solemn bunch. While far from rude or standoffish, the people here are used to a simpler way of living, and don’t ask a lot of questions or offer much fanfare (or inquiry...) They keep to their business and let you tend to yours, which I personally appreciate.
I have been living here for six years, and I have yet to sense any hint of Cabal activity, but I would be lying if I said that recent events had not seemed to bring much strangeness and upheaval to the area. I swear, it all began with that bedamned factory...
Our Modern Empire
I came here to retire as an old man in a quiet place, and, no sooner than I can hang my hat, a Factory sprouts up, making a proper eyesore of my (once) scenic view! How is it possible that Man can erect such a towering monstrosity seemingly overnight? The locals are none too pleased about it, either. Another thing we have in common.
I don’t make it a habit to venture into town much, so I’ll have to leave the proper investigating to younger, more capable (and far less bleary) eyes, but I would venture to say that the marked increase in strange events taking shape in this sleepy little place began at around the same time that saw that gruesome industrial abomination erected. You could call me paranoid, or you could call me correct. I suppose time will tell.
In Closing
What, were you expecting me to do your entire blasted job for you? Send you the head of some big, bad ghouly all nice and gift wrapped in a bundle? I’ve spent years chasing down the miserable agents of Satan, and now I’ll be spending my scant remaining few trying to drink away the memories of such.
This is the last favor I’ll be granting. Respect my retirement and let an old man drink himself to death in peace.
-L
I swore to myself that I would cut all ties with your strange lot after my retirement, remember? A retirement, I might add, that I paid for with the lives of a few friends, as well as a few fingers--You’ve no idea how much my hands cramp writing this. I should probably invest in a typewriter...
Traipsing about in search of demons and devils is a young man’s game, anyway, and those nights are long behind me. As I am sure your records can attest, I came to Dirge Hill for some peace and quiet after the decimation of my Lodge (half of them rotting in the ground, the other half gibbering in asylum—I cannot say who fares worse.) I hung up my Crucifix, torch and Pitchfork to drip out what’s left of my life someplace far from foggy streets and mysterious business, yet, here we are, a new Lodge forming not even five miles from my humble little home, and my old friends come asking a broken old man for intel on the region, to aid them in their bloody games to come. Ah, to be young again!
I didn’t need to do this, you realize. Even as I hold pen in mangled hand, I debate actually finishing this little report, let alone sending it. Should you find this reply mailed, instead of crumpled and tossed into Lake Vaulding, I would chalk it up in equal parts to my loneliness and inebriation. Do forgive my penmanship.
There, with preamble and bitterness out of the way, I’ll tell you what I know:
History
A few hundred years ago or so, a strange plague broke out in these parts. Those afflicted would twitch and shutter about, their limbs twisting and violently jerking every kind of way, like some convulsing marionette plucked by invisible, angry strings. Rumors have it that some victims would break their own necks or chatter their teeth to dust. Even after death, legends say that these poor corpses would writhe and sway in their gruesome little death-dance. On one particularly horrific evening, it is said that a line of the deceased were all dancing in unison under the fullest of moons, some undoubtedly morbid song that only the dead could hear.
And thus, Dirge Hill was so aptly named.
They named this peculiar little condition “The Ferryman Fits,” and neither cause, nor cure could be found.
She Who Would be Saint
The most legendary resident of Dirge Hill is undoubtedly Saint Jasmine, who, according to legend, tended to the sick who were afflicted with this morbid little pestilence. Renowned for her mercy and pure heart, Jasmine was said to have always worn a simple cloak that was blessed by an Angelic admirer. It was said that anyone who she draped this cloak over would become immune to the ravages of the Ferryman Fits, and she is often depicted shielding innocent children under its protective embrace.
If legends are to be believed, Saint Jasmine valiantly comforted those afflicted by the Ferryman Fits until she could no longer take the suffering going on all around her. With tears streaming down her youthful face, the girl held up her cloak towards Heaven and shouted unto the Lord,
“O, God on high, I remove this blessed garment and drape it around this most beloved place and her people. I forsake protection from the ravages of death and offer myself up as the Ferryman’s last partner in this grim step of his!”
And then, in that instant, she fell dead, and none more after were afflicted.
It’s a sweet story, but a bit too dramatic, if you ask me. Jasmine was made a Saint, and, as you could imagine, is something of a protector and source of inspiration to the people of Dirge Hill. She is depicted often in its artwork, and famously, her statue is one of the more prominent landmarks in the area. “By Jasmine’s cloak!” is a regional expression that I’m sure you’ll become accustomed to hearing if you spend any time in the area. She is always depicted as a young girl with very curly hair and a simple cloak with a copper clasp.
Lay of the Land
There is a morose tranquility to Dirge Hill and its surrounding areas. The hustle-bustle of London is a faraway thing compared to the eerie tranquility that seems to be this place’s calling card, with long stretches of road linking the various hubs of activity along the way. Times are most certainly changing, and Dirge Hill was always something of a throwback to a quieter, more innocent age, before the massive industrialization of our Empire began belching its black smoke into the weeping sky with more and more regularity. Personally, I came here to enjoy this peace and quiet, but, as is the nature of things, chaos and calamity (and worse of all, change) follows every footstep I take.
The landscape of Dirge Hill is deep green and sparse of many tall trees. Most of the vegetation come in thick, explosive shrubbery that comes vicious with thorns (don’t ask me how I know.) Black and jagged rocks stab outward from the moist earth at seemingly random intervals, like sets of onyx bone spurs that have a polished sort of beauty in their own dreary way. A string of farms and some small estates dot the landscape, with a hub of town ripe with shops and basic amenities.
The People
As you might have surmised from its exceedingly cheery origin story and name, the people of Dirge Hill are renowned as a solemn bunch. While far from rude or standoffish, the people here are used to a simpler way of living, and don’t ask a lot of questions or offer much fanfare (or inquiry...) They keep to their business and let you tend to yours, which I personally appreciate.
I have been living here for six years, and I have yet to sense any hint of Cabal activity, but I would be lying if I said that recent events had not seemed to bring much strangeness and upheaval to the area. I swear, it all began with that bedamned factory...
Our Modern Empire
I came here to retire as an old man in a quiet place, and, no sooner than I can hang my hat, a Factory sprouts up, making a proper eyesore of my (once) scenic view! How is it possible that Man can erect such a towering monstrosity seemingly overnight? The locals are none too pleased about it, either. Another thing we have in common.
I don’t make it a habit to venture into town much, so I’ll have to leave the proper investigating to younger, more capable (and far less bleary) eyes, but I would venture to say that the marked increase in strange events taking shape in this sleepy little place began at around the same time that saw that gruesome industrial abomination erected. You could call me paranoid, or you could call me correct. I suppose time will tell.
In Closing
What, were you expecting me to do your entire blasted job for you? Send you the head of some big, bad ghouly all nice and gift wrapped in a bundle? I’ve spent years chasing down the miserable agents of Satan, and now I’ll be spending my scant remaining few trying to drink away the memories of such.
This is the last favor I’ll be granting. Respect my retirement and let an old man drink himself to death in peace.
-L
