From the Journals of William Harwood #1

Autumn Thirdmoon, the Twelfth
Year of Returning Light 644
Unjat, the Shrouded Lands

The governor relented from his first offer, as we’d expected.  No one is better than the imperials at putting on a show of strength, but even they can’t hide the truth of their precarious hold on this place.  The Ekmi may have yielded the crumbling stones of their palace, but they have given little from what they own in the forest—the greater share of their wealth and power, I am sure.

Food doesn’t keep well in the hot porridge that passes for air here, and the Imperium hasn’t had an easy time resupplying from the locals either.  Our stores of grain may as well be bricks of solid gold.  The governor has agreed not only to trade in a hefty portion of spices, but also from his treasure hoard.  Jewels, gems, and, more compellingly, historical artifacts.

Foremost, I hope to acquire relics from Unjat’s progenitor culture, which is responsible for building all of the largest stone structures in the city.  The Ekmi refer to these people as “The Wise Ones,” and the oral histories have them departing from this place during Darkfall.  Some have postulated that they may have been the fabled Anchuti from whom the giant folk of the islands claim to descend.  Certainly the architecture would support this, as it suits people of far greater stature than the Ekmi.

There’s a professor here from the Royal Imperial Academy at Micce.  I think his name was Endrizzi.  He tells me that he’s sure the progenitors we know about weren’t even the first to settle here, and there are yet older finds to uncover—perhaps predating even the Great Church of Ioneces that for so many centuries venerated our late gods and goddesses.  I wished him luck in his studies, but one can scarcely fathom how something so very ancient could persist into modern day.  Though there was something he mentioned that gave me pause.

The professor said he was digging in the ruins of Unjat’s sister city, Agyda, across the river.  And there was some kind of vault he was hoping to break into that would prove his theories.  The Ekmi insist that these ruins are cursed, and few of them will venture there.  But other natives are sometimes sighted in the area, at times performing digs of their own, as if searching for something of import.  The Ekmi refer to them as Tumaka, variably translated as “The Lost Tribe” or “Mother’s Forsaken.”  I have seen the corpses of some that a legion patrol brought back.  They were as much beast as they were men, but not all of the same kin.  One had the likeness of a jackal, one of a boar, and a third of a kind I have neither read of nor imagined.  The legion’s chaplain declared that these creatures had the mark of demons upon them.

One wonders what such things would seek in Agyda, risking their foul hides to sift through the overgrown refuse.  The Ekmi have fought them off in the past, and yet they return time and again, persistent as weeds.  One further wonders, with some relation, what Endrizzi might find in this vault of his.  I think I’d prefer to raise sails and be away from this place before he finds out.

We’ll conclude our business with the governor and be underway soon.  And perhaps then I will at last find a decent night’s rest.  A rest without the whispers of this place calling out amidst the symphonies its insect life.  More than once I have found myself turning, as if responding to the call of my name, and finding naught for it.  I can never quite be sure if the sound is real or imagined, only that it pesters me with no relief, like an itching just beneath the skull.

I don’t feel homesick often, but tonight will be the exception.