Captain’s Log – Captain Everard Locke, Aboard The Revenant | Off the coast of the Isle of Wight, Southern end of England | Date: July 14, Anno Domini Eleven-82


    I’ve taken a man aboard today—a man barely worthy of the name. Near-mad… half-starved, wild of eye. We found him clinging to the wreck of a small skiff, lips cracked from thirst, mind lost to fever. I asked his name, but he gave none—only whispered nonsense.


    But we gathered…


    He sought the fortress perched on the cliffs—the one that people only speak of in hushed tones or after too much drink. It was not a haven for the lost, the doomed, or the dead, but rather, for what lay beneath. Treasure, of course. There is always treasure where there is trouble.


    The caves are the only way in, if you believe the old tales. A labyrinth carved by sea and time, leading not just to gold, but some say something older. Much older.


    He swore up and down he reached the gates. I’d have called him a liar, save for the madness that clings to him still.


    He speaks of what first appeared to be a makeshift gate, crude and unassuming—yet soon proved unyielding to blade, hammer, or brute strength. No force of man could breach its threshold, is his sworn claim.


    On his honor, he swears, to me, God, and Hodge the ship’s cat, he was not there to pillage, but rather there simply out of curiosity. He insists he was able to squeeze between the bars, and weighing next to nothing, I believe that to be the only truth he has spoken this day.


    And then, he started screaming, and did not stop, for not even exhaustion could silence him—this was no ordinary terror, not from anything we had done, but from what he saw within.


    In his screaming, he confesses every blunder; no sin is spared. Every mistake he has ever committed is revealed. If all are forthcoming, then he is indeed an unholy man, wicked to his very core.


    Legend states the hold is impenetrable, and by the looks of it, those who seek its treasure pay the price in blood and wretchedness.


    Still, he screams, voice at a fever’s pitch, and echoes through the rigging—words not his own, but what he saw carved into the stone at the gate, a warning.


    “Beyond these stones, a hallowed shrine, To all unworthy, cross not this line.


    Your deeds shall carve your soul a tomb, and rise within to seal your doom!”


    Chiseled under the warning were two words, a title… The Keeper.


    Whatever its purpose, whatever the warning—one thing is certain. Those who step within its shadow are never the same when they return… if they return at all.


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    Date: July 14, Anno Domini Eleven-82 - Time: Nightfall


    I shall be glad to rid myself of this wretched creature, for I cannot call him a man—not anymore. His rantings play upon the superstitions of the crew and are wearing on my nerves, by his own tongue, he is rotten to the core, and I must see him to justice.


    If not for that, I would have had him thrown overboard. But alas, as night falls, his screaming and ravings have quieted.


    Date: July 15, Anno Domini Eleven-82 | Time: Just before dawn


    The men inform me that the madman is dead. Not by his own hand, as I first assumed. What they told me should not be possible.


    Burned alive…the men say…


    We took on tallow ten days past, for our stores of lamp oil and torches were low. If he had set himself alight, the whole of the ship would have gone up in flame. Cinder and ash at the bottom of the sea.


    And so, I went below to see for myself. What I saw haunts me still.


    I sit now at my desk, filling this log entry, scarcely comprehending what I witnessed.


    The fire did not consume him from without, but from within. He burned from the inside out, as if something had ignited his very soul.


    A charred ash outline of the man lay upon the floor. A half-burned foot, part of his skull, and several teeth—that was all that remained… and there was something else.


    …in the center of it all…


    A large brilliant red, "gem," for lack of a better description, burning with a fire, held deep within, stood right where the man''s heart would have been, yet there was no possible way he had any object on his person, for we searched him fully,  and he was barely clothed when brought onboard.


    The red gem is as large as my fist and burned my hand as I held it. Its weight is much greater than its size and seems to hold every broken oath and sin I have committed.


    I have ordered the men to hasten to port. I believe the man has brought a sickness aboard. The crew is uneasy—frightened men become unruly men, sooner than not.


    Date: July 15, Anno Domini Eleven-82 - Time: Two hours past midday


    I am informed…


    A man the crew calls “Little Pea” has sought an audience with me. His true name is said to be unpronounceable, and so they mock him with this foolish title. He is Moorish, from the port of Ceuta.


    Date: July 15, Anno Domini Eleven-82 | Time: Four and three quarters past the hour of midday


    I have learned that Little P''s name is Yusuf al-Qurtubi, he has just left. He is a huge man, dark of skin. I suspect Sub-Saharan blood runs in his veins.


    He speaks softly, cautiously, as if his very words might bring doom upon the ship. His speech is crude, difficult to follow, but I gathered this much: the madman was not ill.


    He was taken by something else. He called it Al-Nar al-Mahbūs.


    I am told it means “Trapped Fire”


    Yusuf went on, "Once Fire settles in the heart, it does not rest. No — Fire seeks. It creeps, finds weaknesses, and stirs the quiet sins a soul has long buried.


    Should the heart prove worthy, the search ends — and Fire’s Ember may at last come to rest. Yet I have known no soul worthy enough to bear such weight." He explains.


    Fire’s Ember belongs to the Keepers. They alone remember the ancient ways of holding fast when the heart falters. Even now, Fire wanders in search, for Ember has not burned — not truly burned — for many an ages." and with that he excused himself and left my quarters.


    I have retrieved the gem, for the men refuse to set foot in the hold whilst it remained there.


    How strange, that I find the men weak of character, due to this, when mine own eyes cannot turn from it. I feel an irresistible pull to the flame within. It flickers with an unnatural light, casting ominous shadows that sway and twist, and haunt my quarters.


    The flame’s vibrant red swirls are like a mesmerizing vortex, beckoning me closer. The air around it crackles with intensity, and I can almost hear a whispers hidden within its fiery embrace. Are you worthy?


    Is the question.


    Its very presence seems to weigh heavy upon me, I have pondered the question.


    And my heart tells me, I am not and the heart does not lie.