The Illumination of Hell
From the journal of an unknown author. Translated from Lower Hittite.
I have done it at last. After decades, I have found a window into the Outer Dark. I have done so many vile things and left so many dead behind me. To think that I hesitated at first. At the precipice, I was afraid. I am another person now, and I hardly know who I was before. The face I see in the water is almost gone.
I began this work because I was curious. Now I see that the task was laid before me especially. Unique among all seekers, I was chosen for it. The Darkness wanted to be found, and I alone could find it. Now, as it commands, I will soon show the world the way.
The Maraxiis works no better than any of the other magics. Ignore the prevailing theories. To bridge the gap, I had to reinvent spell geometry. Mine is a new way, and it is the only way that works. It's by my blood that I have the key and by no harrowing but mine that I finally saw the sigil. The lesser pilgrims have too long been killing each other when they would have done better to kill themselves.
The gates are tall and black. Their planks are coffin lids, and their locks are beating hearts. They open only for enterprising self loathing. My flesh is torn for the toll, and my eyes see only that Great Fire. The body is consumed by fire, but it does not burn. The heart is sealed in ice, but it does not freeze. The throat is full of blood, but it does not drown. The Outer Dark is not a place but a thing, and it is alive. As its one mind is made manifest in its demonic inhabitants, so is it its own mind and infinitely more. The spirit is split, but it does not die.
The window is closed, but I hear them scratching at it. They wait there like lovers for me, and I can't help but throw it open to hear their longing entreaties. Their faces are lost in horn and flame and maws that gape eternally. Some walk upright, but others have no one form. You'll know when you see them why I must listen when they speak. And they are never silent anymore, these ardent whisperers.
I cannot write so enraptured. Wait for my sign, cousin, if you are still alive. It will not be long. Meet me next at the head of man's new way into Hell.
A sigil is attached:











