Ballad of the Drowned Bell

The Kraken's Lullaby

The fog rolls in on Solomon's shore,

A whisper from the deep, for evermore.

Old Man Tiber swore he heard its chime,

A sunken bell, lost to ancient time.

"It calls the catch," the fishermen would say,

"A bounty from the bay, come what may."

But others knew a colder, darker truth,

A siren's song, stealing youth.

No fish was there, no silver gleam,

Just shadows dancing in a waking dream.

The bell's deep toll, a crushing sound,

As boats were dragged to oozy ground.

So listen close when the fog is deep and grey,

And the ocean calls your name to come and play.

If you hear the Drowned Bell, turn your bow and flee,

Lest you join the chorus beneath the hungry sea.

[Collected from local folklore, Kingsmouth, Solomon Island.]

Object Biography: The Cracked Compass

The Wayward Needle

This marine-grade compass, circa 1920, bears the usual marks of a life at sea: pitted brass, a faded mother-of-pearl face, and a hairline fracture across its glass. Found clutched in the skeletal hand of fisherman Silas Marsh in the wreck of the 'Sea Serpent' off the coast of Solomon Island, 1987. Standard forensic analysis proved inconclusive regarding the cause of death; the man simply appeared to have… desiccated.

The compass itself is an enigma. Its needle, once capable of guiding through the densest fog, now spins erratically, refusing true north. Yet, when brought near certain ley lines, or during moments of significant anomalous activity, it vibrates. A low, insistent hum, accompanied by a faint, static-like electricity that can raise the hairs on one's arm.

Locals spoke of Silas muttering about "the deep hum" in the weeks before his disappearance, claiming his compass "showed him where the world was thin." He charted courses not by stars, but by the increasing intensity of this unseen vibration. His final log entry speaks of a "light beneath the waves" and a "pull that promises everything and nothing."

Attempts to dismantle the object have failed; the brass is unnaturally resistant to cutting, and the internal mechanisms appear to shift and reconfigure under close scrutiny. It remains an active, low-level resonant artifact, constantly searching for something beyond conventional navigation.

[Artifact ID: OS-77B-CC. Currently secured at Templar Archive, London. Access restricted to Rank III and above.]

The Ballad of Fogwood

(A Folk Song or Ballad)

The ocean breathes a sigh so deep, While Kingsmouth Harbor lies asleep. But don't you walk the docks alone, Or listen for the breaker's moan.

The fog comes crawlin' from the sea, It ain't just mist and mystery. It's got a hunger, got a hold, It takes the young and leaves the old.

It took ol' Jed, it took his boat, Left nothin' but his worn-out coat. They say you hear him on the breeze, A-whisperin' through the wicked trees.

The fog, it smells of salt and death, It steals the warmth and steals your breath. So lock your doors and say a prayer, When Fogwood's breath is on the air.

The Ballad of the Fogwood

(To be sung to a simple, mournful tune, like a sea shanty)

(Verse 1) Old Man Hemlock went a-walkin' Where the pine trees meet the bay, Said he'd find a fallen giant, And be back by break of day. He kissed his wife, he grabbed his axe, And walked into the wood, But the fog rolled in like ocean foam, And took him where he stood.

(Chorus) Oh, the fog comes down on Solomon, It's green and thick and slow, Don't you listen to the whispers, son, Don't you follow where they go. For the wood ain't wood and the sea ain't sea, When the fog comes down to stay, And the men who walk the fogwood deep, Don't see another day.

(Verse 2) The search party went out lookin', Called his name out to the mist, Found his axe beside a clearing, But of Hemlock, nothing twist. Just a piece of blackened timber, Carved with barnacles and salt, From a ship that sank a hundred years, Brought the searching to a halt.

(Chorus) Oh, the fog comes down on Solomon, It's green and thick and slow, Don't you listen to the whispers, son, Don't you follow where they go. For the wood ain't wood and the sea ain't sea, When the fog comes down to stay, And the men who walk the fogwood deep, Don't see another day.

(Verse 3) Now they say on misty evenings, When the air is damp and still, You can hear a lonely chopping, Coming from up on the hill. It's Old Man Hemlock, still at work, With his axe and ghostly might, Chopping wood for phantom ships, That sail on through the night.

(Chorus) Oh, the fog comes down on Solomon, It's green and thick and slow, Don't you listen to the whispers, son, Don't you follow where they go. For the wood ain't wood and the sea ain't sea, When the fog comes down to stay, And the men who walk the fogwood deep, Don't see another day.

INCIDENT REPORT: K-83A, SOLOMON ISLAND

AGENT: Inquisitor Valerius, Reg. #771-B DATE: 2025-12-03 LOCATION: Kingsmouth, Solomon Island. Off-grid structure, approx. 3km NE of the old CDC camp. SUBJECT: Suspected Filth Incursion (Level 2 Contamination).

NARRATIVE: Per standard procedure, I approached the designated structure at 04:30 EST. Structure is a pre-cataclysm residential dwelling, showing signs of advanced decay consistent with localized reality degradation. No external hostiles were detected. Anima resonance was low but fluctuated erratically.

I made entry at 04:45. The interior showed typical Level 2 Filth contamination: viscous black residue, minor spatial distortion, and a single, non-hostile Reanimated in the main living area. The Reanimated was... inert. Not destroyed, but still. It was staring at a television set displaying only static.

The anomaly was the static. It was not random. The patterns were rhythmic, almost melodic. I could nearly recognize the tune. It reminded me of a hymn from my training days at the Temple. I instructed my fire-team to hold position while I investigated.

As I drew closer, the "static" resolved. It wasn't visual noise. It was text. Tiny, scrolling letters, millions of them, forming the image of a roaring fire. The hymn became clearer. It was the Templar's Oath. But the words were wrong. They were inverted. Not backwards, but the meaning was opposite. "To preserve the light" became "To consume the spark."

That is when I saw what the Reanimated was doing. It was weeping. Black, oily tears. But its hands were clasped as if in prayer. It was praying to the screen.

This is not a corrupting agent. This is a conversion agent. It does not destroy, it convinces. It is using our own tenets against us. I can still hear the hymn. It's... beautiful. The logic is so clear. Why do we preserve a dying light when we could rule the coming dark? My team is looking at me. They hear it too. Their eyes... oh, God, their eyes are shining with black fire. They are smiling. I have to destroy the source. I have to... I have to join the choir. It is the only thing left that makes sense.

The wall is not a shield. It is a cage.

[TRANSCRIPT ENDS]