Desc_A1: Batter my soul, Prince of the Shade.  Fell the walls constructing my faith.  The figures behind the curtain wait for their time.  And through your presence I may see.  --Embossed in large, silver strokes on the front of the Infernal Engine above its gangplank

Desc_A2: Its mouth opened, and I could see dark liquid from an unluckier beast against the luster shining from the hollow of this golem's head.  It didn’t speak, nor did it make a sound save the bellow of the little men held by its fingers and the groan that came each time its elbow, wrist, or neck turned with deliberation.  I had struck it once across the knuckles, but that left my hand pulsing with the sound of my blade’s song against a harder material.  We needed something larger and more powerful than our legion could muster alone.  --From the diary of Yfelber

Desc_A3: Between Hell and Tartarus exists a space of black energy called the Ark of Damnation.  It is a ladder used by condemned Tartarean spirits to climb out.  It is also a portal through which unfortunate demons of Hell can be placed, stripping those demons of their bodies and converting them to ethereal beings.  On the Ark exist four symbols of tragedy: a human skull for man’s descent from Earth to Hell, a goat skull for demon’s descent from Hell to Tartarus, a bull skull for the authority over Tartarean spirits, and a bird skull for the desire to ascend.  --The Diabolic Encyclopedia

Desc_A4: At first my eyes were drawn to the old tattoo Bezel bore on his back.  It was that of a sun, and I knew it well because we had spent much time together in the flagellation rooms before our admittance into Lucifer’s clergy.  He was a stubborn sort of thing.  Silent.  Pensive.  Pioneering in his writings and beliefs.  And I should have been shocked to see his flesh spread and quilted against the harsh wind of the valley, yet the thought of his body used against my enemy seemed to placate me.  At least in the moment.  --The opening paragraph of Suffragan Pazul’s memoirs

Desc_A5: Woe betide enemies of the timpani.  Its methodical beat.  Its hollow and rubbery sound.  Woe betide them, for languish are the arms bore against these drums; irresolute are the minds controlled by these arms.  And woe betide the ear to these brassy bowels and fleshy heads.  --A private note in Blackhorne’s unfinished writings, collected posthumously

Desc_A6: I fear this is a poor sign of the times.  We have lost many to Berith’s restructuring.  Priests Urulas and Devlion are missing, and someone has removed the writings from their chambers.  Peers Berith and Balphegor held public executions of the priests’ subordinates.  Their husks dry on poles as I write.  I presume this investigation will continue.  I have decided to distribute my completed works among various safe places.  --From the diary of Bishop Bezel

Desc_A7: Bishop Fynovius claims that the Great Horn of Doom creates the winds passing through Hell.  “When its call stops,” he writes, “the player passes air through the horn’s body and out its bell, causing the ground below to kick, swirl, and move about.”  He writes as to why we have currents of air in an environment without natural means of weather, but I find this explanation unlikely.  It seems to enflame the mysticism clouding most of our religious icons rather than providing a cogent explanation worthy of the bishop’s penmanship.  --From a private note of Bishop Bezel

Desc_A8: The field is wet and ready.  A tall figure with broken wings walks over the bodies.  He turns his torso in a quiet rhythm and he leaves a swath of flesh and crooked limbs to his side.  Some of the bodies shrink to the ground when they see the cut of the blade, yet they move little since they have grown to where the line of their breast rests just above the soil.  Later, the air will dry and take on the arid feel of a desert, and the figure will return, collecting these pieces into the bed of a wain.  --The Cephalic Prophecies

Desc_A9: Now that is an engine I fear.  It is rooted in physical prowess, not mysticism.  It yields a bolt the length of thirty-six hands.  And it is the feller of most anything.  Sic semper tyrannis.  --From the private notes of Bishop Bezel

Desc_A10: I could smell fetid grapes before I saw the cart.  Its wheels slowly churned the ground behind the legion of demons opposite our ranks.  We were outnumbered, yes, but not out-powered, save the elixir that bubbled in the four ornamental vats towed in the wooden box.  A soot crow came down and settled on my shoulder, gawking in my ear and turning its head as if to ask what I would do.  “The vats,” I said.  And without question my men straightened their headpieces and walked forward.  --From the diary of Yfelber

Desc_A11: Don’t batter me, for I will uproot and walk to safer ground.  Don’t startle me: the legs of a giant weigh heavy and move indiscriminately.  What lies safe for millennia may sour at the whim of politics, making the wool of a yak stronger than masonry.  --Written on a decorative shield found in a snickelway of the Walking Fortress

Desc_A12: The top right quartosphere contains three bumps of uniform size and consistency.  The top left is smooth and free of defects. The bottom right contains one bump close to its vertical dividing line.  And the bottom left is heavy with rich blood.  A regal cape will go missing from its place on a throne.  Fingers will point you as culprit.  You will make enemies with three-horned figures.  Be wary of the one who speaks the softest.  His aura belies his destruction.  --Reading of a sheep’s liver for Bishop Bezel by Haruspex Pilanza via the Rod

Desc_A13: Mounts are not adult wyrmms.  They are juvenile creatures whose body masses typically double during metamorphosis.  Mounts rarely resemble the image of their adult form, they remain in larva state for nearly a century, and they peak in physical size and intellect four or five years prior to maturation.  Since metamorphosed wyrmms have a short life cycle--typically one month for feeding and reproduction--juvenile wyrmms are preferred for their transportive and, occasionally, combative functions.  Larvae spend most of their time underground, feeding off minerals of the land, and so their presence above ground is uncommon.  --The Diabolic Encyclopedia

Desc_A14: The Lance of the Leper King dates from the first century after the fall of man.  The Leper King, Jaharnam, was a Peer of the Underworld who saw to the construction of several monuments around the northern Styx basin, where the Utterdamme mountain range comes closest to the river.  Jaharnam obsessed over preserving his identity and spent most of his time overseeing the construction of these works in spite of his waning health.  He is survived by a monument of himself atop a dilapidated steed.  A second one of him atop a war mammoth was never finished and was subsequently razed.  --The Diabolic Encyclopedia

Desc_A15: The Malevolent Totem is a spiritual symbol for an ancient legion of demons whose influence peaked during the first 350 years after Adam’s fall.  They named themselves the Fathers and they constructed the totem from bodies left by an existential disease that tormented Hell during its formative years.  The totem is living flesh, it is sentient, and it speaks prophecies.  The totem never reveals the names of its members because it sees itself as a singular entity.  --The Diabolic Encyclopedia

Desc_A16: What better way to ensure power than to enforce a peaceable nature over potential peers of that power.  I have discovered the existence of three spheres, one of which projects an aura of sublimity over nearby subjects.  I lack the present capacity to translate the others' functions, but undoubtedly they must be of similar power and origin.  --From the diary of Bishop Bezel

Desc_A17: A subject’s submission may be encouraged through the infliction of violence upon their flesh.  Instruments such as the Rod of Pain are discouraged due to the unwieldiness of their application.  While it shows great effects in the realm of combat, the Rod’s proposed use in Science is preposterous.  We are in the business of submitting and modifying the body, not crippling its function.  --An excerpt from the defaced introduction of “On Re-ordering the Image”

Desc_A18: “Let him sit.”  “No, let him sleep.”  “Yes, let him sleep and then let him wake and then eat.”  “I prefer the eating first, then he may sleep or sit.  I care not for one over the other.”  “Well I care not for his presence.”  “I second that.  Let him rot somewhere else.”  “You are fools.”  “I fool?”  “Yes.”  “And who are you?”  “I am Mulliver.  And I am the right arm’s palm.”  “Look everyone, it’s Mulliver.  He’s the palm.”  “Fie on you all.”  --Transcript of a thousand voices from the Throne of Skulls

Desc_A19: Cudgel their limbs and then lace them to the wheel’s edge.  When their feeling has left, put the cudgel to their midsections, but don’t take their lungs.  Push the wheel forward and let it catch our foe in its turn.  May the howl of these wicked fools sap our enemy’s desire for fight.  --Transcription of an order given by Warlord Fliius who commanded Accursed Company during the battle of Phlegethon Crossing

Desc_A20: It’s a humble looking thing.  Alive?  I do not know.  Sentient?  Surely not.  Yet the meat of harvested bodies self-animate once put to the wain’s bed.  I’m unsure from where its magic comes, but surely it is ancient.  Its wood has lost its coarseness and its wheels crow like the knees of a twisted human.  Let us take it and put our slain into its basin.  Perhaps we can make use of their pieces.  --A private note from Warlord Buun’s small and unorganized collection of observations

Desc_A21: My efforts to ascertain an origin for the severed limb have so far been in vain. Its first mention comes in a short narrative from the Books of the Meketrix Supplication where it was used as a battle standard during the siege of the Meketrix Citadel.  It was around this time that note was finally taken that the member might not really be fully separated from its owner.  The possibility of a phantom body was quietly dismissed.  --Taken from notes scribbled in the margins of The Diabolic Encyclopedia

Desc_A22: I must sadly acknowledge my failure in the recovery of the Biting Lash from the rubble of the Meketrix Citadel.  The breaching of the inner keep precipitated a sorcerous explosion of such infernal energy that it was surely destroyed. I believe my interest in the artifact has aroused some unwanted suspicions. I do not look forward to reporting this news to The Silent Council when it next convenes. --From the diary of Szzigaxx the Mechanist

Desc_A23: Behold the absurdity of its very motion across the infernal plains. You ask how such a feat is possible.  How the infernal embrace can be defied with such apparent ease?  It is no illusion. The demonic glee in the eyes of those riding in comfort and ease is quite real. But none suspect that such a contrivance merely facilitates their Master's choice to spend them cheaply should the Master so desire. --Luskupull's Observations on the History of the Infernal Legion vol. XX

Desc_A24: It has been observed that you need not always damage your enemy to destroy him and gain your victory.  Sometimes it suffices simply to deny him the comfort of his expectations. The temporary removal of an asset can be just as effective as its physical negation --Ruminations of Generel Xododecinacius during the first cycle of the Meketrix Supplication

Desc_A25: Lost during the Final Cycle of the Meketrix Supplication, the rod and headpiece were separated for several millennia. When they were accidentally reunited during the False Feast of the Supplicant Reborn, the power of the Sigil was reignited and the infernal bloom was uncontrollable.  The Feast turned into a roast consuming the would-be supplicants and the staff burned for an age until finally chained by the Illuminatus in a binding ritual.  It has not been seen since then. --The Diabolic Encyclopedia

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