Field Notes - Eeire Barrows

The Eerie Barrows - Field Notes of Historian Lucen Varra Entries dated 17th of Moirail, 1321 C.E.   Hour I   I entered the Barrows at midday, though already the light above was thin and cold. The outer halls are just as the reports claim: carved stone, damp, oppressive silence. The architecture resembles proto-Imperial burial sites, yet the proportions feel off, ceilings too low, doorways too narrow, as though not built for human use.   The air smells of stone dust and something faintly metallic. I cannot tell if it’s blood or rust.   I lit my lamp, no wind here, yet the flame bends, ever so slightly, toward the corridor ahead. Almost… beckoning.   I heard dripping water. Then I realized there is no water.     Hour II   Further in. Walls covered in carvings, some still sharp despite age. The earliest chambers depict human figures, robed and bowed toward an unseen figure. Further along, the carvings twist, the humans become less human, arms elongated, heads bowed too low, faces turned toward the floor as if in shame.   I found a depiction of what might be their god: a figure without eyes, mouth open in a silent scream, arms stretched wide as if embracing the dead.   The walls are cold, but when I brushed away dust, the stone beneath was warm.   By Ius, I feel like I’m being watched.     Hour III   The silence here feels thicker than air. Every breath sounds wrong. I tried to hum to break it, my own voice echoed back in another tone entirely.   I found bones. Not laid to rest, but scattered. Some gnawed. Others crushed as if by enormous weight. These are not Imperial dead. Too old. Too twisted.   There’s a whisper when I turn corners. I thought it was wind, but there is no wind here.     Hour IV   The following text is partially smeared and difficult to read.   They move between the stone. They are not carved, they are waiting. They look through the cracks where light does not reach. The stone hums when I breathe.   Something is beneath me, and it remembers.     Hour V   I don’t… remember writing the previous entry. The ink is still wet, but the words are not mine. The handwriting… it’s shaking, frantic.   I feel dizzy. My sense of direction is gone. I turned back, or thought I did, but the corridor had changed, narrower, the walls closer. I scraped my shoulder on a corner that wasn’t there before.   The carvings now show figures kneeling. Every one of them facing the same direction, toward the hall I just came from.   There’s a sound. A low hum, like breath behind the wall.     Hour VI   The lamp dimmed for a moment. When it flared again, the floor was wet. Not water, it smells like copper.   I hear them walking in the walls now. The scraping has rhythm. It’s almost like speech.   I tried praying, “Emperor give me strength.” The echo came back as, “Give… me…”   The light flickers when I speak the name of Ius. I dare not try again.   I think I can see movement at the far end of the corridor. Not shapes. Suggestions of shapes.   The walls feel softer than stone.     Hour VII   The flame is low now. The shadows lean close. I cannot hear my heartbeat anymore, only that low hum through the rock.   There is a figure at the end of the passage. Not light. Not shadow. Just presence.   It whispers, over and over, a word I cannot write. The sound crawls beneath my skin.   By Ius, I think it’s been calling my name for a long time. Maybe before I came. Maybe before I was born.   Oh Ius.   It is here.