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Neolithic

CONTAINMENT PROJECT EVALUATION

DATA LOG 3

Name: Qar’Ek Da’qu

Administrative Ambit: Chief of historic evaluation of Containment Project facilities on SOL-00I

Date: 5th day of the fourth month, year 372 after the founding of the republic

Authorisation: GIVEN

What follows are the last entries by P. S. Tertio and Carlisle McAvin. Of particular interest is that the former now writes about his experiences on self-made scrolls, instead of the former which seem to have been made by skilled craftsmen. Furthermore, it should be noted that all subsequent scrolls, as well as the diary the following entries are taken from, were found in a cave within D. S. ‑8000.

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ENTRY 4

11th May, 1960

This is merely the fourth entry and the second book I’m writing in and already I have to confess to telling a dirty little lie. Near the end of entry three, I said that there was merely a chapel and a festivity cabin on the hill near our city. That was a lie. Well, not quite a lie per se – there HAD been a stone circle and a Neolithic grave there in ancient times. But both were razed when this place was Christianised, which happened around 980 AD. Old records do indeed mention the circle and the grave and they are the reason for our town’s name: Muntun Upon Stynn – Mountain of the Stones.

Now you’ll be asking yourself how a grave can exist here and in Publius’ world in the same place?! Patience, my dear readers, patience.

We therefore went back to the exit on the road and then back to my repair shop and the general store. But now a difficult task awaited me: having to explain my new friend to my father. And I did it thusly: I explained to him that Publius was a mute and had gotten a role in a roman-themed movie and that he had simply forgotten to take off his costume. Of course, this was all in accordance with Publius who found the idea itself quite amusing. Even though in hindsight I doubt that he even understood the concept of a film.

The problematic thing was that we had to play this charade to the bitter end – which pragmatically meant that only I was allowed to talk while Publius had to write down everything he actually wanted to SAY to me. And playing the record, he asked for loudly didn’t help much. And yes, you can imagine what a face he made when I presented my gramophone. What “Creole Love Call” is, you ask? Simple, a song by Jazz Artist, Duke Ellington. Suffice to say, being an old Highlander, my father was rather sceptical regarding this “Colonials’” and “Negro” music. If he had is way, he’d spend every waking hour with his beloved bagpipes. If the customers would find it amusing? I doubt it.

Publius on the other hand seemed to like the music – which may have also been due to the glass of whiskey. We then went on to “discuss” our further actions. He still wanted to get to the bottom of the similar locking markings, whereas I on the other hand deemed it more subtle to first go to the hill and see if there also was another entrance. Long story short, we agreed on the following compromise: we would go up the hill and take a look. If we were to find nothing similar, we’d immediately do, as he had proposed. He subsequently served each of us another glass and we chinked to our idea.

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ENTRY 5

11th May, 1960

We took my car down the road till we reached the bend leading to the hill and then drove down the gravel road that led up to it. Publius was in good spirit all the way to the hill – apparently, he anticipated for us to nit-find anything. How wrong he was! But… one after the other.

We got out of the car and made our strenuous way up the hill. I hadn’t been up there in quite a while and only now again realised what a torture it was to drag my bag with provisions along. Regarding this, Publius kept calling me “servus”, meaning slave, whenever I fell too far behind. “Consiste, servus meus!“ he called, probably in jest again, but then I saw why. Confused and astounded he stood in front of the small chapel one inevitably passes when wanting to go to the festivity cabin.

“Is that a shrine to Bacchus?” he asked in awe.

“Shrine to Bacchus?” I replied in confusion, upon which he pointed at the cross adorning the rooftop.

“I thought you knew everything about our world!” he called somewhat patronising: “So surely you know the story of the god who died and was resurrected to take revenge on his enemies? The young man who represents everything uninhibited, who defies all constraints and conventions of society and in whose honour the priests eat bred and drink wine?”

“Um… yes… of course,” I hesitatingly gave back: “I’m just a bit woozy from all the hiking. Maybe we can use some spiritual nourishment.”

The door to the chapel is always open, which was why I laid down my bag and walked up to the door together with Publius. But just as I wanted to open the door, Publius held me back: “Wait, what are you doing?!” I looked at him, frightened and bewildered. “We’re entering a god’s house – cover your head!” Upon that, Publius covered his head with his blanket and I ran back to my bag and put on a cap I had brought with me. Admittedly, I was a bit amused about this. Anyone who has ever been in a church or cathedral knows that you take off your hat or whatever you’re wearing on your head when you enter.

The chapel itself was quite humble. Two bench rows on each side, in front of me the small altar with the crucified. Of course, it wasn’t Bacchus being crucified, but Jesus. But I remembered reading the legend of Dionysus and noticing its parallels to the gospels rather quickly. I had asked our pastor about this once, but he only said I’d invite Satan into my heart if I thought about such things. Of course, I would…

We stood in front of the altar where I looked at Publius and asked him if he had a suitable prayer for this deity. “Well, strictly speaking, only the priests are allowed to speak to Bacchus.”

“But,” I replied with a cheeky grin.

“But we’re not conducting a proper ceremony here,” he added before he stretched out his hands in a holding gesture and spoke: “Holy Bacchus. You who traversed from town to town to spread your word. Give us strength for the task ahead of us. And as you have driven your enemies to insanity, smite all those who choose to stand in our path.” Then he took his gladius, cut his right hand to seal his pact with the deity, and let the blood drop in the white altar cloth.

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ENTRY 6

11th May, 1960

The rest of the way to the festivity cabin was comparatively easy. The cabin is made of wood with two windows on each side. Other than the chapel though, this cabin is always locked and you have to get the key directly from the mayor. Luckily, the windows had recently been washed, making it possible to peek inside. The cabin has two benches in two corners. In the opposite corners there is a table and in the other an ice box, even though I assumed the ice compartment to be empty. The centrepiece is the large table where the cake and cutlery is put during festivals.

“Well,” I admitted in defeat: “Guess, you were wrong. Time to check out the two similar tunnels, then.”

I wanted to go back, but Publius stopped me: “Wait! Why is there a cloth under the table?!”

“Cloth?” I asked perplexed and took another peek inside the cabin.

“It’s all made out of wood. The table, the chairs… the floor! Why would someone care, if the floor gets scratched up?!” We then looked at each other for a few seconds before he pulled out his gladius and smashed one of the windows. “We can say we found it that way. Some kids or teenagers broke in, hoping to find some loot,” was what he offered as excuse we could give. I simply laughed at how smart he was, before we entered the cabin.

Inside it was noticeably colder than outside. Using little force we pulled the table, the chairs and the cloth, which in reality was a thin carpet, aside, only to stare at a wooden, lockless hatch. We grinned at each other before Publius bent down and opened the hatch, revealing another ladder which lead down into the darkness.

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SCROLL 31

8th Calends of January

762 a. u. c.

With Carlisle below me, I opened the hatch above me. But once I saw where we had landed, I closed it again and looked at Carlisle: “We’re wrong here! This is the tomb I climbed to get to you.”

He then looked at the markings next to the ladder, then back at me: “That’s impossible. You said you came through the ladder marked D. R. -44 HLL. This says D. S. -8000 HLL.” I thought about it for a short moment, before giving in, opening the hatch and entering the tomb.

Now I know nothing anymore. Either Mercury is having some fun on our expense, or something truly mysterious is going on here. For yes, it was the exact same tomb through which I had entered Carlisle’s world – right down to the pot I had dropped. You know – the one that didn’t break. Yet… it was back where it belonged. Now, it’s technically possible that someone had entered the tomb after me and put it back in its place. But this assumption was soon shattered when Carlisle called me out of the tomb.

It was autumn. We saw brown and yellow leaves on the trees all around us and to our feet. Had Persephone had too much wine? So it seemed at least. He asked me about the stones that were supposed to stand here and I referred him to the small stones that were present here too and that also lead to the ancient stone circle. Carlisle stood before the stone ensemble, completely transfixed as far as I was concerned, I took a closer look at the engravings on the stones and the central altar and I noticed them to not be weathered – just as in Mons Petrae.

“Carlisle, look at this!”

“Impressive, am I right? I suppose this is from the Neolithic period. Maybe made by the picts or someone similar,” he replied when walking over to me.

“Look: everything’s relatively new… or at least not weathered.”

“Well, I’m assuming all this was built recently,” he postulated, but I shook my head:

“No. That’s not what I mean. I want to say that the engravings on the stones aren’t weathered on OUR hill either.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that if we assume that we’re travelling through time, one should assume the engravings in Mons Petrae to be weathered as well.” Judging by his nodding he knew what I was implying and he asked me if I knew what was going on here. He wanted to answer me when we heard the sounds of instruments in the distance.

We hid behind a fallen tree trunk as fast as we could and listened intensely as the sounds drew closer and closer. In between the noise we could hear voices, wailing and crying. It was a language unknown to either me or Carlisle. He even remarked that it didn’t even sound like Gaelic, which apparently was another language in his world.

We saw the people a while later from whose lips the voices had come. It was a mourning party. They were led by a, admittedly, quite pretty priestess. Her face, as well as her arms and legs and breasts had been painted in the same, bright blue colour as found on the engravings. The party itself consisted of a very odd bunch. Some wore… well, real clothes; pants, primitive tunics, coats. Their hair was neatly done and decorated with pearls and other ornaments. Yet among them were ones clothed in primitive furs. Their hair was wild and unkempt and they wore ornaments made of painted bones and small stones.

We watched as the body of one of the members was carried on a bier to the altar by two people. It was joined by a man and a woman, both quite young and both part of the people who wore real clothes. Just as the priestess, they too had their skin painted in bright blue. The woman started crying and the man comfortingly wrapped his arms around her. It was only then that I noticed the body to be somewhat small. A child then, judging by its size no older than ten years.

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SCROLL 32

8th Calends of January

762 a. u. c.

Excuse me, but I ran out of room on the previous scroll. As said, the body was wrapped in linen and we watched as the priestess took a pot filled with the bright blue paint (now in powdered form) and generously smeared it onto the linen. Then she again spoke a few words in this mysterious – and to us – strange language, some of which were repeated by the crowd. Upon that the body was lifter of the altar and the mourning party, led by the priestess, continued onward to the tomb. Good thing I had closed the hatch!

As soon as the coast was clear, we came out of hiding. Carlisle wanted to walk down the path the party had taken. I on the other hand stopped him and instead went over to the altar which still had some of the blue paint clinging to it. I stroked across the altar with my right hand, then rubbed my thumb and index finger together and sniffed the paint. Turned out that the powder gave off a pleasant, if though, faint scent. The powder itself was rather… thick and still clung to my hand after wiping it off on my blanket.


*          *          *


All of this made no sense! The tomb, the engravings and now THIS! But I believe I should approach this objectively. After walking down the road leading away from the stone circle, we came across several empty fields. Well, technically not empty. It was autumn after all and thus we saw countless batches of wheat, either stacked on top of each other or loaded onto carts. Just as I had been in front of the altar, I got curious and had closer look at the harvest. Carlisle urged me to keep going and not linger about. After all, it wouldn’t take the mourning party long to get back. Admittedly, he was right, but I was just TOO curious. I peeked into the cart and noticed a sort of small scythe lying next to the cut wheat. I picked it up and noticed it to be crafted quite primitively. What astonished me the most though, was that the blade wasn’t made of metal… but stone! And an incredibly sharp one at that since I cut myself on it like a complete idiot.

Just as Carlisle’s world, this one was quite hilly, yet had far more forest than at home in Mons Petrae. Primitive huts made of stone and straw stood wherever the forest had been cut down and no fields existed. These increased in numbers as we got closer and closer to the village the mourning party must’ve come from. Yet I had been confirmed in my assumption that not everyone from the village had come to the burial.

Surrounding the village was a palisade we carefully crept along in order to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Thankfully, the village had no guards of guard posts but we could still hear the people’s voices. The laughing and playing of children, the sounds of goats and dogs, chickens and hogs. The threshing of wheat after the harvest and the songs the inhabitants sang while doing it.

Every now and then the wall was broken by small windows, probably embrasures or the such like. And since I’m a curious one, I always halted for a few seconds to peek through them in order to see what happened within the walls. Through one opening I could even take a glimpse at something I assumed to be the town centre; a large, round square surrounded by several large huts and a large stone at its centre. It starkly reminded me of the menhir in Darya’s village but this stone was flat and not round, much like the stones on the hill. And just like these stones, this one too had bright blue engravings – yet I was too far away to make out what they depicted.

But these were very obviously NOT Darya’s people or any other Britonic tribe, even though the art of these people did remind me of the afore mentioned. Apart from the village itself I was able to garner a glance at the weapons of the people every now and then: knives, scythes, hatchets, axes, spears, lances – yet all of their blades were crafted from STONE! Darya’s people, like all Britonic tribes, are well-versed in the art of smelting iron and bronze and turning them into pieces of art and weapons. Whoever these people were – they were something entirely different!

“Pst!” Carlisle whispered and pointed to a field in front of us that had apparently not been harvested yet: “We should hide there and then make our way up to the hill over there before they catch us!”

“And then what?” I asked since I had a feeling that his plan hadn’t been thought out well.

“We get into the forest and hope that the others are gone by the time we reach the tomb.”

“You want to leave now?!” I yelled astonished: “You don’t want to know where we’ve landed?”

“Of course I do!” he replied: “But I’m still not keen on getting caught and kicking it!”

Seemed reasonable to me. After all, we knew nothing of these people and as far as they were concerned, we were invading their territory. Rome had no power here – and to be honest, I’m not even sure this is a real place on any sort of map!

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SCROLL 33

8th Calends of January

762 a. u. c.

And yet again, another scroll is full. Excuse me, but the scrolls Carlisle gave me before we embarked on our adventure are quite small and I do indeed have a rather large handwriting. Nevertheless, I’ll continue to write.

We crept quietly and cautiously from the palisade into the nearby field. A cool autumn breeze began to sway, which made us a bit more difficult to spot – not that there were any guards to notice. But halfway to the hill, Carlisle suddenly stopped.

“What’s wrong? Why are we stopping?” I asked him. He then broke off one of the stalks and held it directly in front of my face and spoke:

“You know, what this is?”

“Something to eat,” I replied jokingly.

“This is amelcorn!” he called and I could hear both astonishment and confusion in his voice: “This hasn’t been planted in Europe for thousands of years!”

“Your point being?”

“Either we keep travelling through time each time we ascend or descend one of the ladders, or-”

“Or what?”

“Or we’re in a Jules Verne novel.”

I didn’t know, what that was, but I encouraged Carlisle to keep moving. He agreed after some persuasion and a while later we finally reached the forest. There we immediately hid behind two thick trees and gazed at the village for a moment. Sure, it was autumn and it was windy, but the village itself almost seemed peaceful to me. Almost like one pictures the Elysium to be – or at least how I picture it to be.

But then a thought crossed my mind while pondering about all sorts of things. There was a stone circle here, as well as a tomb, a village and a hill; just as in Mons Petrae and in Carlisle’s world – even though the latter only had a hill but no tomb or circle. What if… this was no coincidence. What if these worlds were all connected and this wasn’t just an array of coincidental state of affairs. This would explain the underground passageways at least. And just Mons Petrae, Carlisle’s world had three fixed points: the hamlet of Mennith, the town itself and the manor of his Lordship MacDonald.

Here, there was a settlement and a hill… and the people wearing the furs didn’t seem to come from the former. Therefore, there must’ve been a smaller settlement beside the village, possible in perfect alignment with it. And if that place existed…then there must’ve also been some sort of holy or secluded place in the direction we had walked in through the field.

I looked at Carlisle and shared my thoughts with him and it appeared he had pondered the same things I had. He therefore accepted my proposal and we started walking through the forest in the same direction. During all of this I gripped my gladius tightly. I can’t speak for Carlisle, but regarding myself, I was terrified. Fuck being a man! We were in a foreign region, in the wild, in the cold of autumn – Jupiter knows what could’ve been lurking behind these trees, ready to jump us and kill us! Thankfully, nothing of the sort was waiting for us, but something entirely different.

According to Carlisle we had walked half an hour when we encountered numerous skeletons hanging from several trees. At first, I thought it was a kind of graveyard, but tree stumps with blood left no doubts in my mind that we had walked into a place of execution. Some of the corpses still had flesh clinging to them and the fact that some of them wore the same pearls as the people in the mourning party meant that it must’ve been people from the village.

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SCROLL 34

8th Calends of January

762 a. u. c.

There. This is the last scroll I have at my disposal. Should we see anything interesting after I’ve filled this one, I’m sorry. I can’t change that.

Anyway, we walked about the place of execution for a good while where I again saw several knives made of stone. Up until Carlisle spotted a path leading deep into the forest. We glanced at each other, both pondering whether we should really go down that road. But since we were deep inside the forest anyway, I decided that we would see it through to the end.

This ending proved to be a hand quicker than we had anticipated. According to Carlisle we hadn’t even walked for ten minutes until the path led us to the entrance of a gigantic cave. In front of it stood several small stones, similar to the ones on the hill, again painted in bright blue decorations. Slowly and cautiously we walked over to the dark entrance while Carlisle rummaged through his bag until he pulled out what he called a “flashlight”. I was quite astonished when he twisted it, causing the thing to produce a bright beam of light.

With this strange light in front of us, we entered the dark cave, which to our surprise was quite traversable. Sure, there were a few dangerous steps here and there, but all in all our descent was relatively harmless. Yet, we didn’t know where it would lead us to. Carlisle walked before me and we followed some bright blue paintings which increased in number and size the deeper we descended into the cave. What amazed me was the complete loss of my sense of time in this dark world. Every wall looked the same and many of the paintings kept repeating themselves. I secretly asked myself, if Carlisle even knew which way to take or if we were going in circles. But that didn’t seem to be the case as we kept moving downwards.

After an undefined and unknown while, we finally reached something that appeared to Carlisle and me to be some sort of main chamber. We put our things to rest and looked in awe at what the inhabitants of the village had produced. All caves had been painted – and this time not just in the same, bright blue colour. Golden wheat ears alternated between red horses and green birds. It also seemed that the creators of these images had learned how to display blue in different shades. Apart from dark blue depicting water, we saw… middle blue which was used as part of the jewellery worn by the people depicted as black figures.

I was especially astounded at the attention to detail given to the animals depicted on the walls. We saw depictions of horses, chickens, hogs; add to this, depictions of animals I had never seen before. Lions and gigantic rhinos and in one scene people were hunting something that looked like a giant, hairy elephant. Thank Jupiter we never met any of these animals in the woods!

NOTE: This is where the last scroll by Publius Septimus Tertio, which we recovered from the ruins of the Containment Project, ends. The following are the last entries of the second diary by Carlisle McAvin of D. E. 1920. Scrolls 31 to 34, as well as the second diary were found in a small niche deep inside the cave described by Publius and Carlisle. As with scroll 28 I have taken the liberty to remove the first portion of the entry as it describes the exact same things as scroll 35 does.

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ENTRY 7

11th May, 1960

[…] This cave is truly incredible! I had already read about the cave paintings of the stone age in history class and our small library – but seeing it with your very own eyes is an indescribable feeling! However… I’m not sure how to feel about or what to make of the paintings; I’ll now describe in detail.

They were located in a small side chamber left of the entrance we had come through. Since I didn’t want Publius to be left in the dark, I asked him to come to me. I believe he was just as puzzled as I was. A gigantic fresco unveiled before us consisting of numerous strange and unexplainable scenes. To the left we saw an assortment of black columns with white dots. At first, I mistook them for botched trees – the failed attempt of a priest’s apprentice. But then I noticed several small birds flying between them and for some reason they reminded me of Mrs. Darson and her mad ravings of steel towers and flying cars.

Yet the paintings became more and more perplexing. This included a giant "X" with horizontal rungs from top to bottom painted in the wall’s centre. An array of net-like domes, all of the same size, sitting on an island.

The last painting I will describe contains several humanoid depictions and it is by far the most obscure thing I have seen in my entire life. It starts with the depiction of a person surrounded by others. They all bare weapons and seem to be using them to attack a group of larger humans. Especially one person jumps into focus as she is wearing a blue stripe on her neck – maybe a necklace or one of those chokers women wear on fine occasions. This person is then shown sitting in a chair. Yes, chair. Meaning a modern, neither stone age nor Roman chair. She seemed anxious and to her right stood three white people all holding something thin and pointy in their hands. Whether they were knives for an upcoming sacrifice or maybe even pens, I don’t know. Regardless, the next ‘scene’ consisted of nothing. I really mean nothing except a black spot, probably painted with charcoal. Only after that the scene continues by showing the person with the blue necklace. She was surrounded by other people and surrounded by buildings strongly resembling those from the village.

What was the meaning of all this? Regardless of its meaning, I had the feeling it wasn’t anything good. With this uncomfortable feeling in my gut, I explained to Publius that we had to get back to Muntun as fast as possible before someone found us in this obviously holy cave and then did who knew what to us! Gladly, he came to the same conclusions I had and we went back to the main chamber. Yet, we didn’t want to go back the way we came in, as it was highly likely that the people were already waiting for us at the entrance. We thus decided to use the path directly in front of us, hoping it would lead us to another exit.

I again took the lead with my flashlight in hand. This path proved to be a bit more difficult than the path to the actual main entrance. We had to duck or even crawl several times before we could stand upright again. Publius even had to heft me up three times in order for us to even get anywhere. But due to this we at least had the reassurance that we were climbing up – and thus, out of here.

Unfortunately, all the climbing cost us a lot of energy which was why we eventually stopped for a rest. It is now that I write these words and Publius does the same. I had already asked him in Muntun why he didn’t want a notebook like this one. He said he wanted to… keep consistent as he had already written down the rest on other scrolls. Whatever. We’re going to eat the food I brought with me and then find out way out. Father will surely be worried. Will keep writing when we’ve found the exit.


*          *          *

So here we are. We’ve reached the exit to this cave. How do I know? Because there’s a door in front of us. Yes, you’ve read correctly –a DOOR! A large, circa, eight-feet high, steel door now stands between us and the exit. ‘EXIT’ is also written on a panel above the door and it seems to be connected to a power source. Add to that; this door has a giant lock. Not kidding you – this door that is probably several inches thick is kept shut with a run of the mill lock. But, considering where we are, it kind of makes sense. Regardless of what all this is – the people here are living in Neolithic times! How would these people know what a lock is? These people would have trouble figuring out how to work a Swiss army knife!

I rummaged through my bag and eventually found the small but mighty screwdriver I had packed before we left. I’m a mechanic, all right? There’s nothing for me that can’t be solved using tools. Regardless, I at first had the impetus to use the screwdriver to pick the lock. But then I looked up at the electric panel above the door and imagined that this door might’ve been protected and that an alarm would sound if I tried to pick the lock.

I therefore took the screwdriver and lightly hit on the stones on the walls left and right of the door hoping to hear a hollow sound. Oh, yes, I don’t think I’ve mentioned it before – the cave is REAL! No plaster, no hidden steel beams or some stupid shit like that. If this was an open-air museum, as I also assumed, then the people responsible truly knew their craft! And it didn’t take long until my screwdriver finally found something hollow. I gripped the large, vertically placed, flat stone I had hit on carefully and moved it aside.

Behind it was nothing but a torch, a strange, black and flat rectangle with buttons on the side, as well as a small key. Affixed to it was a small label enclosed in a strange, transparent layer simply reading: CONTAINMENT PROJECT OUTER GATE. What the hell was the Containment Project? Containment of what? A bad feeling started spreading in my gut. What if we all – Publius, me, his and my family, this place and its inhabitants – were part of a giant system of bunkers with an apocalyptic world of war, death, disease and epidemics waiting just beyond this door.

But that couldn’t be true either. For the panel above the door was powered by electricity – and that had to come from somewhere. I looked at the screwdriver and then in Publius’ face.

“I can try picking the lock,” I explained with a serious tone of voice: “but I don’t know what’ll happen or what’s lurking for us beyond that door.”

“We only have two options,” he replied with stoic serenity: “We either break through this door and confront Jupiter knows what – or we stay here and wait for these people to seize us. And since neither of us speaks their language, it’s probably not going to be a fun venture.”

“That’s not quite true,” I replied, again very seriously: “There is a third option.” Upon saying this, I reached into my bag and pulled out my father’s pistol I had taken in light of an utmost emergency. Of course Publius wanted to immediately inspect it, but I promptly kept him from doing so and only explained that this was a weapon far more powerful than all spears, lances and swords in Mons Petrae.

“So what’s your plan? Your case of… utmost emergency?”

“We wait for cover of darkness. There’s most likely a road from the cave to the village. Just as there’s a road from the town to Lord MacDonald’s manor. As soon as we reach the fields near the village we sneak back to the tomb and get out of here!”

“And what if they catch us?” he asked excited.

I just grinned, held the pistol between us and spoke in a jaunty tone: “Then this’ll be these people’s first introduction to metal!”

He gave off a cheeky laugh and then told me I should just try to pick the lock upon which I walked up to the lock and tried my luck. It did indeed take me a while for me to hear the clicking and for me to open the door. I immediately readied my pistol and Publius his gladius in expectation of the apocalypse behind it.

Yet there was nothing. No apocalypse. No destruction, no deserted wasteland. No monsters, no abandoned houses. In front us only a… park-like facility with roads and lamps. With trees and well-maintained lawns. Regardless of where we were – we were outside. Wherever ‘outside’ was. Naturally we promptly wanted to look for the afore mentioned ‘outer gate’ but Publius had an ingenious idea. Should we really die and someone was to find our writings, they would know what we had seen and experienced.

And so I write these – probably last – lines before hiding this diary and the scrolls in the previously discovered niche in the wall. Should this entry not be followed by anything else, I thank you for at least finding this book. The other is located in my room above the repair shop and Publius’ other scrolls are in his house near the butcher shop of Quintilius Cattus. According to Publius, its entrance is adorned with a statue of Justicia. Have fun reading.

Best regards,

Carlisle McAvin



Written by Thedarkflintstone
Content is available under CC BY-SA

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