TEXT: Codex of the Deep Spire
  A Sourcebook for the Spire Roleplaying Game
  By Jordan Shiveley
  
  Copyright © 2018 Rowan, Rook and Decard Ltd.
  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, 
  distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including 
  photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical meth-
  ods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except 
  in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and 
  certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For 
  permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.
  Rowan, Rook and Decard
  113 Forest View Road
  London E12 5HX
  www.rowanrookanddecard.com
  Fiction and setting: Jordan Shiveley
  Additional content and mechanics: Grant Howitt
  Cover art: Adrian Stone
  Illustrations: Alexander Mitchell
  Layout: Alina Sandu
  Proofreading and copy-editing: Harry Goldstone, Helen Gould
  Production: Mary Hamilton
  Spire is a game by Grant Howitt and Christopher Taylor
  
  1
  DISCLAIMER
  Your Spire will be different from ours, and we wrote 
  the game with this in mind. As with the core book, 
  you are encouraged to examine the Codex of the 
  Deep Spire and use what you feel is most beneficial 
  for your campaign. The “canon” truths of Spire are 
  whatever you and your group decide they are. 
  We mention this because in this book, Jordan 
  Shiveley - the man behind DREAD SINGLES - has 
  given lavish details of any number of weird cults, oc-
  cluded conspiracies and devastating secrets. To in-
  clude all of them in a game could lead to confusion 
  and over-saturation. Of course, that may well be what 
  you want in your story, in which case: go for it.
  We hope you enjoy these nightmare treats.
  — Grant Howitt and Chris Taylor
  
  2
  INTRODUCTION
  Reader, here is an account of how we found Escatoph Tembrark within the 
  Heart. Perhaps you will scoff less at his words than those who attempted to 
  decipher them. Perhaps you will heed them and spare yourself the same fate. 
  5TH OF DOWNPOUR, YEAR OF 
  MANY HANDS: THE DAY WE 
  FOUND TEMBRARK.
  Tembrark had been one of our school’s finest Delvers. No-
  one before or after has crafted or possessed a finer husk. He 
  was a leading theorist on the nature of Spire. To sit in the 
  lecture hall when he was orating was to be inspired. 
  When he disappeared, most assumed he had died on 
  one of his many expeditions. It would have been a kinder 
  fate. Years later, we found him raving in the depths of the 
  Heart. He was in an ancient crypt, full of cubes and still-
  functioning magelights, surrounded by paper, tattered rags, 
  and finely bound books. 
  He had chronicled his descent into madness on every 
  available surface, including every square inch of the walls 
  and floor. In places, he used his own blood, tearing his own 
  fingertips to do so. 
  Even now, under our vigilant care, he is but a shell 
  of the brilliant mind and gifted Delver he once was. He 
  rants of vast conspiracies and things awakening beneath 
  the city. All we can do now is tend to him as best we can, 
  and try to salvage what is left.
  
  3
  EXTRA ADVANCE -  
  KATAKOS DELVER  
  “Open your mind to the language of metal. Open your 
  mind to the lost alphabet of Spire. Words of iron. Words of 
  void. Tongues of forgotten power.” 
  — Escatoph Tembrark, A Primer To Interfacing 
  and Understanding Basic Tenets of Spire and Its 
  Ontological Interactions
  The Katakos Delvers are a cabal dedicated to 
  the mysteries of Spire and its Heart, neither sec-
  ular nor wholly occult. They are dogmatical-
  ly open-minded, straddling the line between ar-
  cheo-scientists and seekers of mystic knowledge. 
  They refuse to commit to any solid theory concern-
  ing Spire; instead, they preach that all should open 
  themselves to the magic of the city, letting it flow  
  through them.
  The one core tenet they all subscribe to is that the 
  structure of Spire is the antidote to the Heart. They 
  believe that the constant adaptations of the city are 
  like arcane antibodies, evolving to match the never 
  ending encroachment of roiling unreality. Whether 
  this phenomenon is the remnants of self-aware Ka-
  takos technology or actual occult manifestation is a 
  matter of spirited but civil debate.
  Delvers see themselves as archeologists or academ-
  ic adventurers, and have a friendly but keen rivalry 
  with the scholars of the Vermissian Vault. Still, their 
  interests are largely aligned, and it is not unheard of 
  for the two organisations to ally with one another for 
  the right rewards.
  REQUIREMENT: Prove yourself worthy of the 
  Delvers’ cabal by unearthing unique lore and 
  making a valuable contribution to their research.
  REFRESH: Uncover a hidden truth concerning 
  Spire, or use a novel piece of Katakos technology 
  for the first time.
  ADVANCES
  LOW
  BECOME THE CITY. [Divine] You physically blend 
  into the structures of Spire, disappearing inside the 
  walls, buildings and streets. Mark D3 stress to cast 
  this spell. You can stay hidden until the next sun-
  rise, unless there is a determined effort to destroy 
  your hiding place. You cannot sense anything out-
  side of your haven, and you are groggy and weird 
  upon re-emerging.
  SPIRE COMMUNION. [Divine] You learn the hid-
  den language of the city. Once per session, spend ten 
  minutes seated in a place of importance to Spire and 
  ask a question. The GM will provide a series of vi-
  sions directly from the city that may shed light on 
  the answer. Roll with mastery the first time you 
  connect these visions to the events of your story 
  and act on them.
  MEDIUM
  SPIRE WEAVING. [Divine] You summon a shield 
  of Spirestone. Mark D3 stress to cast this spell. On a 
  success, masonry, bricks and even pavements will 
  surround you, protecting you from harm; gain Ar-
  mour 4 until the situation ends. While you “wear” 
  this armour, you roll with mastery on Pursue 
  checks as the ground itself carries you forward. 
  However, for obvious reasons, you may not hide 
  or attempt to blend in with a crowd. 
  POSSESS HUSK. [Divine] Husks are weird and un-
  predictable things. You bond with one. You have access 
  to a strange robotic entity known as a husk, and 
  can mentally inhabit it with the correct rites. See 
  the HUSKS boxout for more details.
  HIGH
  AWAKEN SURROUNDINGS. [Divine] You have 
  been wracked with visions of the “true” Spire for years; 
  now, you can make them a reality. The Delver chan-
  nels their will into the city around them, temporar-
  ily awakening it to its “true” form. Mark D6 stress 
  to cast this spell as part of a ten minute ritual, 
  or D8 stress to cast it immediately.
  
  The caster cannot control what Spire reforms it-
  self into, as this is largely up to the gamesmaster. The 
  changes may or may not be beneficial, but they will 
  certainly be impressive. On a success, you can expect 
  walls to dissolve into shambling homunculi made of 
  rubble, weird sculptures to appear, or new pathways 
  opening to places that weren’t there before.
  SUMMON HUSK. [Divine] As POSSESS HUSK, 
  but in exchange for marking D6 stress and enact-
  ing an hour-long ritual, you construct the ideal 
  husk for your purposes from the structure of Spire. 
  HUSKS
  Husks vary tremendously in their construction. 
  Most are small exploratory units, covered in barely-
  understood sensory equipment and defensive 
  measures. These defences can include “ink” jets 
  that hang in the air as camouflage, spring-loaded 
  legs to leap out of danger, or galvanically-charged 
  exoskeletons that burn inquisitive hands. 
  Husks can also be cat or snake-sized (intended 
  for spying and other subtle work) or lumbering 
  behemoths designed to clear fallen masonry or fight 
  with implanted weaponry.
  When you gain the POSSESS HUSK power, 
  you can access one of these odd, unique devices. 
  Treat ownership of it as an NPC bond, albeit one 
  that requires you to cast your consciousness out of 
  your mortal body and into a robot. 
  This bond accrues stress in the normal way, but 
  a husk can’t rat you out to the authorities: all stress 
  is represented by wear and tear on the machine. You 
  can remove stress (or fallout) by repairing the husk, 
  improving it with new materials, or communing 
  with its labyrinthine mind.
  
  5
  THE MIRROR WORLD  
  AND FIENDS THEREIN
  “Not all is as it seems behind the glass. Why does your 
  reflection have so many teeth? Why are your hands stained 
  oh-so-red?” 
  — Author Unknown, The Refracted Fiend Folio
  EXCERPT FROM TEMBRARK’S 
  JOURNALS VOLUME IV, LEAF 138.
  I should have known better than to pick up that shard  
  of glass.
  The first lesson we teach initiates is to simply Observe 
  and Record, and I disregarded it. But it was as though 
  something was whispering to me; I swear the glass trem-
  bled when I touched it. I wrapped it in a piece of cloth and 
  packed it away without cutting myself. 
  I was not so lucky with the second piece. 
  As I write this, hiding inside a collapsed crypt with no 
  idea how I will escape, I wonder: how could I not have 
  seen what was happening? As soon as I nicked myself with 
  the second shard, it began to quiver like the first. My blood 
  slithered towards it as if with a mind of its own, and was 
  hungrily absorbed. 
  Even at the start of what I now see to be a fugue state, 
  I knew this was bad - very bad. I tried to fling the shard 
  away, only to find instead that I had tucked it carefully 
  into my pack. After that, my memory is hazy at best for a 
  while. I do remember combing the Heart for more shards, 
  exploring unstable hallways and forgotten paths that I 
  never would have chanced in a clear state of mind. 
  Eventually I came to my senses in a dusty chapel. A 
  mirror had been pieced together and lay before me in a 
  pool of what I hope was my own blood. The whispering 
  that I had first heard now filled the room, swirling around 
  me with physical force; the mirror pulsed with red light as 
  it slowly absorbed the blood. 
  I could see figures milling inside the mirror, and could 
  not stop myself from approaching it. Something in the way 
  they moved made me certain that they were coming to 
  meet me - that they knew me! I recall wanting to meet 
  them more than I have wanted anything before or since. 
  I will not write down much of what I saw when I en-
  tered the glass; I do not dare to risk somehow drawing the 
  attention of the nightmare things that live there. But I will 
  say that they mean us nothing but ruin. 
  There was a sea of teeth and reaching claws and hard 
  bright eyes meeting mine as the creatures advanced. I don’t 
  know how I had the will to flee, but I did. Their hungry 
  whisperings followed me as I fell back through the mirror 
  and into Spire, where I instinctively reached out to plead 
  with the walls around me. I desperately threw them down 
  
  6
  into the mirror, hoping to grind it into dust. I didn’t stop 
  weaving with my surroundings until the chapel became a 
  solid slab of rock, entombing whatever was inside. 
  I’m sure that somewhere else, someone is just about to 
  find a trembling shard of glass, or perhaps a whole mirror 
  waiting in a forgotten room. This thought is one of the 
  many that robs me of any sleep. 
  Chronicler Note 24-b11: The amount 
  of detritus that Tembrark amassed in 
  his crypt is astounding. Here is a small 
  sampling of the many things we have 
  spent hours cataloguing. 
  Exhibit 24-a A small shard of crys-
  tal, apparently taken from a ma-
  gelight, but which emits darkness 
  instead of brightness.
  Exhibit 12-n A collection 
  of faded daguerreotypes 
  that show the same drow 
  slowly approaching the cam-
  era. However, the moment 
  you put them down, you can-
  not remember the drow’s face. 
  Instead, you are filled with an 
  overwhelming sense of hunger.
  Exhibit 346-x A small, sealed lead box that held a 
  writhing insect made of golden circuitry and crys-
  tals. It seemed to pass in and out of reality as it 
  moved. Unfortunately, when 
  the box was opened, it im-
  mediately sprang into the 
  mouth of the unfortunate 
  adept Negil. We have 
  him under observation.
  Exhibit 67-v A small, jet black 
  cube carved from an uniden-
  tified substance, with a sim-
  ple button on the top. None 
  of us have been particularly 
  keen to press it, since the box 
  whispers and begs for us to 
  do so.
  Exhibit 87-g A dirty piece of parchment 
  with an impossibly detailed drawing 
  of Spire. Parts of it seem to change 
  when no one is looking.
  Exhibit 40-b A single 
  shard of glass that steams in 
  the air but is ice-cold to the touch.
  Exhibit 29-h A set of ten finger 
  rings, connected by delicate shim-
  mering wires and etched with tiny 
  arcane symbols. When worn, the wearer 
  testifies that they have the sensation of moving or 
  controlling something of great mass, but they have 
  no idea what or where it is. We fear this is only part 
  of a greater whole.
  Exhibit 73-k Ten vials of blood. All are dated from 
  the time that Tembrark has been missing and are 
  labeled as his. Some of the blood moves with a life 
  of its own, reacting to light and noise as though 
  it were a simple beast, such as a grimeworm or 
  petty-mole.
  ARE YOU EVER CURIOUS ABOUT 
  THE SPIDERS THAT CRAWL INTO 
  YOUR MOUTH AT NIGHT? WANT 
  TO KNOW WHAT THEY’RE REALLY 
  THINKING AS THEY SPIN THEIR 
  HIDDEN WEBS? THEN YOU SHOULD 
  THROW AWAY THAT SPIDER MELD 
  OIL YOU BOUGHT YESTERDAY. WE 
  ARE WATCHING YOU. 
  
  7
  Chronicler Note 34-n6: I am rather distressed by the 
  following entry. “The thing that waits beyond the cold-
  est flames” (his nomenclature, not mine) sends Tem-
  brark into the worst of his ravings. When questioned, 
  he becomes obsessed with the idea that this malicious 
  thing is continuously drawing closer to him. I will do 
  my best to compile his journal entries and my own re-
  cordings into a more complete account.
  EXCERPT FROM TEMBRARK’S 
  JOURNALS VOLUME III, LEAF 24. 
  I do not know how long I knelt before that accursed 
  doorway. My arms hung limp at my sides and my mouth 
  gaped as I stared beyond the threshold. It was only after the 
  khaat Renfrik pulled me away that I began to remember 
  approaching the portal and developing a deadly obsession.
  I had seen the door set in its own small vestibule on 
  earlier forays and made note of it. Something about it 
  drew my attention, like a beacon on my psychic map of 
  the Heart - or, more accurately, like a darker section of 
  water signifying the end of safe shallows. What lay there 
  was cold and unknown.
  However, every time I tried to focus on it, my thoughts 
  would skitter away as though the door was not ready for 
  me. I now suspect that it was I who was not ready. Or 
  should I say: I was not ripe? I would forget about it, no 
  matter how hard I tried to remember. But I still often 
  found myself staring at the door, with no recollection of 
  how I had arrived. 
  The alcove was strewn with decaying packs, equipment 
  and quite a few rotting corpses. Normally this would have 
  been warning enough to go on my way, but somehow they 
  did not register as a concern. I knew they were there, of 
  course, but they provoked no sense of fear or caution. 
  When I stood before the door, I heard an insistent 
  susurration. It was as though many dry tongues were 
  practicing saying my name in a thousand thousand ways, 
  never quite succeeding. As time went on, I could detect these 
  scratching voices on the breeze even when I and the door 
  were far apart. This happened more and more frequently 
  until one day I finally found myself on the threshold.
  The whispering thundered in my ears. Even now, from 
  the comparative safety of my chapel sanctum and with the 
  power of the khaat’s wards still on me, I dare not write 
  down what the thing beyond the door was saying. Words 
  have power, especially ones as hungry as those. 
  I was staring down a seemingly innocuous hallway. At 
  first I didn’t see anything, but then the thing was there, 
  and I knew it had always been there - possibly before this 
  hall had been built, perhaps even before Spire itself existed. 
  I could not discern any distinct features. It was like 
  looking through smoked glass or a sheet of water. One 
  moment it was at the far end; the next moment it was 
  at the invisible barrier of the doorframe, straining to pass 
  through. Sometimes it was in both places at once.
  I sunk to my knees amidst the bones and decay and 
  wanted nothing more than to listen to its whispers, to be 
  there for it, to help it however I could. I don’t remember 
  much else until the khaat woke me. I’m sure I would have 
  sat there, rapt, as my life drained down that hallway and 
  brought the thing one step closer to freedom.
  But I did wake up. I remember the heavy smell of spice 
  and sweet breath before my eyes opened. Then I heard a 
  voice say, with acerbic exasperation: “No time for dozing, 
  Tembrark. We’ve got quite a bit of work for you to do. Up 
  you come.” 
  I looked down and stared into the seven dark, gleaming 
  eyes of what had to be one of the fabled khaats. Even we 
  Delvers have only heard the barest rumours about them, 
  besides the mere fact of their existence. 
  The khaat looked away from where it had placed two 
  feline paws against my chest, turning to the doorway and 
  the thing that waited. I heard its voice echo through my 
  mind once more: “Excuse me, Tembrark. I need to put 
  something in its place.” 
  The air sparked around the khaat as it walked towards 
  the door. The bones around me began to rattle and then 
  levitate, the air alive with unimaginable roiling sorcery. 
  I fell into unconsciousness once more, and I must confess 
  that I am thankful for it: I fear my brain could not endure 
  GHOST WRITER FOR HIRE! 
  EXTENSIVE CREDENTIALS 
  TRANSCRIBING THE SPECTRAL 
  EDICTS OF SHADES. PAYMENT 
  REQUIRED IN LIQUID ASSETS.
  
  witnessing the majesty of the Arts wrought upon the thing 
  beyond the doorway. 
  When I came to, the hallway beyond the door seemed 
  duller. An opaque shimmer filled it, and I could no longer 
  hear the whispering creature within. The khaat looked up 
  from where it had been grooming itself with a pink forked 
  tongue. 
  “Come now. It is time we left this place. We have much 
  to discuss, you and I.”
  DO YOU HAVE A HUNGER? DOES THE 
  TASTE OF IRON WAKE YOU UP AT NIGHT? 
  HAVE YOU FOUND THAT YOUR SKIN IS 
  AN UNNECESSARY BURDEN? WELL, DO 
  WE HAVE AN OFFER FOR YOU! MEET 
  LIKE-MINDED INDIVIDUALS BENEATH THE 
  CARRION OAK WHEN THE HARBINGER 
  MOTHS ARE IN FLIGHT. 
  
  9
  THE THING THAT WAITS 
  BEYOND THE COLDEST 
  FLAMES 
  The Thing That Waits has many names and appears 
  in different forms to each race, but one fact remains 
  the same: it wants to come to Spire. The few who 
  have escaped its whispering thrall speak of something 
  unspeakably old and hungry, tirelessly traveling down 
  that uncanny hallway. 
  The Thing That Waits calls beings to its door-
  way, ensorcelling them with its whispers and drain-
  ing them of life. This is how it grows stronger and 
  pulls itself closer to our reality. The door has been 
  shut, locked, destroyed, banished from reality, and 
  demon-wracked into absolution, but it always returns 
  - and The Thing That Waits comes with it. 
  THE CONCLAVE OF KHAATS
  “To know the mind of a khaat is to attempt to hold the 
  flow of the spheres in the palm of your hand. It is better 
  to let the khaat know you, and in that knowing, let a 
  reflection be found.” 
  —Cartiphas Blail, third Epistarch of the Vermis-
  sian Circle
  The seven-eyed khaats come from Elsewhere. They 
  are secretive and strange, and only emerge in the 
  deep, dark places of Spire.
  They have their own sorceries and schemes, 
  and their own culture too. Each one bears insig-
  nia around their neck, though they never reveal the 
  meaning of this to outsiders. They appear in patches 
  of shadow that have lain undisturbed for centuries, 
  looking to acquire desperate mortal agents to act on  
  their behalf. 
  In exchange for performing strange favours - as a 
  race that lives outside linear time and space, all khaat 
  requests are at the very least peculiar - these agents 
  are granted psychic gifts from their feline masters, 
  whether they want them or not.
  EXCERPT FROM TEMBRARK’S 
  JOURNALS VOLUME V,  
  LEAF 245.
  I had heard scant tales of the Dust Wardens, and only 
  occasionally seen their dour figures in the streets of Spire. 
  The irony of their relationship with Death and my meeting 
  one of them as I stared at my own end does not escape me. 
  It happened after I came out of one of my fugue states, 
  which were becoming more and more common since 
  my encounter with The Thing That Waits Behind the 
  Coldest Flames. 
  (Chronicler Note: See Volume III, Leaf 24 of 
  Tembrark’s Journals.) 
  I remember staring dumbly at my hands, which were 
  caked with dried blood. My fingertips were raw and the 
  nails broken, as if I had been dragging them along some 
  rough surface: but why? I don’t know how long I had been 
  sitting there like some sun-addled corvid, but the sound 
  of sliding rocks and a low, keening dirge jolted me from  
  my reverie.
  
  10
  An impossibility seethed out of a gap in the nearby 
  masonry. At first I only saw a mass of flesh slithering 
  through the door frame, dislodging more of the crumbling 
  brickwork. 
  As it moved into the flickering sparklight of the hallway, 
  I could make out more of its hideous form. I involuntarily 
  sprang backwards, drawing its attention; and as it turned 
  in my direction, I saw that it was the writhing, slithering 
  flayed skin of a male drow. 
  It moved as though it had some fell intelligence, but 
  through its sagging mouth I could see that it was hollow. 
  Its limbs elongated grotesquely as they grasped at whatever 
  they could to drag itself forwards, the skin flapping as it 
  moved down the hallway.
  As I struggled to draw my jackdaw pistol with trembling 
  hands, the sight of a second skin creature coming through 
  the doorway froze me in my tracks. The newcomer sniffed 
  the air, its mouth sagging horribly. It whistled a low note 
  to its kin and surged into the hallway, their voices melding 
  into a hungry wail as they charged at me. That was when 
  the Dust Warden made their presence known. 
  The warden passed next to me, a mere handbreadth 
  away. They looked like a small girl, pallid and grey, 
  an aura of age and dust spread over her skin and old-
  fashioned garb. Despite this, she walked with the unstudied 
  grace of a child. 
  She casually pushed the barrel of my pistol down before 
  placing herself between me and the nightmarish skin-
  creatures that fluttered wetly down the hallway. I am no 
  warrior - I’m a scholar, a researcher - but over the years, 
  my subject matter has required that I take certain martial 
  precautions. I am ashamed that I let such a seemingly 
  defenseless child walk straight towards those mind-warping 
  terrors. 
  Her calm demeanor seemed to give them a moment’s 
  pause. But then they gathered themselves up, shrieking, 
  and surged towards her. I started to move forward, though 
  I had no plan - only thinking I had to do something 
  before this child was rent limb from limb. Before I could 
  get anywhere, she shifted her posture and the hairs on the 
  back of my neck stood on end. A chill ran through me. She 
  had suddenly become something else: a tensed predator 
  waiting to strike. 
  She moved before the horrors could swarm her, defying 
  gravity by dancing up the side of the crumbling wall and 
  drawing an ornate balefire pistol like a seasoned warrior. 
  She shot directly into the first horror’s gaping maw, the gun 
  crackling with gunpowder and sorcery. Its flapping body 
  was shredded into fleshy gobbets that disintegrated as they 
  fell through the air. Without a second glance, she landed 
  with deadly poise behind the other creature, the barrel of 
  her gun glowing brightly and hissing in the sudden crush 
  of silence.
  The second creature wheeled to face her, flaring out to its 
  full height and horribly distorting the features of its former 
  occupant. The warden dropped her still glowing revolver 
  with a thud and closed her eyes, lifting one hand before her. 
  Again there was the ineffable shift I had witnessed before, 
  but this time her posture changed from tense violence to 
  emanating tranquil power.
  She began to trace complex, crackling arcane patterns 
  in the air, the afterimages of her hands blurring into a 
  ghostly myriad of gestures. Traces of cold light shot from 
  her fingers and the patterns she drew, coalescing into a 
  shimmering cage around the creature. The warden made 
  a final motion and the cage began to revolve, faster and 
  faster, sparking and hissing with arcane energies. It 
  contracted into a single glowing point and disappeared - 
  taking the writhing horror with it. 
  Once again, the warden closed her eyes, exhaling as if 
  releasing a burden. When she opened them, she was simply 
  a child once more. She gestured to the shadows behind 
  me while I stood, slack-jawed and rooted to the spot. A 
  
  11
  familiar feline voice crept through my mind as the khaat 
  emerged from the darkness. 
  “Come come, Tembrark,” it said. “You can’t die just 
  yet. We still have so much to discuss.” 
  Note on the text from Varleis Embryn, the 
  current Chronicler of the Katakos Savants: 
  Infuriatingly, the account trails off here. No amount of 
  cross-referencing can reveal what exactly they discussed. 
  Tembrark himself simply lapses into silence when 
  questioned. If pressed, he will become catatonic for weeks 
  at a time. It’s as if he does it to spite us; or perhaps he is 
  attempting to protect himself. Either way, it is maddening.
  This khaat could be the same creature from Tembrark’s 
  experience with The Thing That Waits Behind The 
  Coldest Flames, but without further sources this is mere 
  speculation. Besides, who is to say whether there is more 
  than one khaat? Perhaps they are all the same entity, 
  spread throughout space and time, toying with us as a cat 
  would with a mouse.
  
  12
  EXTRA ADVANCE -  
  THE DUST WARDEN
  The Dust Wardens are twiceborn; pallid, ghostly 
  drow who have willingly bonded with the spirits of 
  the dead. They accept lost souls inside their bodies, 
  blending their memories and skills into a new under-
  standing shared in one physical form. 
  THE CREATION OF A DUST 
  WARDEN
  A Dust Warden is created with ritual and sorcery 
  at the Well of Rebirth. The body of the deceased 
  is covered with spell-inscribed funerary cloth and 
  dropped into the well, while the current Abbot of 
  the wardens presides over the Cant of Winding 
  Paths and Opening of Doors. 
  What comes next has never been witnessed by 
  anyone outside of the sect, but has been recorded in 
  the words of Abbot Benjin Vrelik: 
  “...and out of the Well of Rebirth I saw come a 
  most holy beast. At first it bore no resemblance to 
  the man we had delivered to the depths: it was only 
  shifting, luminous flesh that seemed to be both there 
  and not there. As it crossed the courtyard, stuttering 
  in and out of reality, it began to take on the aspect 
  of the dead - as if being in the air of Spire reminded 
  it who it had been. As it approached the kneeling 
  Supplicant of Exaltation, it stopped; then, drawing 
  the Supplicant to their feet, did kiss them firmly 
  upon the mouth and seem to melt into their body...” 
  This bonding is what gives the wardens their 
  strange aura. It appears to be a field of energy 
  emanating from them, rather than an actual 
  transmutation within their body or belongings: any 
  item they carry acquires this effect, but goes back to 
  its original state when discarded.
  Higher ranking wardens can gain dispensation 
  to bond with multiple souls, flowing through their 
  memories and skills at will.
  
  REQUIREMENT: Accept a lost soul into your body 
  at the Well of Rebirth, located far within the Heart.
  REFRESH: Achieve greater understanding with the 
  soul that shares your body.
  MEDIUM
  BIND SOUL. You tether a lost soul to your own. When 
  you take this advance, determine two skills, three 
  domains and a knack that the spirit possesses. 
  Mark D3 stress to Mind to replace your own skills, 
  domains and knacks with those of the spirit for the 
  remainder of the situation. 
  The soul also has motives, mannerisms and a 
  personality of their own which they will display 
  while you access their skills, overriding your body. 
  However, it should be stressed that you share the 
  same intent. This is not a possessing spirit that will 
  send you on wild adventures: you are allies.
  You can take this advance multiple times, add-
  ing souls to your body as you wish.
  
  14
  SKINSINGERS
  Even the most dangerous denizen of Spire murmurs 
  fearfully about the skinsingers and their machina-
  tions. No-one knows for sure if these hex casters are 
  a cult with some horrifying purpose, or lone practi-
  tioners of the darkest arts. The skinsinger entices and 
  traps its prey with a song of arcane power, then an-
  imates their victim’s skin with a life of its own. The 
  skinsinger can then call this slithering husk to do its 
  bidding while the unfortunate body lies ensorcelled 
  and skinless. Most skinsingers only call their thralls at 
  night when their victims are at home, hiding the fro-
  zen, raw bodies until the husk returns to lie dormant, 
  its purpose fulfilled. 
  EXTRA ADVANCE - MAIDEN OF 
  THE MOTHER OF SHADOWS
  The Mother of Shadows has existed for as long as the 
  shadows themselves; or at least, that is what is whis-
  pered in the furtive circles deep within Spire. What 
  exactly she is is the subject of myth and legend in 
  the underspire, but what is known is the nature of 
  her pupils: the Maidens. Hollow-eyed and grim, they 
  emerge from the shadows to effect her will, follow-
  ing unknowable designs. The dark communion that 
  binds the Maidens to their Mother empties them 
  out entirely: blood, guts, bones, brains, all gone. The 
  Maiden’s bodily shell is then refilled with a portion of 
  the Mother’s shadow form. They are an extension of 
  her, gifted with power for their devotion.
  
  None set out to become a Maiden: it is a punish-
  ment for those who dig too deeply into the multifrac-
  tal web of allegiances, secrets and lies that keep the 
  city standing. The deeper these spymasters dig, the 
  more convinced they are of a vast and impossible con-
  spiracy: a secret behind all secrets. They are proved 
  right in the most horrible fashion, leading to their in-
  duction into the shadowed ranks of the Maidens.
  Given the Ministry’s obsession with secrecy, there 
  are several Maidens amongst their number (often in 
  high-ranking positions) who have succumbed to the 
  Mother’s ultimate truth. They attempt to conceal the 
  true nature of their being for as long as they can, and 
  they are very good at hiding.
  REQUIREMENT: Undertake the terrible com-
  munion of the Mother of Shadows, and become 
  bound to her arcane plan.
  REFRESH: Perform the malign and sickening bid-
  ding of your Mother.
  MEDIUM
  IN THE SHADOW OF HER WINGS. [Divine] 
  You skip between shadows. Mark D3 stress to Blood 
  to step into one patch of shadow and emerge from 
  any other shadow you can see.
  THE DARKNESS WILL HAVE ITS WAY. [Di-
  vine] The Mother protects her children. The first time 
  you suffer minor or moderate Blood fallout in a 
  situation, summon dark tendrils to defend you. 
  Immediately gain 3 armour. All your weapons now 
  possess the Brutal tag until the end of the situation. 
  AND DARKLY BONDED THEY STOOD. [Di-
  vine] Your blood and bones are shadowstuff. Once per 
  session, mark D3 stress to Mind to remove a Blood 
  fallout result of your choice as you summon shad-
  ows to mend your body. Each time you perform 
  this rite, your body permanently changes in a way 
  that reflects your nightmare form: jet-black eyes, 
  quills on your forearms, a long forked tongue, etc. 
  These are cosmetic and have no mechanical bene-
  fits or penalties, but may get in the way of normal 
  social interaction. 
  HIGH
  THE MOTHER’S CHILD IS AT HAND. [Di-
  vine] You are what nightmares are made of. Leading 
  a congregation of several other Maidens, you en-
  act a terrible ritual that binds you together in a 
  writhing mess of limbs, flesh, shadow and fear. In 
  this form, you cannot move in the real world, but 
  you can infect the dreams of others. You spread 
  like a virus from sleeper to sleeper until you take 
  hold of the dreaming Spire. There you are the left 
  hand of the Mother, an agent of horror and shad-
  ows. The city will only be freed from your terrible 
  grasp by destroying the slumbering beast you have 
  made of yourselves.
  
  16
  THE CARRION OAK  
  OF DUALITY
  HEARD YELLED ON A PILGRIM’S 
  WALK STREET CORNER BY A 
  BEAUTIFUL YOUNG DROW, COV-
  ERED IN EXPENSIVE JEWELLRY:
  “Hail, the coming of the Carrion Oak! Hail the holy 
  and most high! Splendid and despicable, perfect in thy 
  imperfection! At sunrise, thou dost bloom on the perfumed 
  rooftops of Amaranth; at sunset, thou dost fester in a 
  Derelictus pit. How glorious and wretched thou art!
  We beseech thee, most fecund and foul one, to grant us 
  our desires, in this our hour of deepest need. We will do thine 
  commands, oh great Oak! Thine favours, whether malign 
  or merciful, we will carry out with our most faithful hands, 
  for THE GREAT OAK PROVIDES.
  The Carrion Oak! No greater master, no higher 
  god! Thing and unthing, creator and destroyer! Granter 
  of wishes and killer of kings! We are but tools in its 
  divine plan, guttering candles amidst the ROARING 
  CONFLAGRATION of its means and intent!”
  Chronicler Note 84-x7: We found hundreds of these 
  strange messages and predictions on scraps of paper, 
  the backs of books and even on Tembrark’s own body. 
  They reference every main religion of Spire, but seem 
  to follow no pattern. Who are they written for? Had 
  Tembrark been delivering them to people? Here is a 
  sampling of one set that he had circled on a well worn 
  broadsheet:
  VYSKANT ARE THE FUTURE. 
  VOTE FOR YOUR CLOSEST 
  VYSKANT HOST IN ANY AND 
  ALL ELECTIONS. THIS MESSAGE 
  PROVIDED BY THE VYSKANT 
  AUTHORITY, PREVIOUSLY 
  KNOWN AS THE COUNCIL FOR 
  VYSKANT REFUTATION AND 
  CONTAINMENT 
  
  You Who Walk Between the Shadows and Hear the 
  Song That Never Was
  YOU LIKE BURROWS? DARK MUSTY PLAC-
  ES WRITHING WITH… INNER POTENTIAL? 
  WELL, THOSE PLACES LIKE YOU TOO! TAKE 
  A CHANCE ON SOMETHING… HOLLOW.
  Beloved of The Huntress Mother
   
  OH THE IRONY! SORRY, NOT LAUGHING. 
  IT’S JUST THAT THE AWAKENED CARRION 
  CHILD IS, WELL, MADE OF UNENDING HUN-
  GERING HORNS, AND IT’S BEHIND YOU.
  You Who Have Scorned the Call of The Deep and 
  Seek Not the Void
  YES, THE STARS DO INDEED TALK TO YOU. 
  THEY WHISPER WHAT YOU MUST DO, WHAT 
  STAIRS YOU MUST DESCEND, WHAT BLACK 
  WATERS YOU MUST SINK BENEATH.
  The Hungering Dark That Grows Within
  YOU’VE MADE IT THIS FAR. CONGRATULA-
  TIONS! YOUR FUTURE IS FULL OF… FULL 
  OF… OH MY… WELL, IT’S DEFINITELY 
  NOT AN UNENDING SPIRAL OF GNASHING 
  TEETH. CERTAINLY NOT THAT.
  You Who Have The Crimson Need
   
  I FEEL LIKE YOU ALREADY KNOW WHAT 
  I’M GOING TO SAY. IT’S IN YOUR HAUNT-
  ED EYES, THE CATCH IN YOUR BREATH. 
  IT’S OKAY. WHAT IS COMING COULD  
  NEVER HAVE BEEN AVOIDED. JUST CLOSE 
  YOUR EYES.
  You Who Grow In the Silence Behind the Veil
  OPEN THE DOOR. YOU KNOW THE ONE. 
  YOU’VE ALWAYS KNOWN THE ONE. IT’S THE 
  DOOR, THE DOOR THAT KNOWS THE HUN-
  GER INSIDE. OPEN IT.
  Child of Stars, Child of Omens
  THIS… ISN’T LOOKING GOOD. HMM. YOU 
  SEE, THE THING IS, OH, HOW CAN I PUT 
  THIS? WELL, YOU WOULDN’T BE A FAN OF 
  UNENDING SORROW, BY ANY CHANCE?
  Walker of The Feral Path
  OH BENIGHTED FERAL WAYS! NO, I’M NOT 
  WEEPING AS I GAZE INTO YOUR FUTURE. 
  NO, I DIDN’T FLINCH WHEN I TOOK YOUR 
  HAND. OH, YOU POOR POOR WALKER.
  Blood Friend of the Breathing Shadows
  BLOOD FRIEND, YOU’RE ENTERPRISING 
  AND BRAVE, RIGHT? YOU WOULDN’T BE 
  DAUNTED BY WHAT AN OLD CARRION OAK 
  WHISPERS INTO YOUR KEYHOLE AT NIGHT, 
  RIGHT?
  Crone of the Blood and Bone
  OH CRONE! WALK OUT BENEATH THE PURE 
  LIGHT OF THE HUNTRESS MOTHER MOON. 
  LISTEN TO ITS INSTRUCTIONS. YOU KNOW 
  WHAT MUST BE DONE. GOOD LUCK.
  You Who Have Not Heeded Warnings and Seek That 
  Which You Know Not
   
  OH SEEKER, YOU PIONEER IN SPIRIT! AL-
  WAYS FORGING AHEAD INTO DEEP, DARK 
  , FORBIDDEN PLACES. OPENING LOST FE-
  RAL DOORS. OH! SEEKER? RUN?!
  Child of Impossibility
  IMPOSSIBLE CHILD, BEWARE OF MIRRORS… 
  AND CROWS, AND TREES, AND SHADOWS, 
  AND TEETH, AND FIREFLIES, AND PASTRIES, 
  AND DIVANS, AND THE SKY.
  THE VYSKANT DO NOT EXIST. YOU 
  SHOULD NOT WORRY ABOUT THE 
  VYSKANT. THE VYSKANT ARE 
  UNDER CONTROL. THIS MESSAGE 
  PROVIDED BY THE COUNCIL FOR 
  VYSKANT REFUTATION AND 
  CONTAINMENT
  
  18
  CHRONICLER NOTE:  
  FINAL ENTRY
  I wish I had never taken on the task of debriefing Escatoph 
  Tembrark. Any knowledge he might afford us is not worth 
  this. I know that is heresy, but it is also my sincere belief. As 
  this is my last entry, both as Chronicler and as a Delver, I 
  will let the record stand. 
  I was sifting through a collection of items found in 
  Tembrark’s crypt when I came across a worn leather folio. 
  Inside, I found an intricate papercut mask, completely 
  covered with Katakos glyphs. I foolishly read the glyph 
  on the forehead without erecting any quarantine wards, 
  and thus sealed my fate. The glyphs immediately peeled 
  themselves off, gliding towards my face. 
  I was unable to escape. I felt the cold presence of sorcery 
  as they attached themselves to my skin. From each glyph, 
  shadowy tendrils reached out to the mask and levitated 
  towards my frozen face. The mask pressed itself to my skin 
  and oh, goddess, the things I saw...
  A drow, naked to the waist and maskless, bowing 
  before a beast of metal and sorcery. The beast de-
  scends, curls of metal snaking from its gaping maw 
  and plunging into the body of the waiting elf...
  A woman standing on a barren plain. Her impossi-
  bly long hair flows in inconceivable patterns, drifting 
  through the air. She turns to me and her smile is like 
  a knife wound, too wide and filled with ring upon ring 
  of never-ending saw-edged teeth...
  An obelisk stands alone in a room of pure light. 
  From it, a pool of glistening ichor spreads like a 
  bruise. The surface of the pool begins to churn; then 
  a torrent of dark rain falls upwards into the endless 
  white sky...
  An ancient door stands alone in a forgotten store-
  room, propped against the wall under centuries of 
  dust. Yet there is a sound coming from it. Something 
  is scratching. Something wants to pass through...
  A god of mandibles and obsidian teeth waits for 
  customers behind the counter of his shop. He sniffs 
  the air. Something is wrong. A balance has been 
  disturbed... 
  A band of compatriots look around at the re-
  cent carnage of a battle. The broken metal bodies 
  
  of ancient automatons lie twisted and charred from 
  sorcery and violence. The group looks towards what 
  they had fought to win. A moon-pale child sits asleep 
  upon a translucent crystal throne. The inscription 
  upon the throne reads...
  The smell of blood and burning flesh fills the air. 
  The caretaker fills his lungs and draws the ceremoni-
  al scythe once more across the whispering stone on 
  his lap. Soon the Mistress will wake from her eternal 
  sleep and the final hunt will begin...
  Deep beneath the city, they burrow upward, chit-
  tering to each other. Their hearts pound to the beat of 
  their ancient hate. Soon they will return to what they 
  had been banished from, long ago. Soon all of Spire 
  would cower before the name of...
  The boy whimpers in his sleep, his cot cold and 
  hard. Sorcerous tattoos and brandings cover his skin. 
  He does not know what the robed figures are prepar-
  ing him for, or what The Glorious Husk of Rebirth 
  is. For now he sleeps fitfully, safe for a moment from 
  what lies ahead… 
  The assassin leaps from roof railing to low-hang-
  ing cornice stone. Somewhere behind her, across the 
  maze of grey slate rooftops, something bestial and 
  mechanical roars. She curses under her breath. This 
  was supposed to be a simple job: a low-level city of-
  ficial, minimal security. Something smashes through 
  a grove of chimney spouts. There is nothing simple 
  about this...
  The priests sing hymns of guttural screeching 
  and twisting metal. Their god sleeps, but not forev-
  er. They will sing their deity of metal and wires to 
  life. They will enter into him and become his beating 
  heart. Soon...
  Blood slithers in from every crack and crevice. 
  Three figures are surrounded by it, back to back in 
  the middle of the room. Their hands trace complex 
  wards as they chant, hoarse and desperate. The blood 
  shrieks and circles them, writhing with unnatural life 
  as it gathers itself up for a final strike...
  Then the mask was done with me. It withered, 
  crumbling into ash that smeared across my brow 
  when I tried to wipe it away. Those images are still 
  flashing through my mind as I write this; I doubt I 
  will ever be free of them. Despite all my precautions 
  and study, the madness of the Heart has taken me. I 
  always thought that I would be Chronicler until my 
  death. But this city ruins our best-laid plans, and now 
  I flee my life and my calling. I hope I can salvage what 
  sanity I have left. 
  — Varleis Embryn, Chronicler of the Kata- 
  kos Delvers
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Spire - the City Must Fall/Codex-of-the-Deep-Spire.pdf