A general, boring title to cover all campaigns

 24 th of January 1884 This autumn we’ve been wandering in the shadows, fighting amorphous enemies hiding in mist and darkness. The real foes eternally out of reach, hidden behind ever new veils of deceit. Admittedly, planting some well-positioned rounds of ammunition squarely in the heads, chests and deformed extremities of both otherworldly beings and their decidedly mortal human agents affords one with a not unreasonable measure of satisfaction. But it feels insufficient, lacking, inadequate, scant. In short: Not bloody good enough. I find myself consumed with desire. No no, not for THAT, you randy chur! (Although that’s honestly speaking quite frequently at the top of one’s mind, it must be said.) Rather, my heart burns feverishly with a craving to grievously harm, molest and dismember the actual culprits behind all the awful machinations we’ve uncovered. And praise be to whatever nonsense-being you deign to call creator: My eyes are opened. Our recent sojourn to the seclu...

We meet at Smythe-Higgins' humble abode. Christmas is soon upon us, and it is bustling with preparations for the festivities. I can't wait for them to be over, but Henry's copious supplies of hard liquor lets me put my mind to other matters; what actions to take next. The host himself is in favor of investingating Holcom industries, more precisely their headquarters. Mr Whitcomb argues we should visit the church of the mad monk; if we touch the stone, the Dreamer will arrive. I bring up the point that, as with all criminal enterprises, only a very small minority will have any interesting insight. In other words, trying to find what we are looking for at Holcom will, once again be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Prickly, and almost certainly futile. Regarding the mad monk, Clithanus lived in the 5th century, the book about his life and work is from the 17th century. So if the good sir Markham is right, we are not in any kind of hurry. So, all of us return to our ...

The Aftermath of Tragedy Reeling from the loss of our loyal foreman, Thomas Beckett, we find ourselves grappling with a reality far removed from the orderly world we once assumed. We begin to discern the outline of a terrible design, yet we possess too few pieces of this puzzle. Any misstep may bring immediate, catastrophic consequences. We must remain out of sight, irritating this cult through indirect means rather than direct confrontation. We chose to bypass Detective Inspector Smythe-Higgins' channels at Scotland Yard to locate the address of Edwin Markham, securing it instead through the post office directory. We dispatched our more agile companions to reconnoiter. As I should have anticipated, their reconnaissance quickly escalated into direct action. An assessment of the group I feel it necessary to record my observations on our companions' mental fortitude. Reggie remains remarkably even-keeled. His upbringing, career, and a healthy portion of British resolve keep him s...

A Renewed Resolve For too long, I have been asleep to the world. Following my father's tragic descent into a catatonic state, and the vile circumstances that brought it about, I must confess I fell into a familiar, dark despair—seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle.  But no longer. Now that we are closing in upon the men responsible, I find myself invigorated with new resolve. My father shall be avenged. Those responsible will be exposed and punished, and this evil rooted out from the streets of London. The tunnels and the cavern Taking the masks and cloaks from the two fallen cultists, we pressed on swiftly and quietly. There was little time to waste; our previous gunfire might well have alerted accomplices further ahead. The tunnel walls were littered with strange, occult symbols. They were everywhere. Recognizing none of them, we remained oblivious to their meaning. Were they a warning? Were we marching toward our own deaths? Soon, we entered a vast, seemingly natural cavern....

Wedensday, 21st of november, 1883 At the risk of seeming immodest, I must say that having my prediction about a secret tunnel system with entrances at the marked points of the maps confirmed, was quite a buzz. However, upon returning to our makeshift base, my compatriots rapidly descend into a rather tedious discussion about our options going forward. Whitcombe, true to form, insists on exploring ways to challenge the cabal we're hunting through the "appropriate channels". Thankfully, our resident actual lawman, Reggie, quickly disavows him of that notion. For a rozzer, he has an admirably cynical view of the limits of the law when it collides with power. I must say my participation in the debate was rather sparse, except to suggest that the best cure for the lunacy our opponents are engaged in would be an acute case of lead poisoning delivered at great velocity at short range, preferably intercranially. For my money, the way forward is rather obvious: We find the other e...

The diary We retired once again to Edward's home, where I set upon Lawther's diary with considerable eagerness. The three met entirely by chance at college, discovering their interests and temperaments aligned despite their differing vocations. Leslie provided the intellectual foundation for the device, Bartley applied his engineering skills to refine it, and Lawther rendered the prototype drawings. Once the contraption was constructed, they required test subjects. Leslie, by then employed in the hospital mortuary department, arranged for an initial trial upon a cadaver, which proved unsuccessful. He then made the fateful decision to test the apparatus upon a comatose patient. Lawther notes the patient was terminal in any case, but the scandal, when discovered, was considerable. From Lawther's perspective, that concluded the enterprise. They remained friends but abandoned the machine entirely. Two years hence, Lawther learns that Leslie has been invited to join the Pacific ...