The foundations have crumbled. What is left of our once robust numbers are in shambles. Swarms of flies darken the sky, drawn to abandoned food stores. Maggots feast on rotten strips of steak. Fleshy globs of them spill out of cast iron skillets, crawling over one another, trampled upon by the boots of the few remaining men wandering the camp sobbing, screaming, delirious.

I remain huddled within my confines, too afraid to emerge out of fear for men who were once my comrades. Yesterday I saw a man I sang songs with on clear cool nights around the campfire who was always quick with a joke and a smile, bludgeoning another man to death. His bloodshot eyes radiated terror. As he screamed, saliva dripped from his mouth, mingling with the blood that splattered across his gaunt face.

What happened here?

My mind races to recall how our once great and peaceful endeavor to cement our legacy into the very foundations of Myra has come to this. I will lose my sanity or my life. Likely both in the coming days. Of this I am certain, and so, with no prospect of redemption I will attempt to make as my last act a record of what has taken place.

In the days leading to the calamity that has become our nightmare, the foreman and his managers vanished. Following their disappearance, I slipped into the offices of our officials to see what I might discover. Although my search revealed nothing to explain our situation, I stumbled upon the foreman’s personal diary. I intend to include excerpts from this diary in my narrative to bolster the credibility of my testimony. Indeed, without these entries, my own words might fall short of convincingly portraying the depth of our plight.

First, so that you know my character, my name is Galen Thornwick, second son of Torin Thornwick of Frosthold Quarry in the foothills of the Chillrend range. My family oversees an estate near the quarry, a detail well-documented in the membership records of the Stonemasons guild, 5th chapter, Northwest region. Those who know me will bear witness to my constitution.

For the purpose of thoroughness, and in order to give credence to the incomprehensible nature of our current circumstances, I will begin my account from the beginning.

I first descended upon the Crossroads along with 27 members of the Stonemasons guild of my chapter 333 days ago. Our guild, selected to represent our industry by the foreman himself, was to excavate, in conjunction with the 3rd sappers battalion hailing from the South, and lay the footers upon which the gate would rest. An honor of great import.

Our journey was long. As we finally laid eyes on the site, many men, I among them, were moved to tears at the beauty of the sacred site where our endeavors were to occur.

The landscape was breathtaking. At its heart, a serene lake, which the monument would span, with purest water shimmering like a mirror to the heavens, encapsulating the sphere of our endeavors. To the West, the gentle murmurs of converging rivers greeted our approach. To the South, volcanic springs warmed the earth, their steam rising like spirits into the air. To the east an endless forest stretching to the coast, and to our backs, the towering mountain range of my homeland.

Groups of skilled tradesmen like ourselves arrive in the hundreds from every corner of Myra. The foreman, a man of great renown, presided over the sprawling, makeship city taking shape. The entry below marks the first excerpt from his diary, which I will continue to annotate as inscribed below.

1st cycle of Frostfall, Day 1, Year 23 of the Era of Union.

The crew arrives in a great procession from across the land, with more coming every day. My first priority is to greet them all. Our collective spirits are high as we share in the anticipation vibrating in the air. Our task is monumental, but so is our resolve. The unity amongst us, palpable.

I can attest that we shared the foreman’s spirits. In the early days, as

the sun dipped below the horizon and the skies above the Crossroads bloomed with the ethereal glow of twilight, men from every guild and tribe mingled together around a multitude of cooking fires sharing food and conversation. No division was found among us.

As we began to work, construction proceeded quickly.

3rd cycle of Frostfall, Day 6, Year 23 of the Era of Union.

Progress is steady. The camaraderie amongst the men propels us forward. We've begun to lay the foundations near the lake, ensuring every measurement is precise, every stone perfectly aligned. The forests to the east provide ample wood, the rivers to the west, water for our use and to mix the mortar. The land, as if in approval, supports our every step. There's a rhythm to our work, a dance of creation that mirrors the natural harmony surrounding us.

With our specifications, the sappers completed the excavation with efficiency and our crew began setting stone. I found immense joy in the calculations and placements, ensuring each chunk of stone fit together, perfectly tight and strong. The aesthetics of our footing complimented the lay of the land. The gate began to take its shape in the embrace of the land, like a mother cradling her child, as was our intent.

My crew was in the spotlight. Men from guilds yet to begin spent their idle hours watching us work. These men cheered us on, and marveled at our craftsmanship. We relished the opportunity to share our passion for masonry with the others. I felt strong and as proud of my craft as ever.

We completed the footers freeing the other guilds to begin their work in earnest. The sense of teamwork grew even stronger among us then, binding us together as one. A new brotherhood. One of the site managers took to calling us “Monument Men”. The name stuck. A flag was commissioned with the moniker, proudly displayed atop a cedar post in the center of camp.

Our endeavors continued unimpeded throughout the summer into fall. Spirits remained high.

7th cycle of Suncrest, Day 5, Year 23 of the Era of Union.

The monument begins to take shape, a gate rising from the earth in harmony with nature, as if it has always belonged. Today, as the sun set, casting the sky in a surreal purple hue, I couldn't help but feel a part of something greater than myself. This project, a testament to peace and unity, seems to reflect the very essence of the Crossroads. There's magic here... subtle yet profound. I find myself deeply connected to my crew, to this land, and to the vision that guides us.

Not until the chill in the air grew bitter and the wind wrestled the remaining leaves free of the trees surrounding the lake did anyone witness the first signs of trouble. Even the few hints foreshadowing the troubling times that would plague us appeared initially as merely a slight inconvenience. Only in hindsight would these things become indicative of the dramatic change to our trajectory.

10th cycle of Suncrest, Day 9, Year 23 of the Era of Union.

Material we meticulously accounted for are amiss, not merely misplaced but as if the supply vanished into thin air. When questioned, my quartermaster, a fastidious, if peculiar man appeared completely befuddled, whispering of shadows in the night. None other has spoken of such phenomena and while I find it hard to believe any of the Monument Men I’ve come to know would sabotage our mission or steal for personal gain, my role demands pragmatism; thus, I've ordered a re-evaluation of our inventory systems and extra vigilance at night.

Leading the way, our crew in particular began to run into difficulty. Our progress slowed markedly. Once days ahead of schedule, we found ourselves increasingly behind. At first, the generally accepted nature of construction projects becoming delayed, and the reputation of our guild helped abate frustrations. However, inexplicable delays, missteps, and a lack of work for other crews during our troubles eventually gave way to tensions boiling over.

Our once homogenous encampment grew increasingly segregated. Men stuck to their guilds. Fights became more frequent, sleep more restless. Leadership was well aware of our collective deterioration at this point, and began to suspect, it seems, that our efforts had set in motion unforeseen consequences.

2nd cycle of Everdusk, Day 3, Year 23 of the Era of Union.

An inexplicable malaise has settled over the Crossroads. Workers speak of dreams disturbed by visions of the monument crumbling before it stands. I must admit, a restlessness has taken root within me as well. Today, we found the eastern forest's edge encroaching closer to the site than our initial surveys indicated. An impossibility, yet undeniable. I've ordered a temporary halt to construction to reassess our plans and the land itself. There's a part of me that questions if we've disturbed something, a notion I would've scoffed at weeks ago.

4th cycle of Everdusk, Day 7, Year 23 of the Era of Union.

The unity that once bound us now frays at the edges. The men look to me for answers I do not possess. Strange occurrences increasingly arrest our progress—Today, a chilling fog rolled in from the lake, lingering unnaturally before dissipating at dawn, revealing changes to the landscape that defy explanation. My logical mind struggles to find reason where there seems to be none. Tonight, I will walk the site alone, seeking understanding, or perhaps, acceptance that we are delving into realms beyond our mastery.

In the wake of these strange events, our chief mason, a man with generations of history within our guild, grew feverish and nervous. I suspected this was due to the mounting pressure of our failures. I found him crumpled in the mud near my tent one night howling in a panic going on about his doppelganger waving him to the edge of the forest, where he witnessed this version of himself throw a flaming cloth upon a pile of construction timbers as if it were a funeral pyre before disappearing into the shadows. I investigated, but found nothing. No fire. No coals. No missing material.

He died the following morning, the first of far too many casualties. He was crushed when a timber support, struck by lightning during an unexpected storm, caused a stone to dislodge. From that point forward, the land itself seemed to rise against us, hammering us down like nails into our coffin.

9th cycle of Everdusk, Day 4, Year 23 of the Era of Union.

Chaos reigns. The landscape around the Crossroads mocks the very essence of nature. Rivers flow backward. Distant mountains seem to loom closer each night. Steam smelling of foul gas rises from the earth, as if the land itself exhales its dismay. Voices of confusion echo through the forest like fragments of a shattered mirror, each piece reflecting a disjointed sliver of the whole. My crew, desperate and overwhelmed, cram their belongings into makeshift bags, caught between a desire to flee and a duty to stay. My leadership is questioned, not openly, but in the fearful glances and hushed conversations that cease upon my approach. I stand on the precipice of an uncanny valley, the world I knew transformed into a grotesque caricature of itself.

We should have fled. The feeling was palpable, but pride would not allow us to give voice to our terror. We dug in our heels forcing our will upon a sacred place that no longer accepted our presence. We became a blight. Our glorious monument, no longer a harmonious beacon of the magic of this place twisted into a grotesque scar. And yet we continued, blind to our rage. Like men adrift on a ship we sailed into the eye of the storm, shaking our fists at the catastrophic waves curling beyond.

We struggled on for a few weeks more. Sickness spread throughout our ranks accompanied by fevers and delirium. Depression rampant. Death commonplace.

11th cycle of Everdusk, Day 1, Year 23 of the Era of Union.

The land changes, unsettled by our hands. At night, dreams blur into waking hours, leaving us restless. The monument, meant to represent our unity, has become a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong. My stomach grinds as a millstone within my belly and my spirit frays at the edges as if pulled asunder. We have broken something here and somehow fractured ourselves in our arrogance. I fear the consequences will be severe and extend beyond this place to every corner of Myra.

The last entry. One day before the Foreman and his senior staff went missing along with most of the workers. Since then, the situation amongst the few of us who remain has deteriorated into utter depravity. The sun refuses to set, time stands still. I cannot tell if I am asleep or awake. I see Myra becoming undone as I myself am undone in an endless procession.

My old acquaintance has found me. He sits by a fire a hundred paces away, brushing dirty hands on his blood soaked shirt, singing as he used to but with no humor or smile. His song is guttural, sung as if in a trance. He stares at me with violence in his eyes, but has made no advance. He stalks me like a cat, waiting for the right opportunity. I weep, knowing my end is near. I long for it to come, yet find I can not face it without trepidation in these final hours.

Hear me, I beg you. Let my final words not fall upon deaf ears. I have written this missive truthfully and to the very best of my abilities, doing what I can to convey what has befallen us.

I know this will not deliver me. It is too late for me. Something is broken within that rends my very soul. My only hope is that something in this tale can be found to save Myra.

My friend waits no more. He approaches me now as a lion descending upon a lamb. I look once more to the sky, accepting my fate with the resignation of a beaten donkey. I am ready to die. I leave the rest now to you.

Galen.

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