20 August 2024
Tuesday. The house keeps a ledger of every party that enters my graveyard and how each evening ends. I asked to see it. I was shown it on a glowing slate by a gamesmaster who had to explain to me what a glowing slate was.
The ledger agrees with me. More parties stay for the blood moon than leave before it rises. The margin is narrower than I would like, and I blame the notebook.
The ones who beat me tend to have done this sort of thing before. They read every page of the Professor’s scribbles, they share what they find, and they do not sulk when the gamesmaster offers a hint. I would sulk. A nobleman sulks properly or not at all.
First-time parties do manage it now and then, especially when one among them has tried a room or two elsewhere. I find this deeply unfair and have said so to Reginald, who sleeps through all my best complaints.
The house rates my crypt seven out of ten. I asked who was the ten. Nobody would tell me.
— D.
