Attention All Readers:

This story contains material that may not be suitable for all viewers, such as high detail in sexually explicit and violent scenes, as well as the use of alcohol and foul language.

This story contains content that belongs to BLIZZARD ENTERTAINMENT, not me. Things such as Gilneas, King Genn Greymane, Lord Godfrey, the whispers, etc. I do not claim ownership or credit for these explicitly BLIZZARD ENTERTAINMENT items.

August 30th,

Strange things are beginning to happen in Gilneas. King Greymane privately met with Lord Godfrey and the noble council in his manor on the 27th. It has been three days now and they still have not told us why. The council has decided to order an 8 o'clock curfew on the entirety of Gilneas City, and has encouraged us to exercise caution when alone, as well as travel in pairs. When antagonized by the local newspapers, Lord Godfrey released a statement that it was, "just a government issue," which, "will be resolved soon". But I ask this: If it's purely economical, then why are we urged to stay inside?

I've picked up a journal of my own to document the strange course of events that have plagued Gilneas, in case something were to happen to me. And if that were to occur, please know that I am not the only one in the Costello house. My mother, Elaina, is 43 years old. My name is Heather Michelle Costello, and I am 17 years old. My two younger siblings are Harris and Charles. They are both 11 years old and twins. My father is not in the Costello home. He was killed in battle during the Gilneas Civil War against the Northgate Rebellion. I am worried for our family and our safety.

- Heather Costello

"Flee screaming into the Black Forest…"

"There is a little lamb lost in dark woods…"

"Have you had the dream again? The black beast with golden eyes that watches from the outside…"

"It is right behind you. Do not move. Do not breathe."

"The rook watches from the trees. Nothing breathes beneath its shadow…" "

The staring houses in the backwoods always dream…" "

Have you had the dream again? The black beast… watches from the outside…"

Heather woke up in a frenzied haze, flinging herself into a sitting position and whipping her fists outward in a flurry of motion. Her breath was trapped in her lungs for a moment, a feeling of panic rising in her stomach. After several croaks of her throat, she could breathe again, gasping and hyperventilating. Her body was dry but her hands and feet broke out into a cold sweat. Her blue eyes scanned the room with a sense of urgency; moving from the drafty with door to her right, to her ancient chest-of-drawers, then to the hot kerosene lantern on the bedside to her left, then to the cool, fogged window along the left wall. Nothing. Nothing but the familiar soft patter of the regular rain against the glass. Then who was speaking to her? Was it a dream? Heather slowly slipped out of bed and moved to her drawers, exchanging her soft white nightdress for an olive green gown. It was lightweight and breezy, skirting just above her knees. She buttoned up the top front of her dress and adjusted in the flowery, puffed shoulder sleeves. After brushing her long, jet black hair and putting it back in a wide metal clasp, she slipped into her black strapped shoes and made her way downstairs. It was dusk by now, and as she got to the foot of the stairs, her family had congregated in the cramped sitting room. Her mother was huddled over the coal stove with tea the twins, Harris and Charles, were playing chess across their knees.

"When will this rain ever stop? My whole life has been filled with this bloody rain!" Harris brayed out his complaint in a shrill, proper Gilnean accent, angrily twirling a finger through his bright red hair.

"Watch your language, Harris!" Their mother barked, still hunched over the stove. Honey-seasoned lamb started to fill the air. "Good evening, Heather."

"Evening, Mama." Heather said in response.

"Checkmate!" Crowed Charles happily.

"Gah, I hate this game! It's so stupid!" Harris squealed underneath his curly red mop, Charles roaring of laughter beneath his equally sanguine hair. In a fit of frustration, Harris flipped the chessboard, sending black and white rooks and knights sprawling every which way onto the kingly rug.

"HARRIS!" Their mother howled from over the stove, whipping her head over her shoulder, her face contorted into anger. But before she could proceed further, Heather joined her over the stove by the lamb and tea, moving behind the counter for a ladle. She dipped it into the pot, stirring the hot contents a few moments before setting it on the counter.

"Heather, could you go out to the icebox and grab a few jarred peaches?" Her mother cooed, her eyes still trained on the honey lamb.

Due to the steady and unrelenting rain that forever blanketed Gilneas, very few crops were able to grow in the waterlogged soil. This resulted in a moderately limited variety of fruits and vegetables, but so far, Gilneas had managed to survive on peaches. Nodding, Heather popped open the drafty back door and made her way out to the cellar...

... But it was open. The cellar door was wide open like a rickety, thirsty mouth gaping fore the rain droplets. She approached the open cellar door with extreme caution, seeing as the cellar door was always, ALWAYS locked from the outside. You had to be a Costello to open that door, and no one in that household had a habit of leaving things open. As Heather reached the hinges, she paused to listen for movement in the dead space below. Nothing but the sound of cool rain landing on the moldy wooden steps. The doors had been opened long enough to let the wooden stairway soak through with rainwater, turning it into a slippery terrain. Heather lifted carefully off of the bottom step when a noise made her stop short. It wasn't a very convincing and pronounced sound. It was just a slight, almost inaudible tap - like a small piece of metal clinking against a wall. She continued toward the icebox, exercising great caution and keeping her ears sensitive. A feeling of great panic rose in her stomach, and the feeling of watchful eyes was burning into the back of her skull. Then a sound that was much louder than the first; the sound of what seemed to be like a barefoot scraping across cobblestone. The voice that haunted her in her dreams just this afternoon - the howling that chased her through dreams of black and gold - echoed in her ears.

"It is right behind you. Do not move. Do not breathe." She felt a hot, damp breath roll across her cheek and right shoulder.

Heather screamed uncontrollably in the rickety, moldy cellar and in one swift movement, balled up her right fist and flung it over her shoulder. She felt her fingers blow against something that was cold and moist, and whoever was hit shuffled backward, giving Heather enough time to dash past them. Rushing upstairs in a one-man stampede, not once did Heather look back. She was too busy desperately grasping for the exit; getting out of this decrepit hellhole and into the open where she could not be cornered. Slipping every which way, Heather's chest heaved with terror and panic as she sprinted for the back door, her leather shoes ruined by the mud. She did not care - anything to get into the house and away from whoever was in that cellar. She burst through the back door, throwing the bolt shut as she embraced the door with her back. Melting into a sitting position, she sat starry-eyed and wired, almost becoming violently sick on the floor. But before she could let the harsh realization kick in and begin crying in fright, she noticed her mother huddled at the front door. Elaina Costello kept her posture strong at the door, cracking it just far enough for her face to show. The rest of her plump frame was tucked behind the oak door. Her alabaster face was pale with worry.

"A... a what?" Her mother stammered at the two men crowding the cobblestone steps leading to their door. Heather could not comprehend their soft spoken tones. "They were... where? Where was he? ... The Watergate-? HERE?! Come inside out of the rain right now. I have some tea. Please come rest and explain."

Both Heather and the twins felt the graveness in her voice, and Harris and Charles trailed their older sister up the stairs. They soon disappeared into their shared room, and Heather slipped into hers to change her soaked clothes. She found a soft wine-colored shawl to go over her white blouse, and a napped black skirt that fell to her ankles. As she descended the stairs, the two men came into view.

The older of the two was Investigator Farly, a heavyset man in his 50's with a thinning scalp and thick mustache. He was the one that came to Heather's mother when her father died. He only came around when there was a death. He was a harbinger of trouble. The second man was Officer Baron Cromwell. Baron was two years older than Heather, and they had attended the same school together. Heather had a soft spot for Baron, and on many occasions he seemed to display the same fondness in turn. His eyes were a brilliant ocean blue, and his shortly-cut light blonde hair sat in stark contrast to his naturally tanned skin. They both sat by the coaxing fire with tea, their navy coats and and hats displaying the standard Gilneas symbol.

"Mrs. Costello, we're sorry, but there's been an... an incident. We found a man by the name of Walter Scott. Do you know anyone by that name?" Heather's mother sat uncomfortably quiet for a few moments, racking her memory for recollection. "No, I do not believe I have."

"He was a lower level church official and a member of the men's choir."

Her mother smiled sadly, "Oh, no then. We do not attend church." Being the religious man that he was, Archibald Farley sat wordless for a moment, his eyes narrowing with minor disdain.

"- He was found about a half hour ago," Baron Cromwell cut in, "in the divets along the western Watergate. He was-," He stopped short noticing Heather at the stair. His eyes softened; he had always liked how Heather's hair curled at the ends when it was wet, its rich blackness in contrast to her porcelain face. He lowered his voice, but Heather could still hear.

"- He was decapitated. Well, nearly - it was a clean cut almost all the way through. Abrasions on the chest suggest it was someone big. Have you seen or heard anything suspicious?" His eyes were trained on Elaina Costello now.

"By Heavens! That is hideous! I wish I could help you two, but I've seen nothing out of the ordinary. I'm so, so sorry." She cried, aghast.

"It's alright, Mrs. Costello. Heather? Have you?" Heather stood stock still, feeling her face flush and burn. She thought back to her run in with gods know who in the cellar.

"... No."