Scion of the House

Taken from the personal journals of one E. A. Poe, sealed deep within the vaults of one of his literary peers and correspondents:

"The horrors visited upon poor Roderick and his wife cannot be attributed to anyone else.

What possessed them to research the realms of Fear as a weapon, I can only hope was an outside influence of Diabolic nature. To cast backwards and forwards in Time in search of primordial Fears, elemental designs of undoing meant by definition to be avoided, as a means to oppose the Triat, is to go in search of madness, to seek unhinging.

Indeed, in the end, I believe his final, frenetic castings with his guitar were not a further attempt to find Fear... I believe, rather, that they had discovered more than they had intended. It is my reluctant opinion that something had found them, and quite taken her by the time of my arrival; his fantastic castings were no longer in the vein of Seeking, but, instead, final desperate attempts to escape what sought him, using the only means he had, and the only instrument he did not yet fear.

I had hoped to escape this encounter unscathed, relatively, and perhaps make this record unremarkable. Despite myself, however, I had to turn from my flight, back to those ancient and now purposeless catacombs. It is my damnation that my dreams have never been wrong, and, as a weak mewling and crying came to me from within, my wretched heart fell as I knew they had once again proven prophetic.

The child is small, underdeveloped. It was born premature, I expect, forced from it's terrified mother's belly at some point during her last convulsive revival. As we travel, everything seems to go awry, as though Fate herself has turned against us... and yet... nothing has harmed myself or the newborn. Any carriage offering transport has overturned, broken down, or, in one case, been taken by a desperate murderer, the weather would seem seem to herald Armageddon itself, paths disappear, wash out, or become untenable, and wolves... or worse... are ever just out of sight on each side. Nevertheless, the child is never ill, and, apart from a misery comparable to Damocles' own impending doom, I am, as yet, unscathed.

Still, the child radiates inestimable power. I am almost certain forces are hunting for it by now, and am really rather surprised no-one has claimed him as yet. To my distress, however, he seems intimately tied to the strings of Fate herself... and I have seen glimpses of my own through him.

I am not certain as to the nature of my end... but I know I shall be fortunate to see more than another ten years. I look forward to passing this burden to someone better able to carry it."