Personal Reflections: Ja'acob Hardfoot

This book is unique to the Hadfoot Manor and was never published. It is written in the deceased cleric's hand. The following is an introduction to the book.

The world is a forge, heating to white-hot tension in anticipation of the Crossing of Swords. The peoples of Aerith, their hearts aflame with righteous anger, hammer at the anvil, forging a defense against the coming darkness. It is a glorious sight, a testament to the spirit of our people.

Yet, a cold dread gnaws at my core. For while the enemy is a tangible threat, there are shadows deeper, more insidious. The Wolf, the Boy, and the Warrior - these figures loom in the prophecy, their roles as mysterious as the depths of the earth. Are they allies, or foes? Or perhaps something else entirely?

I cannot stand idly by. The weight of this knowledge bears down upon me like a mountain. I must find them, guide them, or at least prepare for their arrival. A plan is forming, a desperate gamble: the Great Machine. A fusion of ancient dwarven wisdom and the burgeoning knowledge of the surface world. It will be a beacon, a searchlight piercing the gloom. To build it will be a Herculean task, but the fate of the world may depend on it...

Selected Excerpts

The Unsolvable Equation… Hours turn to days as I delve deeper. Prayer is my constant companion. The solution seems so close, yet perpetually out of reach. Energy (E) is measurable, magical power (Ω) can be quantified. But faith (ɸ)… ah, there lies the crux.

Everything in creation, it is said, can be measured. If this is true, then surely faith, too, must be quantifiable. Our sacred texts speak of “little faith” - a clear implication of gradation. We may lack the tools, but the principle must hold. ɸ, then, is the missing piece.

Our sacred texts proclaim faith as the ultimate power, surpassing even love. Yet, its fragility is evident. I hypothesize that faith's true form is a delicate balance of authenticity and expression. Those deeply rooted in faith require no external validation, while those who flaunt their beliefs often reveal a foundation of doubt.

Is this the answer? My hand trembles as I write. Twenty-three days without food. Sight fades, strength wanes, yet the Creator’s presence grows. A hum, not in my ears, but in my bones. A deep, resonant vibration.

Madness creeps in as my body weakens. This equation, absurd at first glance, now dominates my thoughts. Is there something here? I cannot say. My mind clouds, my vision blurs.

∞ = ɸ² / EΩ

The Great Machine is finished. Theoretically, we can now bridge the gap to the Divine. Terror gnaws at me as I contemplate the implications—the potential for abuse and devastation—yet I must persist. Few know of my work, and I pray it remains hidden, untouched by corrupt hands.

The war with the Belaithaman intensifies, and reports are grim. A summons has arrived, demanding my presence at a summit between our world and theirs. Duty calls, but my heart remains with the equation. The Three must be found. Upon them, everything hinges.

I do not comprehend. The machine functions, yet yields no results. I've scrutinized every component, every connection. We touch the Divine, the machine reads the Creator’s will. But where are the answers? The Three remain elusive.

I have failed, and with my failure, the world. Betrayal, swift and merciless, has claimed my king. I shut down the Great Machine, a monument to my folly. Had I been at his side, perhaps the outcome would have been different. Maybe I could have stopped the Belaithin, saved those at the summit. Or perhaps I, too, would be among the fallen. Death, in some ways, would be a kinder release from this crushing weight of guilt and grief.

A sacred duty remains. The Aethelred bloodline must endure. My king leaves a solitary heir. I depart now to find and protect this child.

The Great Machine is a failure, but I cannot bring myself to destroy it. I leave it in A’aronomyst’s care.