# The Journal of the Penitent

*A player-facing handout, followed by a DM key. Names, dates, and the entity's true name are placeholders — rename freely to fit your setting.*

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## The Prop Itself (read aloud when found)

> A slim volume bound in undyed leather, gone grey with age. No title. The spine has been rebroken and resewn at least twice — by the same hand, judging by the thread. The pages are good rag paper, which is why they survived; the ink has browned but holds. Tucked into the rear cover is a pressed sprig of rue, crumbled nearly to dust.
>
> On the inside cover, in a controlled, clerkish hand:
>
> *"If you have found this room, you have already found the crime. This book is the confession. Read all of it or none of it. — M.V."*

---

## The Entries

*Dated by the city's founding charter. The guild's own founding falls in Year 43. The hand is the same throughout, though it degrades in the later entries.*

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### Year 31 of the Charter — *Recruitment*

They do not ask you to kill anyone, at first. That is the thing no one understands about the Tollhouse. They ask you to *witness*. I stood in the room while Harrow worked, and I was told only to watch the dying man's face and tell them the moment it emptied. I thought I was learning the trade. I was being weighed.

I was nineteen. I owed the moneylender Cassia forty crowns and my sister's indenture. The Tollhouse paid both before they ever told me their name. I have since learned this is how it always begins — they find you already in debt, so that debt feels ordinary to you. So that when they finally explain what the city owes, and to whom, you will nod as if it were only arithmetic.

It is only arithmetic. That is the horror entire. I have never met a Tollman who enjoyed the work. I have met twelve who believed in it.

---

### Year 33 — *The Teaching*

Harrow taught me the marking tonight, and I record it here against every oath I will one day swear, because the day will come when someone must know how to *recognize* it, and by then all of us who could teach it will be dead. I intend to be one of the dead. Let this page be the teacher instead.

The mark is not made with the blade. It is made with the *visit*. You go to the debtor — that is what we called them, the debtors, never the targets — you go openly, in daylight if you can, and you speak with them. It does not matter what is said. What matters is the three gestures woven into ordinary courtesy: the touch of the doorframe on entering, the coin turned once on the table between you, and the parting word spoken in the old tongue under the breath of a common farewell. I will not write the word. I will write everything else in this book, but not the word. If you have found this journal to fight what I fought, you do not need it. If you have found it for any other reason, the missing word is the last mercy I have to offer you, and I know already it will not be enough.

Know the signs instead. A marked debtor sleeps poorly and does not know why. Dogs refuse them. Their shadow at dusk falls a half-breath late — you must watch for it, but once seen it cannot be unseen. Milk sours in their house. A priest with the true sight will see a hairline seam of grey light at the base of the throat, like a cracked glaze on pottery. The mark ripens in nine days and holds for ninety. The kill must come within that window or the mark sloughs off and the labor is wasted.

Between the marking and the kill, the debtor may be saved. Break the seam — consecration will do it, or the debtor's own genuine forgiveness of the grievance that named them, which is rarer than consecration. After the kill there is no saving anyone. Remember that. Nine days at the least. There is always time, if anyone knows to look.

---

### Year 34 — *First Harvest*

The kill itself is nothing. I want that recorded plainly because the ballads people will someday write about us — if any of this is ever known — will want it to be monstrous, and it is worse than monstrous. It is *clean*. A marked debtor dies like anyone dies. Quickly, if you are good, and I was good. What is different is the moment after, which only the killer feels: a direction. Every death I had seen before had a rising to it, or at worst a dispersal, like breath in cold air. This one had a *down*. Something below the city inhaled, and the man I killed went into it the way water finds a drain, and the drain said my name in a voice like a signature being written.

Three days later Harrow put the coin in my hand. Still warm. They are always warm at first — they cool over about a season, and a Tollman can tell a coin's age by the heat of it. It had the man's face on neither side. I do not know why I expected his face. It has the same face all of them have, which I will not describe, because you have either seen it or you have been spared.

I told myself: the city stands because of this. I told myself the pact was made before I was born and would be paid whether my hands did the work or worse hands did. Both of these things were true. I want whoever reads this to understand that everything the Tollhouse believes is *true*, and it does not matter, and learning that it does not matter took me nine years and cost the city forty-one souls that I minted personally. I keep their names on the last page. Read them. They are the reason this book exists.

---

### Year 36 — *The Terms*

I have now seen the Charter Below with my own eyes — the true founding document, of which the one in the civic archive is the sanitized twin. Vessel-Keeper Odran allowed it, as my initiation into the inner Tollhouse. I copy its substance here from memory, and my memory is exact; the Chain I wore in those years saw to that.

The counterparty names itself **OZHMIRRATH**, and signs as **the Undersigned**. The founders — all six signatures are there, and yes, all six, including the two whose statues stand in Temple Square — pledged the following:

- **The Consideration.** The city shall know prosperity: her wells sweet, her walls unbreached, her plagues passing her by, her trade favored. This has held. Understand that it has held. Every generation of this city's good fortune has been *purchased*, and the purchase is the next clause.
- **The Tithe.** One hundred souls the first year, and thereafter a tithe assessed each year at one soul per five hundred living residents, delivered marked and minted. The city has grown. Do that arithmetic and then sit with it awhile, as I have.
- **The Instrument.** The Undersigned appoints and empowers collectors; grants them the marking, the minting, and a commission of the harvest, paid in gifts and in coin. (These gifts are real. I still carry some of them in my body and expect to die of their absence rather than of age.)
- **Arrears.** Unpaid tithe compounds — one part in ten, annually. The Undersigned describes itself as *patient* in the same clause. I have come to understand these are the two most frightening words in the document.
- **The Default.** Should arrears exceed one full generation's assessment, the Undersigned may **foreclose upon the collateral**. The collateral is defined in the first line of the Charter. The collateral is the city. Not its buildings. The word used is *"the city, whole, and all souls resident therein at the hour of default."*

There is no dissolution clause. I looked. Odran laughed when he saw me looking and said the young ones always look. But a contract with no exit is not the same as a contract with no *flaw*, and I record my one observation on this matter in the entry of Year 42, where it belongs, next to what it cost.

---

### Year 38 — *The Vault*

Below the Tollhouse's chapter-room, behind the third false wall, the vault. I had imagined a treasury. It is closer to a granary, and that is the detail I cannot put down: the coins are not displayed or counted into chests, they are *heaped*, they are shoveled at season's end, and when the heap shifts in the night it makes a sound like a congregation whispering the same word out of unison.

Odran says the Undersigned draws down the vault from below, in its own time, like a root system. The heap never grows past a certain height no matter how much we pay in. Payment is not delivery to a place. Payment is *permission to digest*.

A partly spent coin — and some come back to us partly spent, when a collector dies and their regalia is recovered — whispers if you hold it to your ear in a quiet room. A full coin does not whisper. A full coin *listens*. I have started sleeping with wax in my ears and I no longer keep my commission in my sleeping room, and Harrow noticed both, and said nothing, and that was when I first knew Harrow was further along the same road I was on.

---

### Year 40 — *The Ledger Does Not Balance*

The realization, when it finally came, was an accountant's realization, and I am ashamed it took no better form. The tithe rises with the population. The population rises with the prosperity. The prosperity *is the payment for the tithe.* The contract is a millstone built to turn faster the longer it turns. There is no year in which the city grows prosperous enough to owe nothing; the owing is the engine of the prosperity. The founders did not buy the city a blessing. They sold it a mortgage that cannot amortize, and we, the Tollhouse, are not priests or judges or even murderers, principally. We are the *interest*.

Forty-one names on my last page. I stopped adding to it this year. Harrow stopped two years before me and hid it better. There are three of us now — Harrow, myself, and the boy Ferren, who never believed at all and only ever pretended, which I think makes him the best of us.

Twelve believers remain, and Odran, who is something worse than a believer. And below us all, the Undersigned, which has begun to notice that its instrument is going dull.

---

### Year 42 — *The Flaw*

Set down here so it survives me, whatever else does not:

The Charter empowers *collectors*. It defines a collector as one who has performed the marking and the minting and accepted commission. It nowhere obliges the Undersigned's counterparty — the city — to *supply* collectors. The founders bound their heirs to owe. They did not, because they could not imagine it necessary, bind their heirs to *collect*.

If every collector dies, and no new one is taught, the debt still compounds — I do not pretend otherwise — but the Undersigned cannot harvest a single soul by itself. It has no hands. It has never had hands. It has only ever had *us*, and its patience, and the certainty that debt makes its own collectors eventually.

So the plan is not victory. I want that understood by whoever reads this in whatever bad year has made them read it. The plan is *delay* — a delay measured in the time it takes the Undersigned to find and tutor new hands, which we intend to make as close to forever as fire and forgetting can make it. We will kill the Tollhouse, burn the teachings, and then build over the grave a thing whose every law makes the harvest impossible without ever once saying its name. A lock that does not describe its key.

Harrow calls this cowardice dressed as strategy — says we should publish everything, warn the whole city, let the temples stand guard forever in the open. Harrow is wrong, and here is why, and I want my reasoning on the record in case I am the one who is wrong: **a prohibition is a recipe read backward.** Write "no soul shall be taken by mark and coin" into any codex and you have told every ambitious reader for the next thousand years that souls *can* be taken by mark and coin, and that the method was important enough to ban. Secrets rot. Written warnings ferment. The only teaching that cannot be perverted is the one that does not exist.

And yet here I sit, writing this book. Harrow, if you ever read this: you were half right. I could not make the teaching not exist. I could only decide who I trusted to find it, and I have chosen — you will see where I leave it, and you will understand who I meant it for, and it was never us.

---

### Year 43, spring — *The Purge*

It is done and I will write it once and not again.

We took them at the season's reconciliation, when the whole Tollhouse gathers to count the payment in. Ferren sealed the doors. Harrow and I did the work. Twelve believers and Odran. I will not pretend it was a battle; it was our trade, performed on colleagues, and we were the best of them, which is why it worked and also why it will never stop playing behind my eyes.

The names, because someone must keep even these: Odran, called Vessel-Keeper. Sarel. The twins Marek and Maros. Ivenne. Old Tesh. Callo. Wren-of-the-Gate. Bettany. Kirse. Aldous the Younger. Pale Junna.

That is twelve, with Odran. The thirteenth was **Corvisser**, and Corvisser was not in the room.

We hunted him eleven days. Ferren swears he took Corvisser in the water-gate tunnel and saw the body go under the sluice. Ferren does not lie. But the sluice was in flood, no body surfaced downstream, and Corvisser had been Odran's courier to the founders' descendants — he knew names outside the Tollhouse that even I was never given. I have spent nights since arguing myself into Ferren's certainty and mornings arguing myself out of it.

If the harvest ever returns to this city, look first for an old man with a courier's habits, or for the family he ran to. I pray this line is the paranoia of a tired killer. I have prayed for stranger things and had them refused.

---

### Year 43, autumn — *What We Built*

The charter of the new guild is signed. To the city it is a killers' cartel agreeing to rules, and the city is relieved, and it should be, though not for the reasons it thinks.

I record here — once, in this book only — what the codex is actually for. We drafted every clause twice: once for the reason we would say aloud, and once for the true reason, which we spoke only in the Reconciliation Room and never wrote until now.

**"The kill, once sanctioned, follows the warning within the closing of a hand of days."** *Spoken reason:* mercy; a debtor should not live long under the axe. *True reason:* the mark needs nine days to ripen. A kill inside five days harvests nothing. We built the calendar of killing to be too fast for the Undersigned's digestion.

**"Every kill is claimed openly under the guild's seal."** *Spoken reason:* honor; no innocent shall hang for our work. *True reason:* the seal is half of an audit. The other half belongs to the temple. Which brings me to—

**The Reconciliation.** Each season, one elder of the guild and one keeper from the Temple of the Threshold meet in the room where this book rests, and lay ledger against ledger: our sealed kills against their record of souls *arrived*. Every name must appear in both books. A name in ours and not in theirs means a soul that went *down* instead of *on*, and the compact we have sworn with the temple is that such a discrepancy is treated as the gravest crime the guild can commit — investigated by both houses, together, before the season turns. This is the tripwire. Everything else is architecture; this is the tripwire. If it is ever allowed to lapse, the rest of the codex is a wall with an unlocked gate.

**"No contract without proof of grievance."** *True reason:* the Tollhouse chose its debtors freely, or manufactured cause. Binding every death to a real, demonstrated, *external* wrong takes the choosing of the dead out of the killers' hands. A harvester needs volume and selection. The grievance rule denies both.

**"The blood-debt closes with the kill; retaliation is forbidden and the guild enforces the closing."** *True reason:* grudges were our raw material. A feud is a seam of ore; the Tollhouse mined feuds for generations of "justified" marks. We seal every vein as we go.

**"The kill shall be swift and without suffering, and no harm shall touch any but the named."** *Spoken reason:* we are not torturers. *True reason:* this one, at least, we also meant.

Ferren asked me tonight whether it does not terrify me that in three generations the guild will keep these laws devoutly and know none of the reasons. I told him the truth: it is the only version that *works*. The reasons are the danger. A guild that knows why the gate is locked will one day produce a member who wants to see the other side. A guild that simply knows the gate is *sacred* will defend it forever without once looking at it.

I believed that when I said it. Most nights I still do.

---

### Year 44 — *The Temple's Keeping*

One more thing set down, because it is not mine to destroy and I will not carry the only knowledge of it into the ground.

A soul minted is not a soul destroyed — not at once. The coin spends, and what is spent is gone past any god's reach; but what remains in an unspent or part-spent coin is a person, folded and cold and *recoverable*. The Tollhouse knew this and did not care. The Temple of the Threshold knew it and cared enormously: in the worst years, their keepers ransomed coins from corrupt collectors and performed what they called the **Decanting** — I witnessed it once, in Year 39, in secret, and it is the only beautiful thing I saw in fourteen years of this work. The soul does not return to the body (the body is long past use); it is *released to go on*, which the freed understand, in the moment of it, and their gratitude is a thing I will hear until I die and hope to hear after.

I do not know the rite. It was never taught outside the Threshold's innermost keeping, and rightly. I know only that it exists, that it requires the coin *unspent past half*, and that after the purge the temple sealed the rite away with their other dangerous mercies — Keeper Ashwen told me it would rest "below the oldest bell, with the things we keep against the worst days." She is dead now. The oldest bell still hangs. If you hold a coin and a conscience, that is where I would carry both.

---

### Year 51 — *Final Entry*

Harrow died in the winter, in bed, unforgiven by himself. Ferren keeps the guild's tribunal and has become exactly the sort of upright bore we dreamed of manufacturing; he has not spoken of the old days in four years and I think has half convinced himself they belong to someone else. Good. That is the design, working.

The reconciliations continue, ledger against ledger, every season, and every season the books balance, and the young keeper from the Threshold who does the counting now was not born when the reason for it burned. She thinks it a quaint formality. She performs it perfectly anyway. Every time I watch her check the last name and close both books, I think: *this is what victory looks like — a ritual outliving its war.*

I leave this book here, in the room where the books are balanced, because the room itself is my last lock. No one finds this chamber who has not already discovered the audit; no one discovers the audit who was not already hunting a missing soul; and no one hunts a missing soul unless the worst has already happened. So: if you are reading this, the worst has already happened, and you came here down the one road I trusted — the temple's road, the counting road, the road of a person who noticed a name in one ledger and not the other and could not let it rest.

Whoever you are: the word I would not write in Year 33, I do not write now. Everything else, I have given you. The names on the last page were people, and the coins in whatever vault you are about to find were people, and the thing beneath the city that calls itself the Undersigned has been waiting for you specifically for a very long time, and its patience is not a virtue, it is a *term of contract*.

Balance the books.

— Maren Vael, once of the Tollhouse, once of six founders, debtor still

*(The last page follows: forty-one names in a tight column, each with a date. Three have small marks beside them — see DM key.)*

---
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# DM KEY

*Each entry, what it unlocks, and how to use it at the table.*

| Entry | Campaign secret unlocked | Table use |
|---|---|---|
| **Inside cover** | The journal was left *for* investigators who reconstructed the audit — validates the party's whole clue chain retroactively. | Read after the party finds the Reconciliation Room. The "M.V." monogram can be seeded much earlier on founder-era documents. |
| **Year 31** | Tollhouse recruitment pattern: find people already in debt. | Foreshadows how the First Debtor recruits *new* Unweighed — and lets the party predict/intercept a recruitment in progress. |
| **Year 33** | **The marking ritual and its detection signs** (late shadow, seam of grey light, nine-day ripening, ninety-day window). Also: a marked-but-living victim **can still be saved** (consecration, or forgiveness of the grievance). | This is the party's counter-toolkit. Once read, they can identify marked targets and race the nine-day clock. The withheld final word is why the journal alone can't teach harvesting (see "Two dials" below). |
| **Year 34** | Soulcoins cool over a season → **coin warmth dates a kill.** The Unweighed's coins can be forensically matched to recent sealed contracts. | Physical-evidence mechanic: a warm coin found on a suspect ties them to a specific recent guild kill. |
| **Year 36** | **Full pact terms**: entity's true name (Ozhmirrath / the Undersigned), tithe formula (1 soul per 500 residents/year), 10% compounding arrears, gifts-as-commission, and the **default clause** (foreclosure on the city and every soul in it once arrears exceed one generation's assessment). | Your doomsday clock, now with real numbers. Let the party (or the Actuary's captured ledger) compute how close default is. The true name matters for any binding, banishing, or renegotiation attempt in the finale. |
| **Year 38** | The vault's nature: payment = permission to digest; the heap never grows. Part-spent coins whisper; full coins "listen" (can the entity *hear through* full coins? Your call — if yes, the party's captured coins are bugs). | Vault-as-dungeon sensory palette, plus an optional nasty twist: carrying full coins may leak information to the Undersigned. |
| **Year 40** | The pact is a treadmill by design — prosperity funds population funds tithe. There is no "pay it off" ending. | Kills the false hope of settling the debt honestly; forces the endgame toward the Flaw, the default, or renegotiation. |
| **Year 42** | **The Flaw**: the pact obliges no one to *supply* collectors; the entity has no hands of its own. The founders' purge was a delay strategy, not a victory. | The strategic thesis of the whole campaign: destroy the Unweighed *and the teaching*, and the entity is helpless again — for a while. Also frames the party's ending as the same choice Maren faced: erase, or publish and stand guard. |
| **Year 43 spring** | The purge roster — and **Corvisser**, the collector whose death was never confirmed, courier to the founders' descendant families. | Your free-floating hook. Options: (a) the First Debtor's discovery was seeded by a Corvisser-descendant cache, not just the entity's whispers; (b) a founder family is quietly complicit today; (c) pure red herring — Ferren was right. Decide late; the journal supports all three. |
| **Year 43 autumn** | **The codex decoded**, clause by clause — and the lapsed **Reconciliation compact** with the Temple of the Threshold, the tripwire whose lapse enabled everything. | Hand this to the loyalists (guild master, tribunal) as the "rereading the codex" revelation — Maren's margin notes do the work. Restoring the seasonal reconciliation is a concrete, satisfying post-campaign reform the party can institute. |
| **Year 44** | **Reversibility, canonized**: the Decanting exists, works only on coins *less than half spent*, releases the soul onward (no body resurrection), and the rite is sealed "below the oldest bell" in the Threshold's vault. | Your rare-restoration quest pointer, exactly as designed: real, costly, not common knowledge, and located off guild grounds. The half-spent limit creates triage tragedy — some recovered coins are already past saving. |
| **Year 51** | Ferren = the guild's first tribunal judge (the office the First Debtor now holds — a deliberate, bitter symmetry). The audit decayed into empty ritual and then lapsed entirely. The room's placement was itself a filter for trustworthy finders — a filter the entity's whispers bypassed. | Thematic payload for the finale, and the explanation of *why* the First Debtor (as Ferren's successor in office) had the access and the archive to be found by the entity. |
| **Last page (41 names)** | Maren's personal victims. The three marked names: coins she believed were, at time of writing, **still less than half spent** — candidates for Decanting, if they survive in the vault. | Emotional endgame beat: the party can finish Maren's penance by decanting her marked three. If the Unweighed have since spent them, that loss lands too. |

## Two dials, pre-set (change if you like)

**The omitted step.** As written, Maren withholds the final word of the marking rite, so the journal *cannot* teach harvesting — the First Debtor had to receive the missing word from Ozhmirrath directly, which deepened their bond (and gives you a possession/leverage angle in the boss arc). *Alternative:* if you'd rather the book be a complete and dangerous artifact, add one line to Year 33 ("I write even the word, may it rot with me: ___") and your epilogue gains the burn-the-book dilemma — destroying the last record of the harvest also destroys the only copy of the pact's terms.

**Corvisser.** Left deliberately unresolved above. If you want a mid-campaign gut-punch, make the First Debtor's family name a descendant of whoever sheltered Corvisser — the party can discover it through mundane genealogy, a wholly non-magical clue in a very magical mystery.

## Prop notes

- If you print it, age only the *edges* — Maren kept it dry and rebound it twice; it should read as *cared for*, not neglected. The pressed rue (herb of regret and warding) is her signature; rue can reappear wherever you want the party to feel her hand — pressed in the reconciliation ledgers, planted over Harrow's grave.
- Reveal pacing: the journal is long. Consider letting the party read Years 31–43 in the Reconciliation Room scene, but have the Year 44 and Year 51 pages *cut out* — taken by the First Debtor, who could not bear (or could not risk) leaving the Decanting and the final entry behind. Recovering the cut pages from the Debtor's chapel-altar gives the reversibility quest its own discovery beat instead of arriving in one lump.
