I had tried to unlock the mysteries of the old tome. The cracked leaves, the forgotten script, each and every hidden glyph—they’re all here in my head, chiseled deep into my brain. I could recreate every page, rewrite the whole book from scratch if I had too, but I can’t tell you what it means, who wrote it, why. I’ve searched through libraries, asked every scholar I know, and the ones they know, and on and on, looking for an answer, a clue, but there is none, nothing. It is old, that I can tell you, genuine, as far as that goes, but there are no threads, there’s no history.
But now you’re telling me that these people, these murderers, they want it, and badly. Then, they must know what it is, what it’s for, or someone does.
Tale Told 