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this will be a directory, maybe


All content below is gathered from public or shared sources (in the latter case will be acknowledged as such and marked confidential if required,) gathered by Devon (& co.) for the purposes of understanding the lore. Any information or questions can be directed to Syd (witchpunk)

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THE MAP

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THE MAP REQUEST

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After arriving in the manor in November, Gwen Stacy asked the library if it could point to where the manor is in England on a map. It provided her a map that she could not make sense of and she then brought the map to Koby and later Silco, once she had become aware he'd also received a storybook from the library.

MAP PHOTOS

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Gwen supplied photos of the map.

Soft and papery documents roll tightly over one another, held together with twine. The first, when unrolled, displays the topography of Saltburnt’s estate and neighboring areas, from what appears to be a personal collection — if the lovingly rendered strokes of charcoal are any indication. Scrawled across the top of the parchment, in elegant cursive.

REGIONAL MAP OF THE AREA. LOCALITY: ENGLAND, APPROX.

The estate stands proud in its less-than-humble glory, sketched with unnerving architectural accuracy, from its perimeter to its lush hedges. A dark X reads: YOU ARE HERE. DEFINITIVELY. FOR NOW. As Gwen studies its lines and divergences, she’ll note it reads as an ordinary map would — rivers that stretch into lakes, boundary lines that transform into sprawling paths. But the farther her eye travels from Saltburnt’s ground, the more disorienting the details become. Roads split, reunite, and stop short of continuing; next to them, someone has written ROAD?. Another trail says TOWARD ENGLAND PROPER followed by NEVER MIND. At its far corners, someone has labeled a coastal cliff with PROBABLY TO THE EAST and, opposite it, an open area that has been darkened with shading: AREA NOT ACCESSIBLE.

North of the estate’s main gates, the charcoal strokes shine with darker polish, as if they’re a recent addition. Someone has scribbled in a cluster of trees, aptly labeled: THE WOODS WHERE VOICES LINGER. The path continues in looping, impossible circles before reaching a circle of cottages with a name notable to many: THE FLOCK (DEFUNCT?). A smattering of figures chainlink their hands together, but only seven seem to be colored in a foreboding shade of red. Nearby, an increasingly frantic hand has scribbled SEVEN CHOSEN, SEVEN CHOOSING. Surrounding the commune, a jagged perimeter can be seen, though it appears to be split in various places. It reads, as follows:

BROKEN WITH BLOOD
BROKEN FOR LOVE
BROKEN BY THE BUTTERFLY WHO SHINES FROM ABOVE

THE BREACH REMAINS OPEN
SOMETHING COMES THROUGH
ITS EYE FOLLOWS HER
AND ALL WHO DANCED IN SHADOW TOO

WHAT ONCE WATCHED THE SHEPHERD WATCHED THE FALL. NOW IT WATCHES THE ONE WHO ENDED IT ALL.

When held in company of those who participated in October’s games, [Gwen] will see it continues with a secret message — the perimeter branches off, pointing in the direction of the estate, with a note hastily scribed beneath: YOU WERE SEEN. YOU ARE SEEN. YOU WILL BE SEEN AGAIN.

But never to fear! There’s something else inside. A packet of takeout menus flutter out, though the estimated delivery always reads 45 minutes to 3 days, and the addresses listed for each cheery diner always has a vague location: just down the way, not far from here, over the bridge and through the woods. Each of them note: GROUP ORDERING NO LONGER AVAILABLE.