Its hand calcified, clutching a pen in a ruined grasp, the keeper hunches over the low desk, filling page after page with manifest truth. The pages spiral outward, a parchment nautilus shell, segments overlapping and reinforcing its structure.

The keeper abandoned journals, books, collections and organization decades ago, those tomes entombing it in rotting vellum and leather.

Towers of it, telling tales of lives yet unlived. The keeper has outpaced natural history and has begun writing futures. At its side, patient, a narrow and lightweight sword that does as the keeper writes.

It stops. For the first time in its lore, it stops. Eyes clouded and swollen, it doesn’t need to see to know it is being watched, its last sentence identifying you by name. The keeper smears the page with a blot of ink, and the sword lifts itself and swings.

The page bleeds, and you wake, a painful new scar slashed across your chest.

The Keeper, when you hunt it down, is a frail thing. Incapable of standing to any assault, it dies unceremoniously.

The Blade is unremarkable. A cheap-weld sword without magical property.

The Keeper’s Pen is a dire object. It wholly possesses its wielder and flows tragic truths through their hand. Whomsoever touches it becomes fully possessed by the task of lore-keeping, desperately attempting to catch up on events before accurately predicting the future of all things. The wielder cannot be removed from this task. They must roll a new character.