“A strange affliction is spreading among our Alterers, and I must explain every detail to you, for my fears are growing regarding the scope of this, until now, unknown blight. As a Sister of the Cloister, it is my duty to try to understand its mechanisms, to contain it as much as possible, and above all, to inform you—so that action might be taken.

Let us begin, then, with my first encounter with what I have come to call the Oblivion—a name perhaps too simple for so insidious and elusive an affliction. It acts gradually, creeping in so subtly that one can be exposed to it without noticing any symptoms. It was only by a stroke of luck that I detected its earliest effects and identified its manifestations.

It was during an expedition into the Crow’s Eye that I first sensed its presence. I was accompanying a group of explorers into the heart of the City of Scholars. The first part of the journey unfolded without incident. It was only on the second day, as we delved deeper into the underground labyrinth, that the first anomalies began to surface. As we advanced, we were overwhelmed by intense emotions—grief, loneliness, fear. Chimeras, drawn forth by these feelings, attacked us multiple times. The Alterers among us repelled them without difficulty, summoning their Eidolons to aid us. Yet I perceived, even among the most seasoned of them, a growing disquiet. Despite their familiarity with the terrain, their responses dulled. Each new attack proved more perilous than the last.

It was near the outer limits of the last mapped levels of the City that I first felt something truly unsettling. A visceral fear gripped us, accompanied by a profound unease. A malevolent presence lingered there. We had not even begun our retreat when a heavy tension settled upon us. The order to withdraw was given, and no one objected—everyone was relieved to be leaving. But we may not have left quickly enough.

From the darkness emerged specters with emaciated limbs and twisted grins. The Alterers reacted immediately, calling their Eidolons for support. Yet some stood frozen, unable to summon anything at all. Their eyes were empty, lost in a confusion I could not comprehend. While the battle raged around them, they remained locked in a state of inexplicable stupor. Once the threat was vanquished and injuries treated, the questions began. Why hadn’t they responded? The answers were even more troubling: they had… forgotten. Forgotten the very existence of the Eidolons they had always been able to call upon.

Intrigued, I questioned one of them at length. He told me it began with small lapses, starting days before our descent, following a prior expedition into the depths. Fuzzy memories, forgotten names. Nothing alarming, he thought—until that critical moment when he could no longer remember the Eidolon he was meant to summon. I recorded these findings meticulously, determined to uncover their logic.

Back on the surface, I began a thorough investigation. I consulted expedition reports at the Town Square, poring over archives under the disapproving gaze of the Ordis. I compiled a list of similar incidents and met with the individuals involved. A pattern quickly emerged. The “forgetting sickness” afflicted those who had ventured deepest into the Crow’s Eye. All described a vague unease, a sense of looming threat. And always, the same progression—from minor lapses to full-blown amnesia. Most concerning was its effect on Alterers. Several cases show that the Oblivion severs their connection to their Eidolons—an alarming development, as we rely on them to combat the Chimeras and other horrors of the underworld.

The symptoms are now well documented: a feeling of loss, as if fragments of memory were being drawn out of the mind. Then, the inability to retrieve specific thoughts. Next, memory gaps become painful, as though a silent siphon were draining away their recollections. Those most deeply afflicted retain only the bare essentials: their name, their role, a few shreds of their past. Any attempt to explore their own memories leads to a bottomless void, a psychic amputation that drives them toward despair.

With help from the Rati surgeons, the Cloister's healers have managed to ease the patients’ suffering by grafting artificial memories—psychic fragments donated by loved ones, serving as makeshift patches for their broken minds. These reconstructed memories allow them to function, albeit at the cost of inconsistencies. So far, their core personalities have remained intact.

But the alarm now extends further. Minor symptoms have begun to appear even in individuals who have never gone near the chasm. A kitchen assistant from the Mess, two gardeners from the Farm, six clerics from the Town Square. As if the affliction is slowly rising from the depths, spreading outward. Could it be an infectious agent? A viral entity expanding unchecked?

We do not yet know how to identify the afflicted with certainty. Too many cases go unnoticed. Therefore, I recommend, insofar as possible, the temporary suspension of all expeditions into the depths, until we can isolate the responsible agent. I am aware this contradicts the mandates of the Rediscovery Endeavor, but we cannot afford this risk.

Regardless, every individual returning from the City of Scholars should undergo a full examination. And, if possible, I recommend relocating the outpost several hundred meters away, to establish a quarantine zone around the Crow’s Eye.”

Sister Mathilde, Auxiliary of the Cloister