Faint scorings on a dank, dark wall.

Desperate lines scribbled in a makeshift diary.

The interminable drip, drip, drip of the passage of the indistinguishable days.

Who is it lies there in the corner of this squalid, stinking cell?

Only time will tell  — time and the unfolding tale of The Sword of Paracelsus.

The story begins tonight …