If this agenda advanced by reaching its doom threshold:

They are all around you, in every room, in every hall, and their voices chant as one. You have their book, but it doesn't matter - not anymore. Their ritual has gone on too long, and gained too much power. The tome burns in your hands, its leather cover searing your skin, but you cling to it regardless. You feel it pulse, as if a heart were beating between its pages. Looking down to it, you realize it is the only way to survive this nightmare. You open the tome, find the page of the ritual, and add your voice to the endless chorus.

The book is closed now, and as you fasten the latch and tuck it under your arm, you hope and pray that you can keen it safe and that it will never be opened again. You know firsthand that only madness lies within its weathered pages, and it is now up to you to protect it from falling into the wrong hands. You breathe a bit easier and find some measure of comfort in knowing that the strange goings-on of the Excelsior have been put to rest, at least for now.