IntoTheMouthOfRavness

A true warriors instinct is such, that when he feels completely at ease, relaxed, when he feels that he has reached sanctuary, that is when he is least trusting of his surroundings. A true warrior knows no rest, no real moment of release, save for the bloody comforts of savage combat, or as a discarded husk of torn flesh on a burning battlefield. After all of our troubles in these past weeks, we were all on our way to becoming the most formidable warriors that had ever roamed the Lands of Mist. Or so we were beginning to believe, until we met our match in the form of a most gruesome and terrifying adversary.

We had agreed to take refuge for the night within the stone chapel near the shrouded fortress. It was a curious edifice, devoid of any clear markings of denomination or origin. The architecture, Petru remarked, was of a classical style also found in Dementlieu, and a few other developed parts of the known world. I myself found it rather amusing that a group such as ours; composed of heathens, rebels and messianic harbingers, would seek solace in the confines of a foreign house of worship. I was not alone in my amusement. We discovered that the interior of the chapel was actually quite comfortably heated, not by fire but by token of the layers-upon-layers of thick spider webs covering the walls. The webs had isolated the chapel from the cold, and made for a curiously welcoming resting place. We were immediately on our guard, and good thing at that; our host would spare no time in welcoming us to his ghastly abode.

A movement in the rafters, my instincts were ablaze instantly at the sight of something prowling up above. Petr lit a torch, revealing to us the full measure of our chosen encampment. Everywhere we spotted strange web cocoons, holding dessicated animal corpses. We even spotted what looked to have been a man at some point in the past, but that was now no more than rusted armor bits of mummified flesh. I spotted it again, the thing above, and this time I made out a large humanoid shape, but little else that made sense. It moved with a swiftness that even I could have barley managed (and damn its eyes for it!), and positioned itself just above Petru, who’s keen steel had already been unleashed at the first sign of trouble. Symeon closed his eyes as he often does before a confrontation, and began to call upon his remarkable gifts. For my part, I was more than ready to vent my aggressions again, this time against a clear and present danger.

The thing jumped from one support beam to the other, preparing his attack, dropping finally from above like a panther ready for the kill. It had decided to start its assault with Petru, deciding no doubt that he was the greater threat of our party. I had other plans. I took a great leap from my position and attempted to intercept the creature in mid-flight, but to my shock failed to connect with it, as it twisted impossibly in flight and flung me to aside like so much dirt. I felt livid and embarrassed at once; no living creature had overpowered me in such a decisive manner since our unfortunate run-in with the porcupine demon in the forests of Barovia. It continued its descent on Petru, coming into the light for the first time, and revealing to us the full measure of its horrendous appearance.

It was a thing made from nightmares and perversions of madness; a man-like beast, taller than I, armed with vicious claws and the head of a demon jackal. Despite his lupine bearing, it had the cold lethal eyes of a giant spider (all 6 of them!), and pincers affixed to its jaws for increased killing efficiency. This vile thing, be it summoned by dark sorcery or forged alchemical, was bred for a single purpose; to kill and kill again. It was a creation meant clearly for undoing hope, and to bring about some kind of apocalypse. In other circumstances, it would have been fascinating to engage it in conversation, as I do not too often get the chance to entertain a colleague. At the very least it might of convinced me that I had come out a fairer experiment than he!

We collided with the thing in the most vicious battle we had ever fought. I hurled church pews at it and watched it sneer at me. I sought to rend it limb from limb and it mocked me, tearing my flesh and thrashing me like an impudent schoolboy. I had never felt so powerless as in the grip of this monstrosity. To my great relief my companions were with me, and while they had trouble as well, Petru in particular was unleashed like a man possessed. He gave an accounting of himself that novelists would describe as heroic, herculean, worthy of song and praise. He slashed the beast with a thousand cuts from his blade and showered it with curses in his native tongue. Symeon pressed the attack with his magiks, and even saved me from certain death by somehow taking some of my wounds upon himself with a dark incantation. I was undone by the experience.

After much blood and pain, we finally slew the damned thing, barely a breath left in our bodies. We gathered ourselves, and tried to make sense of it all, but could not. The creature for its part shriveled and sizzled with pus, turning into dust and ash once all remaining life (or un-life!) had left its diseased carcass. We rested in its wake, bandaging our wounds and counting our blessings. Symeon preformed more miracles that night, calling upon his Morninglord for divine gifts of healing.

I felt a strange stir in my soul then, one that I cannot account for. I had always attributed Symeon’s curious powers to clever parlor tricks and mundane sorcery; I had even suspected him of being a sort of expert charlatan at the beginning of our journey together. I had met men of his bearing before; calm, eccentric individuals with bizarre habits and unlikely stories. The Circle had even sent me to dispatch one of these so-called  “preachers” in the 18th year of my captivity. Minister Tobias Cloutier, he had called himself. A thin, pale foreigner to Paridon, who had found his ways into our city by some strange occurrence. In the few years that he had spent in Paridon, Cloutier amass to him a considerable congregation of unfortunates and even some individuals of worth, with whom he founded the Church of Illumination, a religious sect that believed in the divine coming of a single deity known as Xenon.

His numbers were growing steadily, and headquarters had even been opened in Blackchapel, when evidence surfaced of Cloutier’s real motivation. Our good minister, as it turned out was something of a devilish snake oil sales man. He had fooled several of his congregation into turning over their assets to him, and even established a coven of fanatical concubines for his personal use. It was even rumored that he favored the company of orphaned children, which alone was sufficient to motivate me in my mission to destroy him. Cloutier too had magicks at his disposal that many swore to be of a divine origin, but they would prove a meek defense against my adolescent fury, and that of my keepers.

Before I finished nailing him upside down to his own religious effigy (poetic, I know), I looked into his eyes and convinced him to be forthcoming about his so-called powers, and heard him babble hysterically that his miracles had been the work of simple sorcery, the kind mankind had been accustomed to since long ago. I thanked the good minister for giving me such a thorough understanding of man-made religious institutions, and finished my work while he screamed passionately. I remember noticing the remarkable acoustics in his half-finished chapel, but I digress.

Symeon and Cloutier had many things in common with regards to their charisma, their ability to make men believe in the mysteries of the beyond. They could look you in the eyes and fill you with the promise of some great destiny. They could convince you to renounce reason and rationality in exchange for the warm blankets of faith. The comparisons ended there however, as Cloutier could not withstand the scrutiny of a sharper intellect, whereas I, sharper than most men I have met, cannot find the breach in Symeon’s armor of religious fervor. I cannot see past his trickery, if indeed he means to mislead me and Petru. His only weakness appears to be his growing mental frailty, which I could be misconstruing. He might not be going mad after all, he might simply be going through a transformation of some kind. A cocooning of the spirit and body, but to become what? What is Symeon? Who is he? I find myself more troubled this every passing day…

to be continued

By way of gathering information, or perhaps, with the help of more cleverly laid out crumbs of bread, courtesy of our sinister puppeteer, we were put on a new trail of evidence. The Ratmen I had dispatched had kept in their belongings traces of a conspiracy to subdue and abduct me and my companions. According to the fragments we uncovered, the vermin wanted to have us dragged to the pier and shipped off to some uncharted island a few days off the coast of Dementlieu. Despite my continuing frustration at being ceaselessly manipulated (or at least the overwhelming sensation of it), I welcomed this information for one simple reason; it made some kind of bloody sense. For the past weeks, we had been at the mercy of some interminable goose chase. Dark catacombs, perverse cultists, the Brass House affair, illusions and reality intertwining in maddening ways. To see our paths so clear for the first time in months, came as something of a bizarre comfort to all of us.

The clues we had gathered so far did not enjoy the same consistency as this abduction business, but they nevertheless provided a kind of context to our concerns. Chiefly among these puzzle pieces were names, important-sounding ones. Renier, D’Honnaire, Brass; names unmistakably laced with significance and power. Noble houses that had some stake in all of this insanity, or perhaps the ones deliberately responsible for our torment. We remained, to my everlasting rage, uncertain of everything. I could see in Petru’s eyes the same desperation that I felt burning in my breast; we were like starved jackals in a cage, preparing to turn on one another if no prey could be had. Symeon just sat quietly in his corner, as he often does, whispering to himself (or to Him?), and tearing methodically at the tattered edges of his robe like a penitent monk. Finally we made plans. If these devils wanted us on this mysterious isle so desperately, we would oblige them and more, but on our terms.

We spoke to a local sailor, who despite his fear and consternation told us more than we expected to hear. This island was supposedly a prison, or it housed an particularly nefarious one. This secret jail, he said, was a dumping ground for Dementlieu’s political undesirables, the kind of individuals that threatened the domain’s security. This sounded familiar to me, as in my own homeland of Paridon, the Ministry of the Interior often remanded “troublesome types” to the able hands of Lancaster Reigns, Warden-Director of the Blackhouse. The Blackhouse collected enemies of the state, and meddlesome members of the Cabinet’s family. I had no doubt that this prison had the same function, as Dementlieu so adamantly aspires to be modern in its own charming provincial manner.

We chartered a naval vessel to take us within proximity of the island,but it was no easy task. Our captain was of the buccaneer variety, the damn-your-eyes sort that’s too daft to be afraid of anything, including the likes of me. The little worm took us for no less than two-hundred gold coins, enough to bribe his way into the bloody Naval Forces, but we had little choice in the matter. Being polite does have its drawbacks; there was a time I would have simply rang the scoundrel by the neck in some deserted alley, and convinced him to see things my way. Alas, I believe that those past months in Ephraim’s company might have infected me with a terribly inconvenient illness that some call civility. Be that as it may, we were now booked for our voyage, and a step closer to meeting our goals.

The arrangement was for the charter to take us within range of the isle (the cowards refused to properly disembark us!), and lend us a small boat, with which we could land properly. Three days from that date, the charter would pass by once again with hopes of picking us up again. I could discern in the captain’s shifty little eyes, that he did not expect to have to fulfill his latter obligation, but would come back just the same to protect his precious reputation with his fellow seafaring vermin. As our little boat cast off from the merchant ship, bound for the island, I looked back at our charter and waved insolently at the onlooking crew. Their faces were priceless; a contest between fear and disgust. Strangely, I felt a profound wish to see their wretched faces again in three day’s time.

The approach to the isle was everything our nightmares had foreseen; viciously jagged rock formations guarding the coast like mythical hell hounds, thick mist everywhere obfuscating every attempt to survey the landscape ahead. The chill hung in the night air like a moist blanket of ice, cutting though our wool shirts and overcoats. Again I was stunned at Symeon’s casual behaviour during all of this. He sat there in his loosely knit pauper’s robes, oblivious to the cold, going even so far as to clean his face in the frigid waters. Symeon’s similarly preternatural antics were beginning to pile up in my mind, and soon I would have to seriously question the origin of his mystical abilities.

I put my concerns away for the time being, focusing on the tasks ahead, whatever they may be. We finally found a way through the rocks, a winding pathway that led to the mouth of a gaping hole in the island’s coastline. We navigated into the cavern and lit torches to clear the way. After some time we reached a man-made pier, albeit in sordid shape. Other small vessels were anchored there, but they must have been left there ages ago. We landed and began our journey through the caverns without delay. I could sense the anticipation in my colleagues, and I shared their impatience. We could not abide ignorance for much longer. After a short time we came into a stone tunnel that reminded me of Paridon’s sewers, or at least the drawings I had seen of it. This passage had been built here with a clear purpose. We came to a dead end, and quickly discovered a mechanical apparatus that would allow us to emerge from the earth. It was a cleverly built elevation-system akin to the one in the Parsley Observatory in Paridon. It lifted us up through a stone shaft, that lead out of a well, of all things.

We had surfaced onto a suitable vantage point, from where we could determine some of our surroundings. Nearest to our position lay a small cottage, built neatly on the edge of the rock cliff. Whomever resided within must have observed our clumsy approach through the water, and watched us disappear in the cave entrance below. Before I could ponder this more fully, the door opened gently and gave way to a thin elderly man. He waved at us and waited to see our reaction, but Symeon and Petru were already on intercept course. He greeted them right away and invited them into his home, which set off immediate alarms in my mind. It was all a little convenient and bizarre, the two elements I could no longer endure after so many weeks of games and manipulation.

I decided to join my companions inside the cottage, I found comfortably seated by a warm hearth, being served, of all things, a nice cup of tea! A cup of tea, eh? You duplicitous conniving louts! You shameless interfering bastards! Do you take me for a complete imbecile? A hot cup of tea and nice read from the library too, no doubt! Hah! Before I could express my sincere aggravation at this pathetic attempt to ensnare me once again, the elderly man suddenly got up from his seat and walked to the outside. Symeon went after him, not realizing our situation. Petru looked up at me somewhat puzzled and inquired about the livid color in my eyes.

“Don’t you see man, we’ve been had again! There is no fire or tea here, this place is abandoned! Another blasted illusion!” I roared.

With my left hand I swung at the nearest table, shattering the rotten thing into nothing. At once the illusion was unmade, and just like before, the teacup became a cracked wooden bowl filled with swill. The house returned to its tumble-down state, prompting me and Petru to rise and make our exit. The fury coursing through me was boundless; I smashed through the remains of the cottage door and looked after Symeon. I found him on his back near the well, pale as the ghost of my father. He seemed depleted from some foul supernatural attack; the supposed elderly man (now an ethereal presence sinking into the mist), had sapped my companion of his very life essence. The inhabitants of the island had just delivered to us their greetings.

We regrouped, as we often do when under duress, and forged on. We journeyed through a beat path along the coast, into a small grove at the center of the island. We discovered there what could only be described as a cairn, or ancient place of power. Druids, my father’s books had called them; reclusive flora-obsessed mystics that followed pagan traditions long gone. They may have initially erected the tear-shaped stones that formed the “holy” circle, and very likely were the ones that marked them with runes, but that was the limit of their involvement. The place, we remarked quite thoroughly, had been desecrated beyond human understanding. We didn’t even have to voice our common and immediate repulsion to the place, but simply exchanged glances, and journeyed further.

We emerged from a small wooden patch to a tremendous sight. Barely two hundred feet away from our position stood a gargantuan fortress. Near its gates, a church, dedicated to a deity we did not recognize. The top of the fortress was veiled in mist, and every now-and-then we spotted dark humanoid shapes circling its twin towers. Our decision was to seek refuge in the church nearby (a choice Ephraim would have no doubt celebrated), and await the morning before venturing further. This initiative would proved to be a disastrous one, and nearly cost all of our lives.

to be continued…

O Ezra, hear the prayers of this humble sinner.

My shame is great, Lady. I fear my soul has been tainted by the subterfuge and lies that my companions seem to consider part of daily life. I willingly spoke deceptive words today, words deliberately intended to mask my true intentions, and my soul and mind recoil in horror at the degree to which I have been influenced by the less virtuous of my companions’s traits.

In the process of securing passage aboard a boat, in order to speak with an informant, I spoke a lie about our intentions at the docks. True, I did not lie to the ferrymaster, but my words were spoken with the intention of deceiving anyone who might have been listening in. By Your name, my penance will be great tonight.

This underlines a great fear I have had for some time. I think I can not much longer tolerate the moral lassitude of my companions. I have made it clear to them that I cannot condone the sort of behaviour they engage in, regardless of their motives, but still they persist in wanton violence and burglary, and think I do not notice or that I will look away as they do so.

That I have started to pick up such habits from them is no permanent problem; I can purge such habits from my self as I have others that are offensive in Your eyes. But Lady preserve me, I am not a preacher. It is not my path to convert people to the ways of Ezra, and I know that much good may be done with ill methods, but I cannot bear to stand by any longer while my companions repeatedly perform evil acts and call them good.

If I cannot abide the deeds of my companions, and I cannot change their actions, what option is left to me but to leave them? Lady, please protect and guide me through this, one of the most difficult decisions I have yet to make.

In the name of Our Guardian in the Mists, protect us as we walk the pathways of this world and guide us to those of the next. Forgive our sins and grant us the wisdom to forgive ourselves.

Amen.

The world around me melted away at that moment. The butler known as Jove faded into nothing before my eyes, and everything turned gray and cold. I had been put under a powerful spell, and my mind had finally broken its illusory chains. The room I had been sitting in looked abandoned now; no lush decor or furniture, the fireplace cold and in shambles. I had been sitting on a rotting wooden crate, sipping putrid eavesdrop water out of a cracked cup, alone in a dust-plagued basement, like a simple-minded child having a make-believe tea party. I spit out the residue and let out a lion’s roar. I had been made a fool again. None of this was real…

I smashed the crate against the wall, and began to make my way up the so-called secret passage, no a simple set of disheveled stairs. I came out into the main floor kitchen, seething with rage, and looking for someone to settle the score with. The rest of the house had been abandoned ages ago, like everything else, and I couldn’t detect any sign of life within. I moved to the second floor, searching, smelling for anything out of the ordinary. Something important occurred to me then, in a brief moment of clarity. The constable had betrayed me…the gray stranger had me in his palms again! For if not my nemesis, who could have concocted such a travesty? It had to be the scoundrel himself, no other answer would do. I felt positively livid at the prospect of having been so easily lead into another one of his traps.  I would have to end this, one way or another!

A noise from outside! I glanced out the windows from the second floor, discovering to my great surprise that the coach was still parked out int front, horses and all. I disturbance I had detected turned into a rumble of hooves, and irate-sounding horses. The wolves had arrived for their feast, I gathered. I had delivered myself right into the hands of the enemy. A normal man would have felt terror and despair at his predicament, but I experienced pure adolescent anticipation. I had foul murder on the mind. I counted a score of men. They spoke a strange dialect of Mordentish, and looked like well-groomed gentlemen. Not at all what I had expected from a gang of assassins. I leaped up, pulling myself to higher ground, where I hid among the large wooden beams which kept the roof aloft. Using the shadows, I waited for a chance to get a closer at my persecutors. I saw the mob gather in front of the house, preparing to make their assault. I had seen this all before; it was like the opening of a familiar theatre piece. The leader hands out directions and encourages his men. He tells them not to falter in the task ahead, looking into their eyes like a proud patriarch. Every mob, in my experience, has something unique to it; a defining touch, if you will. Be it the use of innovative weaponry (burning pitchforks), to colorful uniforms that often involve a hood or cowl of some kind. It’s curious that people should become so festive when waiting for a collective kill. Perhaps I have more in common with men than I realize.

This group carried a distinctive approach as well, but not one that I have ever witnessed before, and I dare say that I am unlikely to ever see anything like it again. The first few thugs entered the building to lead the way, but not before undergoing, what I can only describe as a sickening transformation. It was intriguing at first to see them shed their clothes, stretching their arms like a couple of fencers warming up for a match. Things quickly took a turn for the horrific however, as the two men began to convulse and contort, their limbs cracking, their skin expanding and warping. Their jaws began to come apart, stretching out and merging with the tops of their faces. Dark, oily tufts of hair began sprouting everywhere on their twisted frames, while their nails hardened into vicious claws and their teeth became yellowed daggers.

Ratmen, Rat-Weres, Neotoma cinerea. Considered to be the most wretched breed of lycantrophe in existence. I say “existence”, but until that day, I had counted them among the typical fictions of Man’s perverse imagination. If what I had read about them during my captivity was based in truth, I was now facing a very real threat to my continued existence. The rodent varieties of lycantrophes (according to Tobias Beach’s Bloodlines and Curses, Volume Nine) were particularly known for their ability to infect their victims with a long range of ungodly diseases. I knew at that moment that I would not be able to confront my aggressors in my traditional hand-on fashion. A new strategy was required to handle this precarious situation.

The first instinct in combat is usually the correct one, but often the combatant neglects to carefully consider his plan for potential flaws. I had high ground (a good start), and a house full of rats, and my immediate instinct said “burn them all”. I wasted no time, emptying the fuel contents of my lantern, dousing the support beam that I was perched upon for cover. I could hear the creatures stalking up the stairs, making for my position; they had no doubt located me by scent. I struck a match and set the support beam ablaze. The flame was blue at first, dancing along the surface of the wood, but soon it took on the desired red and orange hue, and I knew that job was done.

I waited a little longer, to ensure my ruse would work, then dropped from my position in the rafters, and deftly swung my body outside of the house, through the open kitchen windows. The drop was negligible for one of my talents, and as soon as my feet hit the ground, I rolled with the inertia, and immediately ran for cover behind the parked coach near the villa’s gates. I looked back at the fruits of my labor with no small measure of satisfaction; the top floors of the villa had already caught fire, and I could already discern panicked howls from within. I murmured a curse in Luktar, a handsome dialect spoken by former-Gunderakites in Barovia, as I looked on with satisfaction.

I spotted something out of the corner of my eye, in the front entrance of the house. A triad of Ratmen had spotted my hasty retreat to the coach, and were now presumably communicating their intents to me in their native tongue. The game, as they say, was up, and I could no longer stay out of sight. The time for stealth had come and gone; a more direct action was required, something decisive and effective. I was outnumbered, and unless I found a way to best these rascals, and block off the villa’s exit, they would overwhelm me. I needed an edge, a way to make it clear to my adversaries that I was a real threat. A demonstration of power was in order.

I reached for the harness that tied the horses to the coach, and unclasped the latch. The horses realized I had set them free, and sauntered forward a few steps, making the crossbar fall to the ground. I anchored my feet near the wheels of the coach and wrapped my hands around the sides, securing my grip. I drew a deep breath, focusing the brunt of the weight on my legs, and lifted the cab over my head in a vulgar display of power. I tried to compliment my feat by grimacing and growling like a lumbering ogre, which lent much credibility to my actions, I think. The Ratmen simply stood their ground, frozen, paralysed, and no doubt suffering from disbelief (I do so enjoy that facial expression, even on abominations of Nature!).

I hurled the coach with all of my strength, letting loose a cry of defiance. The cab soared through the air, and landed quite decisively on top of the creature closest to me. The sickening sound of crushed bones and splintered wood did nothing to sooth their fears. I had now sent them a clear message, and they would have to ponder their retort carefully. The terror in their eyes, compounded by the sudden and violent death of the kinsman, added finally to the now resounding cacophony of shrieks and pleas for mercy, emerging from the blazing villa, allowed me to conclude the outcome of this confrontation. The pathetic beasts looked at each other, and silently agreed to make their retreat.

Before they could flee, I caught the attention of bronze-colored one, and gave him my best smile, pointing my finger at him in an effort to make him yield. I had the impression that he was willing to submit to his superior, but as Fate would have it, he would not get that opportunity in the end. Out of the cold dark night I saw a beam of pure blinding light pass over my head, and strike the Rat-Were directly in its chest. The creature exploded in a blazing fury, making sounds that I could not imitate. The lance of sun fire had come from behind me; finally, my rescuers had arrived. Symeon sat high on his horse (I can be terrible sometimes!), ending his incantations, as the beam of light ceased to exist. Petru was not far behind, armed and ready. I felt a kind of warmth inside me at that moment. Having friends, compatriots that are beholden to me, and care about my safety; it was all a bit much to handle, but pleasant none the same. There was still the matter of our last surviving rodent, but I attended to him. I caught up with him, and crushed his neck beneath my boots, watching the life seep out of his beady eyes. I was my old self again.

We took the time to regroup, sharing information, confirming our doubts about the so-called constable and his foiled plan to finish us off. This time we had turned the tables on the gray stranger, and we would press our advantage until his life was finally in our hands. Then, on that auspicious occasion, we would get a chance to redefine the meaning of retribution…

If curiosity killed the cat, it certainly brought the Caliban to the brink! But what were we going to do otherwise? Our very reality threatened, my companions and I traveled into the depth of the earth, through the hidden passages beneath March street. We found caves, old ones, hollowed out by a people who no doubt had since vanished in some sinister history. There were ancient markings here and there; symbols of power older and darker still. A few of them clawed at the edge of my memory, shapes and combinations of markings that I had seen somewhere before, perhaps in my father’s books. He had kept a few mysterious tomes, as I recall, that could not conform to any collection; strangely bound volumes with strangely labeled pages. There was a peculiar scent to them, an animal musk perhaps, mixed with burnt leaves and something unidentifiable. They had that alluring quality to them, that made one want to read them in private, and keep the secrets within. And yet, one could never remember any exact quote, or passage from its pages. Those tomes were enchanted with dark magics, made to draw you in.

We ventured further in, and finally met with resistance in the form of shadowy creatures. Fey perhaps, or demons made into men. Despite the claustrophobic proportions of the tunnels that we were forced to negotiate during our confrontation, I don’t mind saying that we all gave a sound accounting of ourselves, and made them regret trifling with our nasty sort! Our investigation would finally lead us through a narrow passage, into a vast cavern. It was at once a wondrous and astounding discovery, this chasm that could not have been made possible mere human industry. At the bottom of this cavern lay a crystalline lake, or something much like it; a murky, chilling body of viscous water with a sickly jade tint. On the sides of the cave were hastily carved grooves, made no doubt to allow visitors to navigate alongside the curved walls, toward I assume, another access point. After some deliberation with my colleagues, I did what I often do, and depleted my reserves of patience, deciding to take a survey of the depth below. I will doubtlessly regret that foolish decision for the rest of my natural life.The very moment that my body collided with the water, I felt a terrifying effect wash over my entire being. Fright, as I have well documented, is not something I experience easily. As an abomination of humanity, I am more accustomed to dispensing fear than feeling its cold spiritual atrophies. I can count on one hand the number of times I have been truly afraid; the time my father revealed to me his master plans to make me a living god, the dark night I fought two-score of monstrous Barovian wolves and lived, and the time I held a golem girl in my arms, and felt for the first time…something entirely new.

This time, fear was only the caress; what I experienced was quite appropriately put, an immersion. I was saturated in pure, unrestrained evil. I immediately felt a pressing need to extract myself from there, but pushed on out of inborn natural defiance. It was truly at that moment that I committed the gravest error, when I opened my eyes underwater, and came face-to-face with what I can only describe as madness incorporated. I have yet to full understand what I beheld beneath those cursed waters, and cannot bring myself to formulate any sort of rational explanation of it. I am simply powerless, a sensation I detest for very obvious reasons. Suffice to say that I lost something of my self at that moment, a fracture was formed into my very mind. I know not whether this wound will ever truly heal, or whether I’ll ever understand what my eyes witnessed. I know only this; the description I am unable to commit to paper here today may belong in a chronicle of its own.

I screamed. The sound could more precisely described as an animal’s death throes, coupled with something beyond even my reckoning. I emerged from the pool in a great panic, no doubt putting the fear of the gods into my companions. At one point I felt as though my heart would explode entirely, but in some inexplicable way, I was suddenly overcome with a comforting warmth and relative tranquility. I seem to remember hearing Symeon’s voice, chanting in his customary, guttural way. I had heard this melody one before, I think. Some breed of enchantment? A spell of magic? Symeon would have a more mystical word for it no doubt; an answered prayer, he would say. Whatever the case, I was thankful for his intervention (divine or otherwise).

We made a hasty retreat from the cavern, once I had pulled myself from the muck. We found the surface again, and tried to decide on where best to concentrate our efforts. We had made one important discovery on our way back, these passages were linked to the city’s sewage system, which suggested that…well, I can not be all that certain of anything at this juncture. Damnation and day! How shall I overcome this mental calamity!

It was again here, that I experienced an episode of time-unaccounted for. I recall splitting from Symeon, Petru and Ephraim, with plans to rendez-vous back at our rooms, but nothing more. I cannot account for what I did then, apart from a strange sensation of having become completely absent-minded. When I was once again myself, I also noted a curious scent on my coat. A putrid nauseating smell, that sometimes hangs over freshly slain animals. I told myself that it must have been residue from my unfortunate swim. I didn’t dwell on it, as there were stranger thinks afoot then my neglected hygiene. Namely the fact that I had somehow “awoken” amongst my compatriots once more, with the exception of Ephraim, but I shall discuss his disappearance in more detail later.

We were now, by way of some new enchantment (or divine comedy!), all seated comfortably by an oaken table in a well-decorated office. I felt it to be a detective’s office, as it bore a remarkable likeness to my old friend Inspector Ashton Blackmoore’s base of operations. Again, without sense or explanation, we had ended up in this place, feeling curiously at ease, sipping occasionally from excellent brandy that had also magically appreared in our hands. I kept silent, wea ll did, but underneath we could sense each other’s confusion.

A man entered the room to greet us, well-groomed and excellently tailored (my kind of chap, I thought). I was correct to assume that we had been waiting in a police staion. The man introduced himself as the Constable of Port-A-Lucine, although, to my everlasting frustration, I cannot now precisely recall the name he gave us. He thanked us for coming to him, despite the fact that we did not remember how we had in fact accomplished this. He claimed that we were in good hands, and that we had come at an opportune moment. My natural instinct should have been to mistrust this man immediately, but I could not bring myself to. For some unimaginable reason I felt that I… that we could all confide in him and give him our trust.

He interviewed us for some time, inquiring about our recent activities in the city. We were, according to him, at the center of some nefarious plot to undermine the will of its people. A sinister agenda perpetuated by a mysterious grey-haired stranger, whom I recognized the moment his likeness was presented to me. The old man on the portrait, I had come across him a few days ago; a man I had thought to be devoid of sight, and whom I had tried to help out of misplaced charity. I had discovered the truth soon after ushering the sly bastard to his so-called quarters. He had suddenly looked me straight in the eyes, and I cannot remember the rest (again!). Seeing the picture did have a stiring effect on me however. I realized then that my little memory lapses had begun with this encounter. I was coming closer to a breakthrough…I was putting the pieces together at last. I know not how, or why, but I now felt like I had looked upon the face of our true nemesis. This man, somehow had been behind it all of our confusions…maybe.

We told the constable everything we knew about Jean-Jacques (the artist we had rescued from Brass House), and the Invidian mentalist whom we had consulted about our perception problems. We just seemed incapable of holding back on any detail during our interview, like witless children confessing their mischief to a threatening parent. The constable listened intently, never neglecting to note a single detail. He collected our reports, seemed preoccupied for a time, then finally began to make his recommendations. The constable agreed that we were in no small amount of danger from this gray stranger, and his blackguard associates Our meddling about had in some manner become a hazard to their dark plans, and by token put us in the line of fire.

I myself made the remark that I did not feel entirely certain with regards to my own reliability as an ally, as this stranger had proven on several occasions his uncanny ability to cloud my perceptions, or to delude me completely. If this was in fact some kind of hypnotic power, or occult knowledge that allowed the gray stranger to bring me to his heels, I could not in good confidence risk my companions lives by staying at large. Together, we decided that it would be best that I be remanded to the custody of the constable’s deputies, who had arranged to keep me supervised in a townhouse located a mile from the city. I wished my farewells to Symeon and Petru, who bravely decided to confront this evil on their own while I remained behind. With much apprehension I watched them getting smaller and smaller, as my coach pulled away into the night. We traveled swiftly into the night, the mists welcoming us into their embrace, ushering us along a crackling stone path to safety.

The deputies remained silent during our voyage, while I lit a lantern and decided to relax with the help of my journal, which I had the chance to peruse briefly. We arrived some time later (it had taken longer than expected) to what looked like an excellent location; an exquisite-looking villa (even by these archaic standards) built expertly into a small clearing. The house had three floors, stables, servant’s quarters, in short, everything a man of quality would desire in a hunting lodge or summer resting house. It didn’t occur to me as odd then, but t should of dawned on me that this was all a bit much for a constable to arrange, especially for one such as I. It did seem somewhat deuced that none of his men appeared worse for wear upon seeing me in direct light. They seemed almost indifferent, which should have delighted me, but ultimately left me suspicious.

Once inside , I was brought into a secret chamber in the basement (again below ground…) of the villa. It was again a splendidly arranged room with lacquered chairs, an expensive witting desk, library selection, and anything else a gentleman might desire. I barely had time to remove my coat and take in the warmth of the fireplace, when the housekeeper, a manicured butler by the name of Jove (how amusing!) appeared in the doorway with a tray of goodies. He put out freshly prepared tea (mint, I think), a flagon of cognac, and even a few well-moistened cheroots. I was, for a moment, in total bliss. All my concerns dissipated instantly, giving way to almost dream-like euphoria. After I was served, Jove withdrew into the secret passage, and I was left to my own devices. I couldn’t wait a moment longer; I had to devour the contents of the library.

Amazingly, I recognised every single one of the volumes contained within the oaken shelves of the library. I knew them all without exception. It was as if someone had plucked them right from my memory. In Times Past by Victorius Maine, Suffer in Truth by Elliot Farlane, Seven Deadly Discourses from Dawnton Smith, and most incredibly, Thy Kingdom In Peril by the elusive Haendelsson Ark, an alleged Black Bishop of the legendary Chaplains of the 7th Order. How could anyone have come about such a rare book, I wondered. This far from Paridon… There were only two copies known to have survived the Chauncery Blaze, and my father had gone to considerable expense to posses them all. I instantly reached for it, pulling it gently from its resting place on the far right of the shelf, and settling near the brandy and tea, where I could study its contents more closely.I opened the book to find that it was…empty. Blank pages, right up until the end. A forgery? I couldn’t make sense of it. I had never been able to see the book, as it was in father’s private collection, and been looking forward to shedding the veils of its mystery, but now it seemed I had been duped. I closed the book slowly, disappointed, only to notice to my surprise, that the back cover had something sticking out form it. A closer inspection revealed a simple piece of paper, that someone had folded and slid into the book’s jacket. How very odd, I whispered beneath my breath.
The note said simply, “None of this is real”, a cryptic comment left in handwriting that again, looked too familiar.

I felt inside me a strange stir, a discomfort. I thought perhaps that I had contracted influenza from the dip in the pool of horrors earlier that day, but something told me otherwise. I called for Jove with my service bell, and tried to relax myself with another cup of hot tea (although it seemed to make things worse). Jove appeared without delay and bowed slightly in presence.

“Jove, would you be so good as to fetch me some water, and perhaps a touch more brandy. I fear that I might have caught ill from my recent travels” I declared.

“Most certainly Monsieur. Shall draw a bath as well, perhaps prepare some medical ointment?” He responded courteously.

“By all means Jove, that would be…capital” I smiled, despite my dizzied state.

At that precise instant, something in me changed. Like a blinding ray of sun piercing through rolling rain clouds. The words I had read on the paper echoed in my brain, awakening my mind with every repetition.

“None of this is real”

“None of this is real”

“None of this is real”

I quickly called to Jove, who stopped in the passage way (without reaction to my sudden alarmed state!) and regarded me with the same composed, professional manner. I did not give hims time to answer my call; I began instead to question him. I wanted the name of the master of the house, he could not clearly say. I asked how long he had been in service at the villa, he could not say. I prepared another question, but it was too late. An acrid, disgusting, foul taste materialized in my mouth and tongue. The tea! Blast it all to the 7 Hells!

to be continued….