IntoTheMouthOfRavness

The motivational forces of this world, be they gods of myth and scripture, or subtle fluctuations of cosmic influence, must undoubtedly be imbued with a wretched sense of comedy to have cast me into such a hopeless series of dreadful inconveniences. Many brave individuals, the sort that might openly label themselves adventurers and explorers, would have seen their lifetime’s appetite for excitement satisfied had they walked but these last 3 weeks in my admittedly large shoes. I had naturally anticipated a kind of perpetual state of restlessness and danger when I fled into the arms of the mists all those months ago, but had I been presented then with an appercu of what lay ahead, I might have considered staying in Paridon and reaping the proverbial whirlwind for my transgressions against the Circle. In the three months since my exodus, I have seen simple men walk through fire unscathed, rodents the size of hunting dogs, houses that operated themselves, demons in the guise of wolves, crazed vampiric apparitions, artifacts from the Devil’s own personal collection, and enough dead men to eclipse any records held by even the likes of Bloody Jack.

Once more into the breach my friends, I think is the appropriate expression.

It’s strange how of all the places that I run into trouble it’s a place that most closely resembles my homeloand. The people look similar and evern speak the language, yet somehow, I am the outsider. It makes me sick to even consider that these people could be my cousins. I feel more of a kinship with the people that fight them for their freedom.

I need to learn to control my anger better. There were times that I was willing to kill a man for a simple transgression, fortunatley Simeon was there to stay my hand. He truely is a saint, and is a man that can see the true worth of a life. I must ask for forgiveness, both from my friends and from the Morning Lord.

Many things have transpired since the death of Gregoire and I wish that I could have given that poor tortured soul better send off than have his corpse carried off into the woods in the ruse, but when it came down to it, it was the Barovians fault for that not happening. Now poor Gregoire and all his drive and all is sorrow are lost. I wonder, would I go to the same lengths to destroy Patrovna? Would I sell my future, my soul just for revenge, at a chance of revolution? Some say you need to fight fire with fire, but evil is something that must be countered. Many times the ends justify the means, but is there a time when this does not apply? When the means are to great a sin? I fear that I may end up as Gregoire did, a twisted dry corpse, with an unfufilled mission.

File # 0090099
Status - Pending

Suspect Legal Name - Unknown
Alias(es) - The Gargoyle of Paridon, The Hands of Stone, The Black Beast of Langston Heights, The Midnight Horror, The Foolkiller.

Physical Profile - The reports that my office has compiled and sorted on the particulars of this criminal’s visual attributes are contradictory for the most part. I have therefore decided to ignore these discrepancies in an effort to advance our cause and concentrate on what may serve as fact. There are three certainties about this villain that has committed no fewer than 5 murders in the past year; he is unnaturally large-bodied, possesses phenomenal strength and speed, and an almost supernatural awareness. From first-hand experience I can confirm this. Second of all, it is terribly resistant to physical stress and perhaps even impervious to bullets and knives, although those features remain thankfully unverified. Third, it cannot be reasoned with or deterred from its targets under any circumstances.

Behavioral Profile - My constables have suggested that this creature is being directed or influenced by some greater intellect from the shadows. I do not concur with this hypothesis. While the thing might have a master, it has demonstrated in all three of our brief encounters that it has a thinking, calculating and cunning mind. I am in fact the only person at this time that believes the Gargoyle to be a man dispite all of his unusual characteristics. Something about the way he operates, the way he stalks his victims that has me convinced of his humanity. In addition, I am of the belief that this man is possessed with a extraordinary knowledge of human behavior. He likes to play games with his victims; all of his crimes have to them a singular and nefarious quality most often found in habit-killers, the types that operate with method and calculation. I have yet to discover the precise equation of its evil.

Historical - The Gargoyle, as we will refer to him for simplicity sake, has been a blight on the Langston-West End for over 5 years now. Its first confirmed offense was registered by then-acting Inspector Truant Archibald of the Eastern Shore Constabulary. The victim was one Urquail Caledon Esquire, nominee to the House of Lords and the owner of the finest stables in all Paridon. The circumstances of his demise seemed routine at first glance, and had been assumed to be the result of a street mugging gone from bad to worse. The detail that had eluded the otherwise capable Inspector at the time, were the contents of the victim’s pockets; large handfuls of rose thorns and a pocket watch with a missing minute-hand. The timepiece had been set exactly to the hour of 3, which as supported by numerous qualified scholars, is known as the Witching Hour, a superstitiously regarded time when the “powers of darkness” are said to exhibit their influence in the world of mortals. This is of course pure rubbish, but it has been my experience that these absurd occult beliefs are central to the twisted philosophies of many criminals. Villainous types are not without an appreciation of ghost tales and melodrama, it would seem.

The discovery of these peculiar items led Inspector Archibald to create a special dossier dedicated to “crimes of a peculiar sort”, and because of the tremendous foresight on his behalf, I am today able to create a more complete portrait of our suspect. It was later surmised by our new behavioral specialist that the rose thorns were meant as a metaphor to illustrate the fact that Urquail Caledon Esquire had become a “thorn” in the side of his enemies and the watch, that his “hour” had come. I would find numerous versions of this message over the course of my residency as Constable, Adjudant and Inspector. This “calling card”, coupled with a few rare witness accounts and my own experiences supplied the remaining clues that were necessary to shed light on the one responsible for these heinous crimes.

I currently count 17 total offenses by the Gargoyle in his 5-year reign of terror. Victims have ranged from distinguished gentlemen to entrepreneurs, scholars, officials and even in one ghastly case, a clergyman from the Temple of Divinity. I have not found any precise correlation or pattern between these assassinations, but I have been able to construct an outline sufficiently accurate to perhaps allow me and my constables to apprehend the Gargoyle at the next opportunity. I believe this opportunity is approaching and that through my personal investigations, I have derived the identity of the Gargoyle’s next target. It remains to be seen if my men and I are up to the task of ending once and for all its reign of terror over our noble populace.

Disclaimers&Notes - The Gargoyle is not, by any means at all, to be confronted or obstructed without the assistance of the Constabulary, or adequate armed support. The suspect is dangerous and should be considered a lethal element despite its history of leaving witnesses and by-standers uninjured. If spotted, even law-enforcement officials should call for assistance and not attempt to intervene in any way.

————-

I will never forget the look on the Inspector’s chiseled face when my hands wrapped around his shoulders as he was penning the closing notes to his little profile on me. I must admit that I felt somewhat awash with pride from the flattery contained within this document. A pity that I did not have the time to pocket all of it when the reinforcements burst through the office door and forced me to beat a hasty retreat through the nearest window in my accustomed dramatic style. I still wonder to this day if our good Inspector Blackmoore had really discovered the identity of my next “victim”, as he said it. I am certain the the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on the poor chap. In fact I recall a certain stoic, befuddled look in his tearing eyes as I pinned him against his office wall; the look of a man drowning in the tides of dreadful realization. He had sealed his own fate by having so adamantly pursued me and my keepers during all those months. A clever chap that one, too clever and noble for his own good. I remember foolishly attempting to dissuade my masters from ordering his violent removal from office; I pleaded father to reconsider, to see Blackmoore for what he could have been to our cause: an invaluable asset. Alas, as with all foolish men, my keepers only saw him as a threat to the Circle. They thought Blackmoore would stick his nose far enough to pierce their valuable shroud of secrecy, and unravel the whole thing into damnation.

Rest in Peace Inspector…

When you’re a child, even an abnormal one, by way of misfortune or accident, you are inescapably faced with learning one of the fundamental lessons of life and nature; he who mocks the flame will likely get burned by it. What they don’t tell you is that the lesson doesn’t nearly end there, oh no my friends. Very quickly as you leave childish things behind and enter the world of men, you realize that Fate will spare no opportunity to reiterate its teaching lest you come to your senses, or fail to survive the latest examination. Most chaps will convince themselves at one point or another that they are completely aware of their strengths and their shortcomings, and it here, precisely during these reoccurring periods of self-assurance and unquestionable arrogance that the Powers That Be see fit to remind you of your limitations. I thought myself immune to such petty human concerns, I believed that having been born an aberration, a thing with human features but otherwise disqualified from membership in the human race; I thought that one such as I would be above foolish notions of arrogance. After all, how could a monster be full of himself? How could a beast born of alchemical blasphemy and natural defiance be anything but aware of its nature; forthcoming and honest with what it is, what its capable of. This is delusion that I have allowed to creep into the cellar of my consciousness, and looking back on things at this juncture, one of many delusions that led to my brush with Hell in the misty confines of Barovia.

The ruse was simple enough. We would wait for the moment propice , make sure that a witness (the innkeeper) would be present; we would stage the whole thing like a poorly-rehearsed matinee piece from the Brightham-Colm Theatre. I donned an old mask that I had appropriated from the aforementioned establishment during my younger days as their unofficial Prompter (a story for another time perhaps). The harlequin mask, with its angry brows, wicked grin and elongated nose, was just the edge we needed to make me look the part of the fiend (irony, oh irony!). When the hour of action came, I stepped out of the shadows doing my best rendition of Xavier Herst’s antagonist, Eleones from The Dragon’s Breath, speaking in foreign tongues (the ancient dialect of clever-sounding gibberish that is) , and making a general ass of myself. Fortunately my amateurish acting skill was rounded out by my documented abnormalities, namely my gargantuan frame and ghoulish proportions, and so the deception had the desired effect on our poor unsuspecting witness.

Once terror had saturated the room, a few masterful performances from Petru and company succeeded in lending the necessary dramatic fuel to our fire. I gathered Gregoire’s remains and declared in a booming voice my intentions to spirit it off to my “lair in Hell”. I crashed through the nearby window, thus alerting the guard and inciting overall panic in the streets. As soon as I touched down on the main avenue, howling and snarling like a thing possessed, well, you can imagine how well the peasant folk adapted to the situation. I fled down the street, heralded by a chorus of high-pitched screams and gasps, eventually disappearing into the night like the Devil himself. It was all damn entertaining if I do say so myself. Herst might have approved.

It occurred to me then, in the heat of my passionate dash across the streets of Vallaki, that we had neglected to discuss with my colleagues, the exact circumstances of our plan. Particularly the part that detailed the lieu of our regrouping. A major oversight, no doubt about it. Overconfidence. I fled to the woods, throwing off my pursuers in the process, and allowing me the opportunity to see to the proper destruction of Gregoire’s remains (which we had decided to commit to the fire for security purposes). After some time however, I begun to question the wisdom of my direction, and began searching for a way back to the main road. My instincts told me that my allies would beat a hasty retreat to the town of Krezk in the North, where they would presumably await my arrival.

Being a creature of high-society, hailing from a grand metropolis like Paridon, I unfortunately lacked the direction sense and know-how to navigate out of the forest in a timely manner, and therefore found myself turning in circles like a blasted blinded rat in a maze for the better part of the day. When I finally touched man-made stone once more, I came to a most troubling realization; I had lost the daylight, and dusk was beginning to settle in. The feeling that I experienced then had the features and characteristics of fright, and I say this because the chill against my spine and cool beads of sweat on my brow had been somewhat of an alien sensation to me until that moment. I quickly began to understand that I was experiencing the symptoms of a condition I am normally accustomed to inducing to those around me. I realized I was afraid.

If the accounts that we had heard from the peasantry had not been enough to convince me to stay indoors in the late Barovian hours, the wolf cries that I began hearing from all around me clearly brought the idea home. I had failed to observe the cardinal rule of this land, and now stood several miles away from civilization and shelter. I was at the mercy of the land and its true masters. I felt numb, indecisive, incoherent; I needed to think fast, to find a way to survive. In the end, I did then what any man would have done in my stead: I ran with all the strength and endurance that I could muster, bound for Krezk. The howls got louder, followed by all the various and unnerving emanations of supernatural activity. Soon I could detect the scent of the predator in the air, a fragrance marked by a lethal and unwavering quality. For a moment I found myself wondering if I myself produced such a odor when I used to prey on my father’s enemies from the rooftops.

I ran, and I ran some more. My chest heaved like one of those steam contraptions approaching critical mass, my limbs getting heavier with every stride. I was only too aware of my pursuers and their increasing proximity, yet I pushed on, damning the limits of constitution and sanity. I must have reached speeds that would be considered unnatural, for even the shapes in the forest seem to exert themselves in the chase. If not for my mounting distress, I might have turned to make obscene gestures and offer them a few colorful remarks in their native language (which offers a surprisingly vast selection of expletives for those purposes), alas I was not in the mood at all for levity. I simply assumed that whichever merciless power was responsible for my present condition must have been properly entertained for the both of us, leaving me ample opportunity to contemplate my terror.

When my body began to surrender despite my will to guide it onward, I experienced another strange sensation, this one from what I suspect to having originated from an alterior origin. I heard what I can only describe as a whisper, a melange of whispers as a matter of fact, entering my brain by some kind of telepathy rather than by sensory input. I heard “it” calling to me, the thing, the artifact of corruption that we had lifted off of poor Gregoire. Before I could begin translating the contents of the message, I realized that I already understood its meaning. It was calling out to me, beckoning me to abandon my flight and face my assailants. I dismissed the idea at first for what it was: pure unmistakable folly. My burning legs and arms however urged me to reconsider the proposal and gave out from under me. My natural instincts responded fortunately, I rolled with the crash and found myself back on my feet. It was clear however than my journey had come to an end, and that regardless of the occult knowledge and evolutionary promise vested in me, I simply had to make my stand, this far and no further.

Something in me was compelled to retrieve the barbed candle-hand from its container. The prevailing theory in my mind was that it held some kind of power within its cursed digits. If this was indeed to be my final hour, I would not willingly walk into the light of the hereafter without pooling every resource, be it benevolent or sacrilegious in nature. I lit the wick as a tremor formed in my chest, then with burdened resolve I looked up to finally behold my tormentors in all their magnificent and terrible glory.

I counted a score of them, surging from the path behind me, hulking brutes with teeth and claws no less than twice that of the generic kind. Bulging sinew and alabaster fangs merged with razor-shaped black masses of fur to form creatures only reminiscent of wolves, but clearly of another unearthly origin. Their eyes, like lances forged from dying stars, fixed upon my flesh with resounding purpose. No, these were no wolves at at all; they were the feral legions of the night, the watchers of the deep, the unchallenged masters of this land. They did not prey on the foolhardy to assuage any desires of nourishment or territorial supremacy; they did it for their entertainment and predatory delight. I knew this because I had lived their life once upon a time, a skulking beast of fury, living only for the hunt and the sweet taste of my victim’s despair. These demons and I, we knew things about one another, we had sipped from the same cup of wine.

The situation was clear to me now. I was surrounded, too far yet to call on my fellows for the help I needed so direly. Yet in a strange way I was glad to be the only one trapped in this nightmare. I suddenly understood why when I summoned their faces in my mind’s theatre. They were my friends, my family. They were like little brothers to me, in need of my protection. To know that they were away from all this madness and horror did much to strengthen my spirits. They would have to press on in this wicked world without me, and that was alright. Tonight I would give the heavens a performance they would never forget. I would fight my last battle with such rage and determination that my final cry would knock the stars out of the shrouded sky. I took a deep breath and turned back my attention to my executioners, managing even an insolent smirk and a flare of the nostrils. “Have at you, you bothersome rascals! By all that I am I pledge to send you back to the putrid kennels of Hell from which you were set loose! Come now, the night is ours to paint with crimson!”

…

They came. Like angelic swordsmen on the Day of Endings they descended upon my mishapped form with deadly determination. I had set the unholy candle down on a flat stone a few feet away to let it burn unhindered, and opened my arms like a welcoming father to his beckoning children. What followed then, I cannot say with certainty. I know only that I fought. I fought with the zeal and vigor of hundred berzerkers when I should have only been able to muster that of a dozen or so. The devils afforded me no quarter, clawing and rending at me without a moment’s respite, yet for all their efforts my skin would not tear, my blood would not spill. Had I been aware of my unearthly condition, mayhap I would have fallen over and laid there in confusion, but I could see and hear only death and destruction. I clawed back, I tore at their contorted snouts. I pulled their jaws apart like wooden branches and dug my fingers into their eyes. I expected to falter soon, but the moment would not come, and so I forged on like the son of the Reaper, committing wholesale slaughter on them all. More and more came, but it did not matter. I killed them all and left no wounded.

When I came to my senses I discovered that I had been bathed in their blood and now stood atop their discarded corpses, triumphant. Disbelief collided with jubilation as I counted my victims - twenty-nine. Twenty-nine lay at my feet beyond all repair. It had all the makings of some Sithican myth, “Behold, Samael the Wolf-Slayer!” I was reeling from a kind of feverish exaltation from it all, that momentary madness that valiant heroes of legend conceal beneath their golden helms once they’ve pulled their blade from the enemy’s dead heart.

I had but a moment to recuperate before I felt a sudden jolt of violent pain from my abdomen. I began to wretch and convulse from some unknown anguish. I rolled to the floor screaming and gasping. My confusion lasted but a moment before I realized why this was happening to me; it was the blasted thing, the Devil’s Torch, the candle of foul corruption. It had shielded me from harm during my savage battle with the wolves with its cursed magics, and now it was exacting the price for its servitude. Never had I felt such pain in my existence. For a moment I began to believe that I had not survived my ordeal at all. That I had only imagined my victory, and now I actually lay near death with my enemies feasting on my innards. Just then the pain went away, and I could breathe again and smell the blood around me. I took to my feet, dazed and disoriented. By some instinct I divined the direction to Krezk and began to make my way toward it. I sealed the Devil’s Torch in its case out of some misplaced sense of ownership and made best speed for inhabited land. Here I was thinking that my trials had ended for the evening (and perhaps the year?), but, as I would soon discover, that the festivities were just beginning.

About a quarter-mile from the battleground I came upon a couple of fallen human corpses, a man and a woman. The male I recognized as one of the town guard, Ulian, I believe his captain had called him. He lay still now next to a waif of a woman, his wife perhaps. They appeared to have been the entree in the feast I had been supposed to serve as the main course (terribly sorry to disappoint chaps!). I entertained some notions of offering them proper burials, but my body and mind had other plans. Just as I turned from their presence I felt a stir from the corpses, and before I could compensate with my senses, both the man and girl were on their feet smiling at me with gleaming and prominent ivory fangs.

This was the breaking point for me personally, and I could only frown and tilt my head to the side in confusion. the man stepped forward and bowed to me mockingly. “A very good night to you sir, I am Ulian of Krezk and this is my lovely wife-to-be Agneska. Would you terribly mind if we tore out your throat and sucked it dry of its delicious contents?” Alright, perhaps he did not word his thoughts in this manner, but the blasted thing’s intentions were clear enough to send a battalion of heavy cavalry packing through the plains. Seeing no other choice, I took flight for the second time of the night, galloping like a wet rhinoceros down the road to salvation. I had spotted a light in the distance you see, a light that could not have been other than the gateway to Krezk, and so I made like a demon for the horizon.

Somehow, by means I cannot explain (perhaps leftover magical influence from the candle), I breached the rotting gates of the town of Krezk, arriving into the center street like a rolling boulder of bloodied flesh. I could only find the strength to yell with all my heart, “Symeon! Symeon! To me my friends! Misericordia!”. For the third time that night I witnessed a miracle as a window from a nearby window exploded and out came Symeon with Petru and Ephraim at his side. Symeon looked different from how I’d remembered him; he no longer stood slouched in his adopted posture of the humble pilgrim. His eyes glowed with a fire hotter than those of Purgatory, and his bearing was that of a divine smiter of evil rather than a reclusive heretic. These creatures, these Nosferatu that had chased me into the alleys were (I later discovered) his mortal enemies by design.

Next to him came another apparition in the form of Ephraim, standing tall with his armor gleaming, free of the rags he normally wore over them to conceal his might. Ephraim’s stance was that of a spiritual warrior, sword in hand (drawn out no less!) shield in the other, yet his face showed a kind of tranquil elegance, it showed grace and assurance in the power of his faith. Last but not least came my little Petru, the idealist. Like a jackal, foaming at the mouth he jumped from his vantage point, hurling insults and everything else within his reach. They were The Saint, The Knight, and the Madman, three cards that the Vistani Tarroka deck had not revealed to me, yet they stood there plain to me as ever. The battle was fierce but short. In the end we dispatched the female and gave Ulian a thrashing he would not soon forget, unfortunately the slippery bastard managed to flee from us by shifting into a mist-like state, leaving us all alone in the deserted street.

We decided to leave Krezk at once and return to the abandoned temple where we had first taken refuge at our arrival into Barovia. There I took the time to share my trials to a shocked but attentive audience, and promptly feinted into my bedroll like a slab of beef on the butcher’s table. The sleep took me in an instant, and I began to feel at ease for the first time in days, counting my blessings and lamenting my curses.

All in a day’s work, wouldn’t you agree?

I must have been no more than 10-12 seasons old when my father introduced me to Professor Heinrik Geshtaldt from the University. Heinrik was according to his credentials a specialist of behavior and cerebral studies. He dabbled in phrenology and biology as well, but his true talents, I discovered, were in the esoteric art of mesmerism and hypnosis. These latter disciplines he did not share with his faculty at the University, and with good cause. No, a man with such peculiar curiosities (and ego) could only indulge in the more mystical aspects of the human mind in the security of the headquarters of the Brotherhood, the Temple of Divinity.

Father had called upon Prof. Geshtaldt’s expertise for a number of reasons; my unique physiology had brought about in me some drastic behavioral “challenges”, and I had begun to experience a type of transformation that is akin to the effects of puberty. I was an early-bloomer apparently, although I recall more temper tantrums and confusion this so-called blooming I was supposed to experience. The Professor had been brought in to evaluate my mental condition (ha!), and to help me find some piece of mind. I later discovered some of his notes that had fallen free of his brief case following one of his visits, and found contained within those pages, some rather disconcerting observations. These entries are what led me to first uncover the twisted circumstances of my existence, and just what father dearest (and his new wife) had planned for my future. I think Heinrik’s words are far more effective in relating this information than any eloquence than I could hope to muster, and so here they are in abbreviated form. Notice that Heinrik calls me “Nathaniel”, the name given to me at birth, and not my adopted moniker of Samael.

Project Prodigal - Session Notes - Day 24

I am experiencing tremendous success with my latest battery of exercises. Nathaniel is slowly beginning to respond to the subtle manipulations of the Geobe Method that I humbly admit to have upgraded and given wings to during my formative years in Ludendorf, under the tutelage of Dn Meister Karl Luthervas. It goes without saying that Nathaniel is like no other subject that I have ever worked with, truly remarkable. My colleagues in Circle have outdone themselves with this masterpiece of evolutionary re-sequencing. I could not have hoped to perform research this avant-garde in my wildest dreams.

Nathaniel nevertheless claims to have “sources”, and starts to behave very erratically when his father is around. His outbursts aren’t purely physical in nature; some of his sudden reactions result in a variety of fascinating behaviors. Just the other day, he leaped up from his cot and jumped nearly 4 feet in the air, landing on top of my writing desk. This caused me quite a fright, but I was able to maintain a professional allure and study Nathaniel’s movements with great attention. It seems that he had not intended this “frog leap” as a means of assault or defiance toward me, but rather the subject had been experimenting with his own sense of balance and gravity. A later diagnosis during Nathaniel’s nap period revealed a 8% sudden and inexplicable growth of his thigh and calf muscles from the last time I examined him (see log Day 13). Most curious are the proportions and shapes that this new muscle had formed in. It appears that Nathaniel’s legs seem to have thickened rather than gained a certain natural elongated definition. By my calculation, if this “ubermensh effect” persists and spreads to his upper body, Nathaniel’s already considerable weight and height may double by the time he has reached his 15th birthday. Are these new developments due to Geadregan prenatal alchemical harnessing techniques that were used during the formative years of the fetus, or is this some unforeseen metamorphosis brought on by the daily dosages of compounds Ceros VI trough XII? This bears careful watching.

to be continued…