The Journal of Eamon Vigil (Ravenloft: Legacies of Darkness)

[MDSnowman]

The Players


October the 8th, in the 758th year of The Barovian Calendar

“You need not concern yourself with such things.”

It will never cease to amaze me: the ease in which a mere handful of words, meant to dissuade, can leave one feeling so completely humbled, so very bewildered, as to question their own self-worth. It is these same words that Lady Vigil has oft used to direct my thoughts away from questions of my origins, one of many devices she has employed, since my earliest memory, in an effort to conceal my true lineage.

Though none will speak of it, I am certain that I am of not of Vigil blood. I have forever felt a stranger here, an awkward boy misplaced among a pristine collection of pretty mannequins of no substance. The secrets of my past are, in fact, what led me to explore our land’s history, my childish mind concluding that if I could make no sense of my own origins, that I should instead devote myself to dissecting every event, every chronicle of what has gone before. Lord Vigil, forever displeased with my very existence, discourages such folly. Lady Vigil, however, sees fit to nurture my passion for knowledge. I would venture a belief that she understands my plight (while doing little to alleviate my suffering), and realizes that this quest for information is my sole comfort when faced with the shadowy veil of my past. In truth, I will never know for certain: Lady Vigil would never speak of such serious manners, preferring the quiet romance of yet another courtly mystery.

It was a different mystery that caused the Dean to summon me to his chambers earlier today. An unusual discovery by historians laboring in a far-off region has, in turn, made an expedition outside the borders of Port-a-lucine a necessity. I have been tasked with divulging the true meaning of an obscure (and only partially translated) text, and returning with said findings to the university so that my elders might draw more reasoned conclusions as to their ramifications. In truth, it will be my first journey outside Port-a-lucine without the company of my adopted family, and I am apprehensive: the university has seen fit to procure a companion of sorts in light of my relative inexperience as a traveler, and I suspect that his conscription for this journey can only bode ill for the both of us. Of course, when queried as to the possible dangers that might necessitate the consignment of this man for my expedition, the Dean only shook his head with a low, disarming noise before uttering eight simple words: “You need not concern yourself with such things.”

The secrets, it would seem, haunt me even now.


October the 9th, in the 758th year of The Barovian Calendar

Morning found me with a new sense of purpose: although initially uneasy at the thought of this mysterious expedition, I now anticipate the challenges that lie ahead. Whatever the motivations of the University’s elders in sending me away, I shall not squander this opportunity to delve into the (albeit unwholesome) history of the region surrounding our first destination, a town by name of Glenhollow. Any knowledge is welcome knowledge, and I will fulfill my promise to the Dean to the limits of my ability.

My companion – a man named Connor – did little to inspire my confidence upon our first meeting at the docks of Port-a-lucine. His appearance was rather unkempt and he stank of alcohol, but he seemed coherent enough: his casual demeanor will be a noticeable damper on my own buoyant mood, but his experience as a guide and protector could very well prove useful if we should encounter dangers of any sort. He seems rather comfortable with the crew of the vessel on which we’ll be crossing the Sea of Sorrows, and has already passed most of the night with exaggerated tales of grandeur and many a battered mug of ale: I can only hope that he will manage some semblance of consciousness when the sun rises tomorrow. My head aches at the thought of it.

The less than auspicious beginnings of our journey are not lost on me. Despite Lady Vigil’s vehement protests, I was outfitted for travel by a bevy of Lord Vigil’s attendants: leather armor, a heavy cloak, hiking boots, even a weather-proof satchel for my books and journals. There passed an uneasy moment of silence when one of the servants appeared bearing my rapier and pistol: I have touched neither in years, and I could feel the weight of Matthias’ stare upon me as I took them up and attached them to my belt. “Be watchful of your temper,” he spat. He had turned and left before I could offer a response, or yet another apology. Branwyn and Lady Vigil both offered words of farewell, but it is Matthias’ words that echo still in my ears.

The first of many tests, I fear.


October the 10th, in the 758th year of The Barovian Calendar

The new day has brought another new companion into our midst.

I’m already drawing ahead of myself, however: morning ended with our arrival in Mordentshire after a sleepless night of sloshing back and forth in the bowels of the grog barrel otherwise known as our vessel. I meant to thank the captain for an utterly horrendous journey, but the sting of Matthias’ words still held sharp in the back of my mind and I held my tongue. While I busied myself with collecting my things and dragging them, en masse, to shore, Connor occupied his time by observing an altercation near the docks that was quickly gathering a sizable audience.

A handful of men were accosting a decidedly smaller Elven woman in what appeared to be an attempt to relieve her of her belongings, and they were none too gentle in their efforts to persuade her to part with said possessions. I implored Connor to ignore the spectacle and move on, as I felt it prudent to distance ourselves from any conflicts not directly involving us unless particularly necessary. My pleas were hastily drowned out by startled gasps and a sharp cry of pain as the elven woman drove home her own arguments with the point of her silver blade: the miscreant and his mates beat a hasty retreat, most likely thankful to have escaped with their lives, as Connor, despite every protest I offered, approached the woman and entered into a discussion. Nary a moment had passed beyond cursory introductions before the girl had been recruited to our cause (and the university’s payroll, as it would turn out).

Natheme, as this Elven woman calls herself, is, in some manners, not unlike Connor. Her tone is defiant and her mood sour, and she seems on the verge of combat each time she takes offense. However, her poetic nature is evident from her flowery speech and melodramatic proclamations, both heaped upon you in abundance when the moment presents itself: I hesitate to offer any further observations at this juncture, as she threatens a depth of character from which one could not easily extricate himself. She will, at the very least, bring a new perspective to this expedition: whether that will be for better or worse remains to be seen, however.

One chance encounter did puzzle me: as the three of us made our way towards the inn (and away from any constabulary that might be approaching the scene of Natheme’s attack), I spied the Weathermay-Foxgrove twins perusing the wares of a local street vendor. While hardly a remarkable occurrence as the twins called Mordentshire home though it seemed to be ages since our paths crossed at a society event. I had to suppress my urge to converse with the pair of my cursory reading of Van Richten’s Guide to the Walking dead; however I thought it’d be best if we found our inn and pasted up the opportunity. I did manage to insult Natheme, however momentarily, before the day came to a close: why would she take offense at my having secured a room for her?

The mystery of the female mind: one that I believe I shall never be able to solve.


October the 11th, in the 758th year of The Barovian Calendar

The journey by coach to Glenhollow from Mordentshire was uneventful at best. Natheme’s hostile silence left me with nothing but the company of my own thoughts, which again turned to the Weathermay-Foxgrove twins: I cannot say for certain if I was pondering the motives behind their presence or simply losing myself in the image of their collective beauty, but suffice to say that nary a word was spoken for the majority of the journey. I was elated when the driver announced our arrival and Glenhollow, and eagerly dragged my things to my room in preparation for a good night’s rest.

I was surprised to discover that Branwyn had secreted a letter into my journal, only now appearing as I opened to a fresh page upon which to scrawl the day’s events: she expressed her excitement that I should be enlisted for the “fantastic adventure” (her words, not my own) upon which I was preparing to embark, and her prayers that I might find a way to prove myself worthy of the respect of both Lord Vigil and Matthias, to heal the wound between us all. She did offer one piece of advice, in the event that I should be set upon by brigands most foul: “show them your scar, and recount the tale of how you nearly lost an eye to the Warlord Vigil!” Even now I prod at it absently, a jagged line etched from forehead to chin, marking the midpoint of my left eye. No testament to a terrible battle, however: instead, the cosmetic aftermath of a line drawn between two boys, a line crossed in anger.

I will make you proud, Branwyn. I can promise nothing else.


October the 12th, in the 758th year of The Barovian Calendar

The first of many discoveries!

Even now, my heart beats faster as I relive the memories of the day’s events in my head: after enduring the monotony of the three days previous, our expedition was rewarded with a measure of success, and I am excited at the possibilities stemming from our efforts this night.

It began simply enough: while perusing the aged parchment entrusted to me by the Dean, I was able to make a deduction as to the probable translation of a certain series of characters that had previously befuddled me. Acting upon my suppositions, I was able to interpret a larger portion of the text while simultaneously correcting some erroneous judgments from my earlier attempts at deciphering the parchment’s message. Coupled with the drunken ramblings and fearful murmurs of the inn’s inhabitants (procured in no small part thanks to Connor’s own Herculean indulgences of the barkeep’s alcohol), our collective fortune led us to believe that our next course of action should be to initiate talks with the caretaker of Glenhollow.

But of course, Connor found means to distract us from our immediate task while bolstering our numbers with another unexpected addition: he returned from a shopping excursion with a rather surly dwarf in tow by name of Gravoir. We had little time to make his acquaintance during our trek to the caretaker’s residence, as Natheme filled the distance with muttered complaints and vehement declarations about whatever struck her fancy at that given moment. Our talk – if it could even be deemed such, given its nature – with the caretaker yielded absolutely no clues, leading me to believe, initially, that my interpretations (and Connor’s inebriation) had been for naught.

A small bit of unauthorized exploration led us to the remains of the Mournesworth estate, its residents at the center of an unexplained disappearance years ago. Despite my hesitance to enter the grounds without permission, we nonetheless scaled the fences surrounding the property and entered the dilapidated house without incident. After a divided search of the house, we came upon two notable pieces of evidence. The first: the Mournesworth library, filled with tomes devoted to every subject imaginable, yielded a pair of historical volumes that detailed the history of the Mournesworths, alluding, in particular, to a strange crypt built by the family patriarch that, I felt, warranted a thorough investigation at the earliest opportunity. The second: an upstairs bedroom, while seemingly of little interest at first glance, yielded a rather unusual clue in the form of a strange glyph, concealed beneath a bed in the corner of the room. Upon closer inspection (and a joint effort between Connor and I), we were able to recognize the glyph as some form of protection symbol: from what we unable to ascertain, as our search of the premises were interrupted by an unexpected visitor to the home.

The next few minutes are a chaotic, disjointed series of images in my mind, beginning with an awkward scramble out a second-story window to land, rather ungracefully, on the yard below. Our unwanted intruder, a sickly pale being with talons the size of small swords, gave us one opportunity to leave the house and its grounds, an offer that Natheme flatly refused by way of furious snarls and equally dangerous steel. In the end, it was her bare hands that felled the beast, and we were able to escape the grounds and return to the inn without further encounters.

Tomorrow, we hope to return to the grounds and make a second attempt at exploring the grounds, specifically to locate the crypt spoken of in the Mournesworth chronicle, so that we might gain further insight into the secrets behind the disappearance of the Mournesworth family and draw closer to a solution the conundrum of the parchment first given to me at the university. Tomorrow, we hope to finally begin to unravel the mysteries that surround us.

But tonight...tonight, we rest. Our work, for now, is done.

 

[MDSnowman]

March the 8th, in the 759th year of the Barovian Calendar

I fear that our efforts these past six months have been counter-productive.

To clarify: our return visit to the grounds near the Mournesworth estate, while proving eventful and not without discovery, yielded more questions than answers. Even with that clarification, I digress: the day’s events began much earlier, with the rising of the sun (and our party, in turn), and a terrible discovery that served as the harbinger of more ominous tides.

The body was found suspended from the rafters of the stable behind the inn: the driver of our coach, his life taken from him in a horrific attack that left him split from throat to groin. Though I am no expert in the science of forensics (I have never entertained any sort of interest in the departed, only in the origins of their beliefs and the details of their history), I was able to deduce from the nature of the wound that it was rendered using a hooked or curved implement, though its exact description is beyond my untrained eye (at this juncture, in any case). Connor was able to calm the innkeeper (as he was understandably upset by a grisly murder occurring so close to his establishment) while Natheme busied herself with cutting the body down and preparing it for transport. Gravoir, forever true to self, barely contained his outrage at the scene and muttered incessantly until we were ready to revisit the Mournesworth manor. I hesitate to call it fortuitous that disposing of the body would in turn lead us to another encounter with the caretaker (and in so doing bring us closer to our destination): I will simply attribute it to coincidence and speak no more of it. At any rate, we collected what equipment we deemed necessary and began the hike towards the caretaker’s domicile.

Our second conversation with said individual was no more productive than our first: after relieving us of the coachman’s remains, he dismissed us with his trademark silence and left us to our own devices. Despite Gravoir’s demands that we take the caretaker to task for what he felt was the man’s obvious guilt, we persuaded him to join us in our second foray into the mysteries of the Mournesworth grounds. With the caretaker preoccupied with the duties of his station, we were free to focus our exploration on the crypt spoken of in the Mournesworth text.

A series of symbols etched into the exterior wall proved easily translated, allowing us passage inside the mysterious structure and into a small antechamber furnished with aged sarcophagi surrounding a single, larger sarcophagus that seemed, if only by virtue of its placement, to be an integral piece of the puzzle as to how best to proceed (as the room offered no exits, save the portal through which he had entered). Carvings of a religious symbol, used by the Church of Ezra, sparked curious speculation among our group: though not uncommon among the usual trappings of a burial site, its presence here was strange, given that the construction of the crypt (if the family tome is indeed accurate) predates the Church’s inception by a millennium. Our theories on how it came to be etched in the walls here were soon forgotten, however, as a collective search of the chamber revealed a simple switch at the base of each coffin which, when pressed in succession, granted access to a hidden stairwell that descended into darkness. Natheme, given her racial propensity for accurate sight in those same conditions, immediately took the lead as, one by one, we followed the steps downward. Connor, Gravoir and I quickly lost sight of Natheme, which was shortly thereafter explained by the stairs ending in a glowing portal that concealed everything beyond it. With some trepidation (and an unwillingness to abandon Natheme to whatever fate might await us on the portal’s other side), the three of us stepped through, unsure of what to expect.

We emerged outside the crypt, unscathed: the only immediate differences of note were that day had changed to night, the entire grounds (and its structures) had been blanketed in fresh snow, and a strange tome filled with undecipherable script was clutched firmly in both of my hands. Connor and I had little time to adjust to the sudden shift in our location, as (along with Natheme, who stood nearby, equally shocked by the change in venue) we were greeted by a pale gentleman, dressed head to toe in black clothing, who demanded that we surrender the mysterious manual lest we tempt the edge of his blade.

To render a lengthy account in a concise manner, Natheme’s combustible temperament ignited a melee between ourselves and the strange gentleman: the aftermath saw his demise at Natheme’s hands, while the caretaker – an unexpected arrival armed with a rusted sickle, and evidently a thrall to our aforementioned adversary – was left to stand guard over the place where his master fell, a silent addition to the other ghosts that haunt the Mournesworth estate. I glanced over my shoulder numerous times as we made our retreat from the grounds to mend our wounds and gather our strength, but the caretaker never once stirred: an unmoving shade, his gaze locked on something none of us could see: perhaps he stands there even now, I cannot be certain. It is not something that will disturb my slumbers in the years to come, of that I have no doubts. Enjoy your vigil, quiet monster.

It is only a handful of hours later, and we have learned little since our return to the inn. The inn-keeper was rather surprised at our appearance, an emotion that was readily explained when he informed us that in the time since we had entered the crypt and emerged from its confines, six months had transpired. Thankfully, none had proven brave enough to disturb our belongings (including Connor’s horse): the inn-keeper, more fearful than benevolent, offered us the comfort of his rooms for one last night, an offer of which we have taken full advantage. In the morning, we will begin the journey home to Port-a-lucine (a journey on which Natheme has graciously agreed to accompany us) to report our experiences to the faculty, and perhaps finally be given some answers as to the true motivations behind our expedition. Six months...perhaps our family, our friends, will already believe us dead. I can only surmise that this question, like many others, will be answered upon our return.

It is a slim hope, but I shall cling to it with all my strength. For now.

 

[MDSnowman]

Interlude #1

"Try it again Gaston, and this time remember you’re trying to harm your foe, not tickle him!” Sir D’Pointu remarked dryly bringing a soft chuckle from the group of assembled young dueling students. Gaston nodded in understanding and saluted his sparring partner and once again pressed the attack. D’Pointu retreated calmly from the grounds to observe the sparring. With almost supernatural silence a figure marked only by his long dark hair and heavy dark cloak came up behind D’Pointu watching as well. D’Pointu didn’t jump, simply looked forward.

“Well my lord I hope you’re pleased with the progress of the new recruits.”

“Of course I’m pleased, if I weren’t then our arrangement would no longer be binding. And you wouldn’t want that now would you Frances?” He uttered coldly looking directly at the Sword master.

“Of course not Lord Bendick. I was just making sure these young men met your expectations. I assure you that I met no offense.” Frances D’Pointu bowed lowly before turning his attention back to the practice field where Gaston had just knocked his sparring partner to the ground, unconscious.

“No offense taken Frances… I am quite content.” Lord Bendick said, his thick Balok accent making itself quite apparent. “Now tell me, when will they be ready for the operation I told you about. The targets will likely be on the road within the week.” A volley of gunfire filled the air. To the side an archery range was filled with recruits firing pistols and rifles at humanoid shaped targets.

“Well my lord these recruits won’t all be ready for the field for another fortnight” D’Pointu cleared his throat. He adjusted his collar idly knowing this could be a deal breaker. “I believe I have a half-dozen men who are prepared.”

“Send those that are ready, they’ll be heading North from a town named Glenhollow toward Mordentshire. See that your men recover the item.” Lord Bendick didn’t seem concerned that the three dozen recruits they watched weren’t ready quite yet. He was patient in that regard.

“Of Course Lord Bendick, I’ll send one of my tested men with them, they won’t fail you.”

Bendick turned and began to leave the practice field…then he suddenly came to a stop and looked over his shoulder.

“Oh, Frances, I trust you’ve also trained these youths on the proper mindset of how to use these weapons.”

“Of course my lord.” Frances D’Pointu nodded to young Gaston who calmly lifted his rapier and drove it through his helpless sparring partner’s chest.

“Very good work Frances, see to it that young Gaston is among the ones you send.” Lord Bendick laughed gently and walked calmly away from the practice grounds.

 

[MDSnowman]

March the 9th, in the 759th year of Barovian Calendar

For the first time, our chronic travel schedule has invited danger: after waking earlier this morning and collecting our equipment and necessary provisions, we procured a pair of horses (as Natheme and I had no other means of making overland travel, outside of the two feet upon which we stand) and left Glenhollow to begin our journey back to Port-a-lucine. We had only traveled a short distance when we were halted by a symphony of firearms being cocked and leveled in our direction by a band of highwayman lying in wait on the road outside of town. Their leader, a rather imposing gentleman gifted with a sharp tongue and an equally lethal blade, demanded that we surrender our valuables without incident, the better to escape the encounter with our lives (an offer that I grow increasingly tired of each time it is spoken to our party). To the surprise of our opponents (and my compatriots, if I am to be completely honest), I challenged their leader to a duel and, with a touch of persuasion and subtle misdirection, convinced him to make pistols the weapon of choice for our confrontation: to further strengthen their initial judgments of my lack of preparation, I asked that they provide a pistol for my use in the impending duel, a request that they readily granted. So armed with a pair of pistols (my own weapon secreted beneath the heavy cloak I wore to protect me from the elements), I counted the ten paces and turned to fire.

My opponent was incredibly fast, the sharp retort of his pistol touching my ears before I could even complete my turn to face to him. I ignored the ominous whistle of his bullet passing my ear, focusing instead on my target as, armed with my pair of pistols, I fired in one fluid motion: both rounds struck true, the look of utter surprise on his face as he fell to his knees a testament to both my accuracy and my duplicity. Unfortunately, the exchange of gunfire (and my own deception in using a weapon that, previously, the brigands had no inkling I even possessed) sparked a confrontation that nearly was the end of our tired expedition. Thankfully, through a unique combination of frenzied swordplay, deadly gunfire and sheer fortuitousness, we were able to rout the bandit party and force most of their surviving members into a retreat. One man, severely wounded and trapped at the end of Connor’s spear, proved coherent enough for an interrogation: following a gentle prodding from the muzzle of my firearm, he revealed that he and his brethren were members of, La société des rasoirs, or the Society of Swords, and had been hired to intercept us upon our return journey and relieve us of our belongings. After a momentary lapse of temper (which I can only attribute to fatigue and a mounting frustration), we left the man to drag himself to safety while we continued our journey towards Port-a-lucine.

I now question that decision, however: the Society of Swords are not known for waylaying travelers, to perform petty robberies or otherwise. On the contrary, they are an elite band of duelists employed by the nobles of Port-a-lucine, often as instructors or bodyguards to the wealthy or privileged. They have a lengthy history resplendent with tales of both honor and distinction, neither of which were evident from the demeanor of the men who accosted us upon leaving Glenhollow. It is their familiarity with the nobler circles of Port-a-lucine that trouble me: who could have fathomed that my party would even still be alive after these many months, much less have come into possession of this unusual tome of which I still have been unable to make any sense? And if said entity were able to make these assumptions in all confidence, what would motivate them to send mercenaries to confront us? The plan has always been for me to return with my findings and report them in their entirety to the faculty – why send these men when I am already willingly returning with what they must be seeking?

I have only found one comfort thus far amidst the chaos that has quickly enveloped my waking hours: my show of bravery in the face of adversity when facing the bandit leader led to what I can only interpret as a show of respect from my companions, Natheme in particular. In fact, I awoke this morning to find her curled up beside me, resting quietly and comfortably as if her proximity were of no consequence, as if it were the most natural occurrence given our situation. Although I was initially flustered, I realized that it was not from any perceived offense, but instead an awkward feeling which I cannot completely explain. If nothing else, it does prove that beneath her hostile exterior, there lies a warmer, more approachable Natheme...one that I could grow to admire. Or perhaps more.

So many questions, so many variables to be taken into account...I can only hope that our arrival in Port-a-lucine will, finally, offer some answers.

We need them. Desperately.

I understand that until now it has been a rare occurrence for me to make more than one entry concerning the events of my days, but I have only just now stumbled upon a quandary of some note, and I am at a loss as to how to even begin to explain it. In truth, I have only a moment to spare before we embark once more on the journey to Port-a-lucine: this is only my effort to collect a wayward thought for later examination, that I might be able to discover some kind of answer to this new mystery that has presented itself. Even stranger is the fact that, though I have (only recently) regained enough of my faculties to recall the discrepancy, both Connor and Natheme have yet to notice anything amiss, and I am hesitant to bring the matter to their attention before I can form a concrete theory as to how matters have unfolded in this manner.

It is simple enough in fact, but complex in its implications: though the others seem not even to remember, there were four of us that stepped through the mysterious portal deep in the Mournesworth crypt...but only three emerged.

Whatever has become of Gravoir?

 

[MDSnowman]

March the 10th, in the 759th year of the Barovian Calendar

Home.

From my earliest memories, Port-a-Lucine (and, more specifically, the Vigil estate) has been my home. It was here that I was raised, here where I have studied the mysteries of religion and history, and here where I now find myself after the harrowing events of days (or months, more accurately) prior. Strangely, I found little comfort in our arrival here. Where only a short while ago my first thoughts would have been of my family and their possible anguish at my extended absence, I could only concern myself with concealing my party’s whereabouts from mysterious parties that, save for a few vague pieces of evidence, remain unknown to us.

Connor seems to share my discomfort, though I speculate that the origin of his somber demeanor can be traced to the night previous – throughout the better part of the evening, the shaman was assailed by what he deemed spirits, imploring him to maintain his distance from the grounds surrounding Gryphon Hill. The encounter seemed to leave him visibly shaken, even as he recounted the tale in the comforting light of the following sunrise. His unease troubles me, as I had not before this morning ever seen him to show a failing of nerve – either the rigors of our journey thus far are beginning to take their toll on the rugged adventurer, or there are far more dangerous entities that haunt the lands of Gryphon Hill.

By necessity, my hypotheses were set aside as we passed through the city gates: unwilling to subject my family to unwelcome hostilities, I chose instead to seek shelter at the home of my mentor, Stephan Gearling. The gnome was neither inquisitive or suspicious, gladly offering us a room in his home where we might rest our tired bodies and weary minds before deciding upon our next course of action. I was able, thankfully, to share with him a firearm design that I have refined a great deal during our travels, and he assures me that said design would revolutionize the future of the firearm – if a working prototype can be developed, of course.

While Stephan busied himself with my schematics, I completed a series of counterfeit rubbings (taken from certain portions of the mysterious tome procured from the Mournesworth crypt) which I plan to present to my superiors at the University – though such deception seems unwarranted, I am hesitant to completely trust anyone who might have prior knowledge (or some higher degree of involvement) in our ambush outside Glenhollow. These rubbings will enable me to share pieces of my discovery with the faculty, while preventing them from making full use of its contents until definite proof of their benign intent has been presented.

Caution, while not always necessary, is still to be considered, whatever the case.


March the 11th, in the 759th year of the Barovian Calendar

Morning found each of us in renewed spirits: Natheme, ever alight at even the hint of morning, had already returned with breakfast by the time Connor and I had awoke, and after a brief meal (consisting of some nameless concoction of questionable texture and uninspiring flavor) the three of us left Stephan’s workshop and made our way to the campus to report our findings to the faculty.

The dean seemed impressed with the extent of our discoveries, listening with some measure of excitement as I recounted a carefully edited account of our journey (and the encounters it encompassed): he seemed especially curious as to the full nature of the obsidian rapier obtained from our pale opponent outside the Mournesworth manor (despite my attempts at concealing it from him), but did not pursue the matter further as he speculated aloud as to the meaning behind the etchings we presented to him. After the matter of payment (in regards to the services performed by Natheme and Connor as my guides and protectors) was completed, the dean dismissed us with what Natheme interpreted as condescension and disinterest: thankfully, we were all spared an explosion of her infamous temper, as she chose instead to retreat into an unsettling quiet that, quite honestly, left a pain in my chest. I feel as if there are volumes of secrets inside her heart of which she will never speak, and I wish there were some way to help free her of the burden she so blatantly carries. A task for another time, perhaps, when I am more intimately informed, and well prepared.

We did allow ourselves one final distraction before departure from the campus, inspired by the dean’s curiosity concerning the strange weapon I now carry with me. My friends and I reported to the division of the school charged with uncovering the countless secrets (and true nature) of what many refer to, quite simply, as magic (and the items and persona related to said phenomena): after presenting the weapon to them for a cursory study of its properties, we were greeted by the head of the University, Lord Balfour de Casteelle. Like the dean before us, he displayed a marked interest in our expedition, and the blade in particular. I, for one, was in a state of anxiety while in his presence: I have never been in such close proximity to the man, and I chose my words carefully for fear of embarrassing myself in the face of his boundless knowledge. I curse myself now for not taking full advantage of the opportunity to inquire as to his thoughts on the many mysteries that have plagued me since I first enrolled at the school.

Our day ended with an excursion to La société des rasoirs, in an effort to ascertain the full measure of their involvement in the attack on our party after leaving Glenhollow. The headmaster, a man named D’Pointu, was less than forthcoming, denying vehemently that any of his students would dare involve themselves in such unscrupulous activities. Despite our best efforts (short of resorting to violent measures, mind you) at probing him for information, we left the compound with the same volume of information we possessed upon arrival. We agreed, however, that D’Pointu is indeed hiding something of import, and we will attempt another excursion after we have had an opportunity to plan.

I will end this entry by expressing my mounting displeasure at having to conceal my very presence here in Port-a-Lucine from my family. Though I am convinced that Lord Vigil and Matthias would shed no tears if I were never again to return to the Vigil estate, I faithfully maintain that Lady Vigil and Branwyn must have some question as to my fate following such an extended absence. I have resolved to send word to them at the earliest – yet safest – opportunity, if only to ease my own guilt at not having done so sooner. I do miss them.

I can only pray that they will welcome me home.

 

[MDSnowman]

Stepping Out...

Natheme opened her eyes on the Lucinian night and glanced around the small room. Eamon was asleep, finally, sprawled inelegantly with the book on his chest. Connor appeared content, contemplating whatever dream absorbed him for the moment. It was time.

The elven woman rose silently to her feet and lifted the window-latch, slipping outside into the chilly March air. She slid down the side of the building and paused in the street, making certain that all her gear was secure and readily available, then wandered off among the cobblestone boulevards towards La Société des Rasoirs.

Natheme approached the rear wall of the compound and listened carefully. She expected guards and was somewhat surprised to hear a clink of glass and the sound of drunken stumbling on the other side. She waited with growing impatience for the drunk to move on. After a lengthy wait a loud thud marked the drunk passing out.

Climbing was not her forte, but she managed the 15 foot wall without too much difficulty, getting a hold of the top and peeking over. On the ground below was a young man dressed in a worn Société uniform, passed out on the sand. One of his hands held a wine bottle, and the other was wrapped in a bloody bandage.

Neatly and gracefully Natheme leaped down from the wall, landing soundlessly and kicking up a find powder of sand. She prodded the drunk’s injured hand curiously and was not too surprised to discover what appeared to be a gunshot wound through the palm, apparently several days old.

Looking up, she discovered she was standing only a few feet from the back door to the building, so she slunk over to it and tested the handle. It was unlocked, quite probably by the drunk on his way outside. No sound came from within, so she opened the door and slipped inside.

Giving the abandoned armory a perfunctory glance, Natheme slipped towards the stairs, gliding noiselessly up and pausing at the top. She could hear someone, and, peeking cautiously around the corner she spied a duelist firmly engrossed in conversation with a young woman by one of the many bookshelves. From his smiles and exaggerated hand gestures she assumed he was attempting to court her.

She waited while the conversation became more intense, hoping in their distraction that she wouldn’t be noticed, then dashed towards the stairs, but the duelist looked around. Ducking behind another bookcase Natheme held her breath, wondering whether she should attempt a bluff or strike this man down quickly if she were discovered. He approached slowly, but before he passed her bookcase and spied Natheme the woman whined, “C’mon, luv, I’m getting bored . . .” and he turned away, grinning. Their footsteps retreated from the room, to be replaced by other sounds that caused Natheme to smirk and shake her head.

Unimpeded, she slipped up the next staircase to the double doors outside Frances D’Pointu’s office. She could clearly hear voices on the other side.

“Lord Bendick, I assure you that failure was an aberration.” That was clearly D’Pointu’s voice.

“Aberration or not, Frances, it is a failure . . . something that will not be tolerated.” Lord Bendick’s voice was heavily accented, although the origin of the accent was not clear. He spoke coldly, evenly, but it was clear that he was enraged. “You let a simple child get away . . . you send seven men and they fail . . .”

D’Pointu’s voice became nervous. “My lord, I told you the boy arrived earlier . . . he wasn’t alone. There was a foreigner with him and an elf.”

“Do I hear an excuse coming, Frances?”

D’Pointu was silent. After a moment Bendick continued, “I don’t know what would be a more fitting punishment. Perhaps the dance of a thousand knives . . . do you know what that is, Frances? That’s when I lash you to a post and we take turn throwing knives at you . . . it can go on for days. Or perhaps I should just let you live out your worst fear . . .”

“Sir, one more chance. I still have dozens of men I can trust. There are only three of them. That many men and I will have to succeed.”

Bendick’s voice grew quieter and more intense. “Yes, you have to succeed. Because if you don’t place the book in my hand the next time we meet it will be the last time we meet in this world.”

It sounded very much as though Bendick were about to make a dramatic exit, so Natheme scurried down the stairs and hid behind a bookshelf. Behind her she heard, “Something tells me, though, that numbers won’t be enough. Those three are more cunning than they look.” A roaring sound, as of a great wind, followed that sentence.

Natheme waited, uncertain, but nothing appeared to happen. She went to a window, climbed out, and leaped to the top of the wall, grabbing hold of it and hoisting herself up. Finding her footing on the ledge, she suddenly felt the cold edge of a dagger press against her back and the now-familiar sound of Lord Bendick’s voice.

“Eavesdropping isn’t a ladylike pastime, you know.”

Natheme bowed slightly and glanced at him, saying, “Indeed. Yet neither is sending armed men to do robbery work for a gentleman.” The moment her eyes caught his face she knew she’d made a mistake . . . her heart began to pound and she felt suddenly weak with a frantic need to do whatever he said. She thought suddenly of Eamon, sleeping peacefully at Stephan Gearling’s home, and the feeling faded, but it had been a very near thing.

Thinking frantically and desperately fighting terrible fear, she asked, “How may I please thee, my lord? The book is a trivial matter to me . . . perhaps I could obtain it for you?”

Bendick appeared convinced that she had fallen to his power. “There are many ways you can please me, Milady, but I’m afraid business must come before pleasure. Deliver the book, and your friends, to a place where D’Pointu and his men will best be able to take care of the matter.”

“And where might that be, my lord?”

“There’s an abandoned warehouse on the pier, slowly sinking into the bay. Take them there; tell them that D’Pointu is meeting his master there.”

Natheme glanced over at the Société building. “’Tis such a pity you must rely on that simpleton. He will no doubt bungle matters again.”

“That is my concern, your instructions are simple . . .”

“Tish, you are wiser than I, my lord. Simple enough even for my feeble brain to comprehend. I shall away on my task . . . if you permit?”

“Good.” He sank into the darkness, vanishing as quickly as he had appeared. Natheme waited a moment, then jumped down from the wall, hurrying through the streets. She was shaking all over with dread, hideous mind-tearing dread of what had almost happened. What she might have done. She walked until the first light of dawn began to creep over the buildings, then went back to the room they were using and climbed through the window again.

The men were still asleep; Connor snoring loudly, Eamon looking young and fragile and precious. She crept to his side and bent over him, wrapping her arms around his head and kissing him tenderly, still shaking.

 

[MDSnowman]

March the 12th, in the 759th year of the Barovian Calendar

Today has proven itself to be another battle in what I now believe has become, for lack of a better explanation of our current difficulties, a war.

I must caution myself against hasty musing and thoughtless speculation, as the previous day has been filled with details and events that necessitate careful examination from which learned conclusions can be drawn. The time for assumptions and hypotheses has ended, as every movement, every decision made from this juncture onward, must be weighed carefully to find a tenuous balance between discovery and preservation. Even now, I am nearly trembling as the day’s events are replayed within the confines of my limitless memory: the dangers around us seem to be growing exponentially, and we have skirted death countless times since we first came together six months ago.

The morning began with a kiss, unexpected but not unwelcome, as Natheme nestled my shoulder, her body wracked by shivers that woke me from my slumber. After taking a moment to comfort her (as well as I am able, as I am woefully inexperienced in such things), I was able to disseminate her fearful mutterings into a tense monologue of her movements while Connor and I slept. The details of her infiltration are still somewhat of a mystery, as she was hesitant to reveal each detail of her encounter at the compound of La société des rasoirs: what was of most import were her discoveries that the duelist training school was indeed involved in the ambush at Glenhollow, and that a man known only to her as Bendick appeared to be directing D’Pointu and his men as it pertained to their dubious activities. In truth, Natheme was barely able to escape the compound with her life. Intercepted by Bendick as she attempted to flee the compound, she was subjected to a powerful force that very nearly left her in thrall to the dangerous stranger: only by misleading him as to the depths of her susceptibility to his charm was she able to escape his clutches, offering a false promise to procure the Mournesworth tome (as well as Connor and myself), and deliver us to him at a time and location of his specification.

Despite my overwhelming relief that she was able to return to us unharmed, I found myself consumed by an inescapable rage at her blatant disregard for her own safety, as well as her inability to involve us in whatever plans or machinations she hoped to set in motion. Thankfully, I was able to contain the majority of my anger and busied myself instead with preparing a communiqué which, with Stephan’s help, I was able to forward to Lady Vigil in hopes that she might offer us aid in dealing with the quandary in which we now found ourselves. Natheme, sensing my displeasure at her nocturnal misadventure, left the workshop in search of breakfast.

As Connor and I waited for word from Lady Vigil (if, indeed, she would even trouble herself with a reply), I busied myself with translating another portion of the Mournesworth text, touching upon one section in particular that spoke of a mythical “sentinel” waiting to be awakened by a “chosen one” whose identity was not readily apparent from the text’s rantings. Through an often erratic exchange of thoughts with Connor (relaying on our collective – yet limited – knowledge of Ravenloft’s geography), we were able to ascertain certain clues that pointed towards Barovia, a land far to the east of Port-a-Lucine: it was agreed that, quite possibly, the region would yield further clues as to the tome’s true nature, as well as the full ramifications of our efforts in Glenhollow.

Natheme returned with breakfast, bringing with her an uncomfortable silence that fell upon the three of us like a heavy fog: thankfully, the awkward tension was alleviated by the arrival of Alaink Ray, the single most noted criminologist in all of Ravenloft (if not the entire world), and most recently commissioned by none other than my adopted mother, Lady Vigil. He explained that Lady Vigil had procured his services upon receiving my message, and, after listening carefully the details of our conversations with D’Pointu (and the intelligence gathered by Natheme the previous evening), left to prepare a possible countermeasure before we met with D’Pointu and his men at Bendick’s chosen venue.

I am unsure as to what served to ignite it, but a heated confrontation between Natheme and myself erupted mere moments after Alaink’s departure: I uttered a collection of angry words in the chaos that followed (each of which I now desperately wish could be retracted and forever lost before they had ever been spoken), after which Natheme, in a fit of rage, struck me soundly upon my cheek. Despite the testing of my temper’s limits, I forced myself to retreat upstairs: if Natheme had not followed me, I am certain that I would have gathered my weapons and walked to D’Pointu’s compound myself, to kill him or be killed as the fates would allow. In the end, I held a distraught Natheme in my arms, her trembling frame and frightened tears calming me in an instant as, once more, the pain in my chest returned. To see her so miserable…gives way to an ache I cannot explain, a torment I have never felt before. It pains me beyond measure to see her unhappy.

With the prevailing of cooler tempers, the three of us were able to form a plan. With Stephan’s help (and welcome ingenuity as it pertains to new and insightful uses of gunpowder), we constructed a handful of explosive devices for use in our upcoming confrontation with D’Pointu and his students. It was Natheme’s recollection of Bendick’s words concerning his venue of choice – an abandoned warehouse, resting on a pier sinking slowly into the water – that sparked the idea: by placing the explosives carefully outside the warehouse, we would set them off from afar (using the rifles procured from our enemies outside Glenhollow) to trap our enemies inside the warehouse and complete the pier’s slow path to immersion. Convinced that time was of the essence, we neglected to wait for Alaink’s return, moving quickly to the docks in hopes that we could prepare the site before D’Pointu and his men arrived.

In retrospect, our actions were ill-conceived (at best): thankfully, fortune was with us and the three of us were able to execute the plan without major incident. D’Pointu escaped execution only due to the timely arrival of Alaink and a platoon of Port-a-Lucine guardsmen hoping to place the entire lot of Société members in custody. We were, however, able to take full advantage of the opportunity to interrogate him at our leisure and, after careful persuasion (bolstered at times by offers of protection and veiled threats of violence), we were able to learn that Bendick himself was a native of the very land Connor and I had ascertained to be our next logical destination: Berovia. With that piece of information in our possession, we gladly turned D’Pointu over to the authorities and returned here, to Stephan’s workshop.

Though we have enjoyed a measure of success in our efforts thus far, I can only imagine the full scope of what we have now involved ourselves: plainly, there are unseen forces moving against us, doing everything in their power to thwart our efforts and hamper our movements as best they can. Thus far, we have prevailed, but I cannot believe that this will be a permanent victory: fortune, like the tides, ebbs and flows. In time, fortune will no longer smile upon us, and we will have to rely fully on our own capabilities if we are to have any chance of survival. I am hesitant to place that much faith in myself, as I have yet to do anything but disappoint those who matter most to me.

But Natheme rests beside me, her head nestled gently against my shoulder, the hint of a smile playing upon her lips as she sleeps. For this moment, I will be content with the present, and worry tomorrow about the future. Sleep well, my most precious.

Tomorrow, we return to war.

 

[MDSnowman]

Interlude #2: The Wrath of Kahn

“Well Frances my old friend… I finally get to see you caged, right where you belong.”

The voice belonged to famed Detective Alaink Ray. The blasted elf had spent the past hour explaining to Frances D’Pointu just what he’d done wrong. By this point D’pointu had gotten very tired of it. Inside of his own private cell at the constabulary one would be hard pressed to imagine the figure in that cell was the same Frances D’Pointu who’d been famous throughout the city for training swordsmen.

His own rich clothing was soaked leaving a puddle underneath him as he sat on the uncomfortable wooden bench. The graying blonde hair that had always been worn in a ponytail was now free and equally wet, falling over a deathly pale face obscuring his eyes. His shirt was open revealing a series of small scars all over his torso. He endured Ray’s taunts in silence. He knew that as soon as it was over he’d be dead.

“And to think Frances, after years of evading me you allow yourself to walk into an ambush perpetrated by one of those rich children you hate so vehemently and his friends. It’s fitting though that your arrogance caused your downfall. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll be coordinating your transport to the nearest magistrate.”

Alaink Ray turned and left the dimly lit holding cell closing the heavy metal bars behind him. That last crack had really angered the duelist. The fact that the black sheep of the Vigil family along with a pair of rowdy foreigners. D’Pointu knew that when Lord Bendick came to end his life that would be his biggest regret. He wanted his revenge for the slight against him. Just then a cold draft filled the basement dungeon.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to kill me quickly.” D’Pointu remarked dryly knowing who it was before he was even seen.

“It would be quite a tall order considering your string of failures.” The heavily accented voice called out quietly from the shadows.

“I wasn’t the only one who failed… took care of the Elf girl did you? She ran right back to her friends and told them what happened. They were ready for us.” D’Pointu responded his gaze still down focused on the irons binding him to the wooden Bench.

“I’ll pay for my failures in time, trust in that Frances, however I never would have needed to be that heavy handed if you’d simply done your job.” Was Bendick’s retort.

“So how do you do this? Break my neck, hang me from the ceiling as a warning?” D’Pointu changed the subject knowing arguing over the blame would get him nowhere.

“There will be plenty of time for that later on. I assume you made like a songbird once you were confronted. What did you tell them Frances?” Bendick said as he slipped from the darkness. Dressed in his long dark cloak his blue eyes practically glowing in the dim light.

“I couldn’t tell them all that much, you did a good job keeping me in the dark. I did bring up your accent; it does make your ancestry obvious. Sounded like they were going to head to Barovia anyway.” D’Pointu uttered looking up finally a bit of fear entering his voice.

“So they’re ignoring the first passage and trying to find the root of it all? Hmm Interesting. They could move faster that way, or they may get themselves killed. Either way they should be relieved of the book.” Bendick appeared to be speaking to himself. Lifting a single dark glove to stroke his short beard.

“I think it’s time that the Church of Ezra discovers what’s in that book they carry. They’ve killed at the mention of it before… I doubt three more lives will give them pause. I’m willing to bet they send out Les Soeurs Impitoyables to silence them once and for all. Either way it’ll be best if the book vanishes in the chaos.” Bendick continued talking to himself. D’pointu could only listen in fear, knowing that being told this much meant his immediate death.

“As for your demise Frances… there will be another time for that.” Bendick remarked coldly as he reached down and wrapped his hand around the bolt keeping D’Point’s irons driven into the bench. With a single yank the bolt and chains were ripped from their place.

“Your life does not belong to you anymore Frances. You only live now because greater things await you.” This was all Bendick said as he ripped open the cell’s wrought iron door. D’Pointu followed quickly a grin on his face. He’d get his revenge now, he couldn’t be happier.