Gennifer Weathermay-Foxgrove, Mordentshire Aug. 12, 758 BC
(Exerpts from paladin Alexander Dreamfire, Mayvin, Darkon, April 709 BC)
I met a most interesting man today. His name is Rudolph van Richten and he is studying vampires. I was glad to offer what I know of them, but his wild-eyed passion for the subject struck me as odd. Odd, and familiar, too. Over a pint of the local ale I learned his family had been killed by a vampire. He seeks to rid the world of them out of a sense of revenge.
I tried to explain that vengeance only leaves you hollow. But his anger still burns hot and he is too young to have the wisdom of experience. So I offered some practical advice against these nocturnal predators and left him to think it over. I see so much of myself in him it's scary. The same hatred for that which does not live, the same anger for destroying everything one held dear, it was like looking into a mirror three centuries past.
One thing he told me strikes me as rather ingenious. I've always relied on the knowledge of the church to study the undead. Instead of just listening to the testimony of others, he has studied them directly and even interviewed more than a few in person! I've never been able to stifle my own hatred enough to talk with them in a civil manner. Yet I have the gift--or curse--of being able to speak with the dead as readily as the living. Maybe I should take my own advice and learn directly from the things I hunt. But that's for another day. The ale is beginning to cloud my mind and I can feel the call of a bed. (End transcript)
(Somewhere in Central Darkon, Sept. 16, 709 BC)
The following are the recorded words of myself and a cannibal zombie. The creature identifies itself as what was once Liam of Maykle, a simple shopkeep. He has been cursed with undeath for three years by my calculations, after fighting off a lone cannibal zombie on his way home and suffering a vicious bite. The subject is magically restrained and docile--for the time.
Alexander Dreamfire: Liam, what is it like to be undead?
Liam of Maykle: I feel pain. Terrible pain.
AD: Pain?
LoM: I feel my body rotting. My flesh feels like it's on fire and being torn away by some great beast as it falls off my bones.
AD: Is that why you eat people?
LoM: Yes. When I eat flesh, the pain stops and I feel alive again. But it never lasts long. The pain returns soon after I finish eating. I just want it to go away.
AD: What about the people you eat? How do you feel about them?
LoM: When I'm in pain, I can't think about anything else. When I finish, I feel horrible about killing them. I see my little boy and my wife in their faces. No, I didn't want to kill them! IT WASN'T MY FAULT!
AD: Liam, calm down.
LoM: No! That wasn't me! I...I must eat!!
At this point the subject refused to answer further questions. Between rants and raves about eating and not killing his family, he begged me to kill him. So I granted his plea and laid his body to rest. What strikes me as odd, though, is that cannibal zombies roam in herds. Liam was alone and actively sought me out of his own free will...such as it was. Maybe all such creatures seek the peace of a final death, but the curse of undeath compels them to attack and kill the living? I will have to ask my next subject.
(End transcript)
This is my first posting of fiction I wrote for previous games I ran. Constructive criticism is welcome. If folks like it, maybe I'll post more.
It looks as though Dreamfire has some issues needing resolved as well.
It looks as though Dreamfire has some issues needing resolved as well.
Now there's an understatement...
Since at least one person seems to be interested (if only in passing) I'll post a second journal entry later.
*scribble scribble*
I have finally decided to build a home in the quiet town of Mordentshire after ten years of wandering this accursed plane. I have seen and done much, but there is still so much more out there. My time in Mordent alone has taught me a lot about the incorporeal undead and the nature of the Near Ethereal.
I've met van Richten several times in the past year. His hunt for vampires continues unabated. With each kill he seems to grow more and more bloodthirsty, eager to find his next target. I remember that feeling all too well. Vengeance and hate fill your mind, drowning out the pain. When you hunt it's easy to ignore the pain and misery, to drown it in blood and screams. Yet at the end of the day, it always comes back. I don't know if van Richten has yet made the mistake of salving his misery with drink, but it wouldn't surprise me if he has. I've been there, too tormented by my own feelings to do anything. It seemed so easy to hide in a bottle--until I got my companions killed because I was too drunk to fight. I've never forgiven myself for that, yet I still try and drown out the pain with alcohol. Gods help me...
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Ludendorf, Lamordia, May 3, 710 BC)
Once more I cross paths with van Richten. This time, however, the strain of mindless vengeance is more apparent. The hunt for vampires has taken its toll and he is now questioning everything he once believed in so firmly. I doubt he will find answers soon; the pain of his family's death is still too fresh in his mind. This time I didn't try to discourage his hunts. Only he can stop himself now.
One interesting development is his expansion into the study of ghosts. It was just recently, at a countryside in called the Thistle and Bonnet here in Lamordia. He spoke of a ghostly carriage that appeared and thundered past--its inhabitants held in by bars of bone, the horses and driver skeletal. Now he plans to begin studying these creatures and has asked my help. I couldn't turn him down. He's already investigated one called The Laughing Man of Lamordia, a harmless if banal ghost that ruins fishermen's catches for months if driven off. Yet it's reportedly so boring in its speech that one can't help but fall asleep and forfeit the day's fishing.
Our first target is a tragic ghost called the Weeping Widow of Ludendorf. This is the reason van Richten is here, while I simply came up to discuss creating a trading post with the local merchants. Fate is certainly strange.
(Ludendorf, May 4, 710 BC 12:00 AM)
The following is a record of an interview between myself, Dr. Rudolph van Richten, and an anchorite from Mordent, Warden Alice Thatcher with the ghost of the "Weeping Widow of Ludendorf."
Van Richten: Good lady, what keeps you from your rest?
Weeping Widow: My husband. I have to wait for my husband.
Warden Thatcher: Good woman, your husband is dead. Lost at sea.
WW: He...he can't be! I can still see him, crying for help.
Alexander Dreamfire: Where do you see him?
WW: There, just off the shore. I can see him in the water, calling out for my help. But I can't reach him. No matter how hard I try, I can't reach him.
(Looks out at the shore) VR: Good lady, I don't see anything.
WW: He is there! I can hear him! He's still wearing the ring I gave him on our wedding day.
AD: A ring? What kind of ring?
WW: Silver, with a lapis lazuli and an inscription inside of it. I can see the lights of the dock glittering off of it from here! He is right there!!
At this point the Weeping Widow "jumped" from the boardwalk to the beach, where she promptly disappeared just feet from the water. Van Richten, Warden Thatcher, and I investigated this area afterward. To our surprise we saw a body floating in the water, only its upper half visible. I volunteered to swim out and bring it back in, only to find it was a ghost--the ghost of the Weeping Widow's husband! His remains lay scant feet below the surf, yet no one had noticed.
Upon extricating his remains and burying them next to his wife in consecrated ground, the pair appeared again. They told us how she had witnessed him being murdered by his partner as they set out of port from her balcony. His body was dumped overboard as she watched, and in despair she threw herself off of the balcony. His remains sank, but were washed toward the beach over the years. Their deaths being so close together in both time and space created a link between them. Only when he was laid to rest could her own spirit find peace.
This "partner" that murdered him still lives in Ludendorf and has grown wealthy off of the venture the two launched. His greed took two lives, and so I will be sure to deliver justice. Further, the same silver and lapis lazuli ring appeared on the wife's gravestone after they left, a gift to those that brought them peace. I let van Richten claim it, sensing defensive magic about it. May it protect him in years to come.
(End transcript)
P.S: The date on the second entry seems to be off. Shouldn't it occur after the first entry?
These journals are great. Keep them coming. I'm surethere are mroe people reading them...
Yeah, don't be discouraged by low replies... the board seems alittle dead lately.
I blame you 4th edition...
My drinking problem has cost another life--or I think that's what happened. I'm not too sure what the long term effects of alcohol are on an immortal's body, no matter how humanoid the physiology. But anyway, we were hunting a degenerate vampire as it cut a swath through lone farmsteads deep in the Mordentish countryside. None of its victims could turn into spawn; they were so badly bludgeoned they were like jelly. Entire families were left to rot, their bones shattered before they died. Rudolph calls this a corpse feeder; I've not seen something like this before. When I mentioned it might be a mutation of the vampire pathogen, I got blank stares. I forgot that even the most advanced cultures in this world have yet to hit upon the germ theory.
(Editor's Note: Recently we heard a similar theory touted by a Lamordian physician, but that was only last month. Clearly Alexander knows more than he is letting on, and his use of the words "this world" support later theories that Alexander is not human or humanoid. -- Gennifer Weathermay-Foxgrove)
When we finally cornered the beast in a cottage, a companion called Christopher Reanold, a rather skilled swordsman, and I both moved in for the kill. That's when I suddenly felt dizzy and disoriented, followed by nausea so strong I couldn't do anything but heave for what seemed hours. In reality it was more like a minute, but that was enough time for Christopher to meet his doom. The vampire snapped his neck like a dry twig. When I recovered myself enough to act, I let loose with a burst of positive energy and greatly hurt the creature. Rudolph used the distraction to drive it off, just as the light of the dawn began peeking over the horizon. Its death was fittingly painful.
After we had time to recover our wits, Rudolph told me this was not the first time a companion of his died on a hunt. It seems the man is cursed by something because half of those who've hunted with him have all died by the hands of the creatures they sought. This is a dangerous vocation to be sure, but the frequency makes me wonder. At any rate, we began the trek back to Mordentshire and I have vowed never to take another drink. Let Christopher's sacrifice be the last one caused by this foul habit.
(Editor's Note: While I do agree that giving up alcohol is a wise decision, I disagree with that it was the cause of his attack. We now know Uncle Rudolph was cursed by the Vistani he hunted down for kidnapping his son, Erasmus. It's possible this was just one of the manifestations of the curse. Alexander had abstained from drinking the entire time they hunted. There was no alcohol left in his system. Later reflection by van Richten of this very same incident, after learning of his curse and about fiends, led him to the conclusion that something was protecting Alexander. Namely, a reality wrinkle. -- Laurie Weathermay-Foxgrove)
Editor's Note: Our readers will notice the dates have jumped ahead by over a decade. We feel that this is where Alexander's life picks up once more after settling into a life of monster hunting with Uncle Rudolph and establishing himself in our humble country. -- Laurie Weathermay-Foxgrove
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Spiritsvale, Mordent, June 27, 724 BC)
My first real hunt with Rudolph against the created has not gone well. In the small hamlet of Spiritsvale in southern Mordent we found a widower attempting to reconstruct his wife from the body parts of the women of the village. The other villagers lynched him just as he finished his work, yet the flesh golem animated as a result. I must admit I never really believed what I was hearing about golems being borne of passion alone, yet this man was not even the weakest of magicians. Even after 24 years I still don't understand the laws that govern reality here.
We arrived just as the creature claimed its tenth victim, one of those that lynched its creator. Over thirty people had been killed by both the man and his monster. Rudolph began by interviewing the locals as I investigated the latest attack site. The attack had been particularly vicious and brutal, the head pulverized into so much eviscera. To my eternal chagrin, I let my guard down and was attacked by the creature.
I was knocked into the wooden wall of the house and badly beaten, my jaw and several ribs broken in the first blow. I had to use my ring to unleash a burning hands spell to scare it off. Rudolph and the others found me just as it fled with astounding speed. Without the amulet I wear I would have been taken out of the fight for the entire time. Instead of days I was spent a few hours resting and letting my body regenerate itself, but that was still just enough time for the creature to attack the others.
Christine Manath, a sorcereress from Richemulot we hired, was killed after she fought it off with a series of spells. We didn't know then why it attacked her over all the others, but Rudolph and the villagers tracked it after it caught fire from Christine's fireball. A charred trail of peat and moist deadwood led into one of the moors nearby. So we knew where it laired; that meant we could post watches and hopefully be ready to drive it off again.
The next day we investigated the creator's house--a man named Bartholomew Hatcher. Rambling notes and stained parchment told of how he his wife died suddenly of consumption. Unable to let go, he dug up her corpse to try and recreate her. As he worked the parts began to decay, so he had to "harvest" fresh ones. Only the body parts of attractive young women were suitable, and the town had few daughters to spare. He designed it to be just as beautiful as his wife had been, and apparently he thought he succeeded before he was killed.
It's still astounding that no one suspected him until he had finished his work. Most assumed that they were under attack by spirits, and called an anchorite in to help. He led them to Hatcher after finding no evidence of the supernatural and piecing together his odd behavior since his wife's death. No one would say whether the priest was involved in the lynching or not. That's water under the bridge, however. I don't see any gain in pursuing it.
One thing we noted was that every victim had been a woman--old and young, beautiful and homely. Clearly the creature had something against the fairer sex. So we came up with a radical plan, using the magical hat I wear to hide my true appearance. I would assume the image of a woman and approach its lair. For safety Rudolph and some of the men from the village would follow.
As soon as it caught sight of illusion I was wearing it screamed and ran out to attack. The others began to attack it, yet it focused its attacks solely on me. The creature's zeitgeber was women, and I believe it hated them because its creator tried to instill that it was more beautiful than any other. It either believed this so much it wanted to destroy them, or it perceived itself as inferior to them in appearance and lashed out. Regardless, we had to pull out after a minute of battle. I was beginning to feel the effects of its slams and that ungodly howl. Rudolph threw a bottle of alchemist's fire, but it didn't even respond until I changed the illusion back to the one I usually wear. Without a female to attack, its survival instincts kicked in and it fled into its sodden lair to extinquish the flames and recover.
We now knew enough to face it and hopefully destroy it. I spent the rest of the day in bed, the amulet once more regenerating numerous wounds. If this was what it was going to be like every time I hunted a golem with the esteemed Rudolph van Richten, maybe I should reconsider our friendship!
That next day we did the same thing, this time armed with alchemist's fire and a few flaming weapons I created using my modest spellcasting ability. As before it howled and ran to attack me in the guise of a woman, but this time we pressed the attack and my ring also protected me from the flames. After a sweaty, smoke-filled fight we managed to destroy it. The creature was reduced to ash before we left, and in the meantime I set about healing those who had suffered burns in the fight.
That was yesterday and today a small feast was held in our honor. The folks tried to offer us what little money they had, but we turned it down. They will need it more than we will to recover. I even left ten platinum pieces in the local temple's alms box, an anonymous gift.
We're preparing to head back to Mordentshire in the morning. After this I don't exactly feel too eager to help out against another golem. My jaw still hurts!
(End transcript)
..immortal ... reality wrinkle.. No aasimar for sure.
I was under the assumption that both aasimars and half-celestials, being outsiders (normally native), would receive reality wrinkles like the monk and fiend outlined in the RL corebook.
Ascended outsiders also do not receive phylacteries. True outsiders, even the ones without the Good or Evil subtypes but not Native outsiders, do.
And to answer the question I know will be asked, yes. Dreamfire does have the Good subtype and thus a reality wrinkle and even a phylactery. He is not a celestial listed in any official source. What he is exactly will be explained in future posts.
Edit: I forgot to mention outsiders with the Mists subtype (something a monk or other ascended character can take as soon as s/he ascends). These creatures never have reality wrinkles or phylacteries. They're literally no more than an extension of the Mists. They're never affected by domain borders, but they can never leave Ravenloft even if they find a way out.
If anyone has any expanded rules for outsiders, reality wrinkles, and phylacteries beyond what's in the RPH and RDMG I'd appreciate a shout. This is an issue that has not been explored sufficiently, IMO.
Rudolph introduced me to a man named Ballefour de Casteelle today. Almost immediately we hated each other. For me it was the ring on his finger--two asps surrounding a black onyx. He's a member of the Fraternity of Shadows, a secret society dedicated to obtaining total control over this wretched world. I dared not warn Rudolph right then and there, and after watching them for a while I realized it would be foolishness to try. De Casteelle has hidden himself behind more than just illusions--he wears the appearance of a genteel and refined man quite well, never once letting on about his true motives. Such is the most dangerous of all evils--the one that hides amongst us.
Editor's Note: This is very strange. Alexander knew this and didn't even try to warn Uncle Rudolph? Surely as a paladin it was his duty to do such. But I would agree that our uncle can be a stubborn man. This certainly puts what we've learned from Lord de Casteelle in a new light, though. -- Gennifer Weathermay-Foxgrove
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Port-a-Lucine, Dementlieu, Aug. 6, 724 BC)
I had planned on spending most of my day researching in the library of the University of Dementlieu. Instead I realized I was being watched and followed throughout the University. The Fraternity is keeping a close eye on me, and I on them. For several hours I led them on, watching them as they watched me for any signs of suspicious activity. Then I noticed them leaving, so I took the initiative and took to stalking them. I'm no cat burglar, but I can keep myself hidden quite well.
These young members led me to secret entrances and hidden basements that housed the local Fraternity members. In all I counted just a little over ten in that chapterhouse, all but de Casteelle young initiates. In a desk I found a list of their names and homes, as well as those of several others in and around the country of Dementlieu. This is a task I can't take on alone, and Rudolph must remain unaware of how he's been used to further the very evils we fight against. Only in the slave pits in the Abyss did I ever feel this alone.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire Mordent, Aug. 19, 724 BC)
I've spent the past two weeks thinking of how I can possibly hope to derail the plans of the Fraternity of Shadows. My only hope is to form a group that will counter them. Then I realized I shouldn't just stop there. On every world I've visited I've found secret societies dedicated to fighting evil: The Lightbringers, the Shining Crusade, the Knight of the Chalice, the Harpers, all devoted to stopping evil's machinations--even if most are specialized. Then I realized the solution.
Instead of drawing on a limited talent pool or specializing in one area, I decided to open membership to all who didn't possess black hearts. I hope to form a group with members of differing abilities, one that doesn't discriminate based on race, color, or creed. In the short run this will make it harder for me to get off the ground. But in the long run I hope to have many people in the areas of magic, socializing, fighting, healing, and subterfuge join me. Alone one man can only do so much; united we can fight evil on equal footing and, hopefully, take back the world. All I need is a name.
I think I'll call this group the Shining Force.
Editor's Note: If Alexander has formed this group it would explain much of his subsequent behavior, as well as his ability to find allies for Uncle Rudolph on short notice and even us when we ask. It would also fit with rumors that have been circulating for several years now. A new group has taken up the mantle of fighting back the darkness, one that has proven very effective at its purpose. Reportedly the teams sent are never less than three for minor missions, and never more than twelve for the truly powerful creatures they hunt. -- Laurie Weathermay-Foxgrove
Also why do the twins call him Monsieur Archer in the beginning?
The Knights of the Shadow is a great idea of a group fighting evil like this new organization of yours, but the class build was lacking something.
Hope to see something soon to come if you had planned on making one.
I'd never really planned on building a PrC for the Shining Force. I'm still hammering out the affiliation side. Plus the group is so cosmopolitan that a PrC would have to appeal to characters of any class. Maybe a five-level class that receives bonuses against evil foes in all circumstances, maybe a smite evil ability as well...I'll have to think about that.
I'm busy working on the next few entries. I haven't let this thread die just because I launched the Shining Force. Uh...if anyone has any idea if the old 2e rule that mummies are powered by positive energy is true in 3.x, I'd appreciate a heads up. Otherwise I'm going to assume van Richten got his facts wrong in 3.x and run with that.Ancient dead is also a template and a lot nastier than the generic mummy.
My call for allies has finished, and I've chosen three out of a dozen to join me on a special quest. The first is a cleric of Belenus from Tepest, Dratha. The next is an elven thief from Darkon, Orwin Lakewave. The third is a Mulan wizard from Hazlan, Niela. They are seasoned adventurers and are clearly above average in skill. Plus they all possess good hearts; this damn jewel in my eye socket let's me know that.
Editor's Note: Alexander once showed us this "jewel," a false eye made of crystal that he says acts like a soul searcher medallion, hidden under an eyepatch of obsidian. How he lost his left eye and the origin of the scar that runs up it he refuses to talk about.
Our target is a Fraternity of Shadow hideout in rural Dementlieu, near the border with Mordent. Before I can hope to stop them I need to know more about their activities and what they themselves know. With Niela's magic we should be able to get in and out without too much trouble. A cloudkill spell will most certainly drive everyone out, leaving us time to search. We leave tonight.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Oct. 1, 724 BC)
It's been two days since the expedition to the Fraternity hideout. I would call it both a tremendous success and a total disaster. We got what we wanted. We also got a whole lot more.
Each of us has been busy reading the numerous books we gathered, and none of us has slept since we started. Some perverse desire to fully comprehend what we've gotten into drives us onward, even though each of us would love to burn it all and pretend it never happened. The Fraternity of Shadows knows more than I'd ever guessed--or is that feared?
This world is nothing more than a giant construct, a prison for those who forged their own damnation. They're sealed inside a "domain" fashioned after their sins and eternally tormented with the things they most desire kept out of reach. The rest of us are set here for unknown reasons. Are we just pawns in some grand chess game? Are we light to these "lords'" darkness? I don't know. And while they're trapped inside their own living hells, we're at their mercy.
Stranger and more terrifying still are the Mists. The notes we have are sketchy, but numerous accounts of half-formed locations, strangely misshapen creatures, and even the ability to twist time itself. These are just the tip of what we've found, too. Details for ritual blood sacrifices to the Mists, the rantings of a mad Vistana called Hyskosa, even sordid sketches of autopsies done on various creatures fill my mind.
I have let the genie out of the bottle and now I must face the consequences. The others aren't in much better shape. These are things we clearly weren't supposed to find out, that the Fraternity shouldn't have sought. Thinking of the possibilities of dark pacts, strange magic, or even control of these forces keeps me in constant tremors. The others aren't doing much better, either. None of us were ready for this. Niela is particularly upset, having found out that she was created by the Mists. She doesn't want to believe it, and I don't blame her. I'm disbanding the Shining Force for now. At least until I can come to terms with what I've found out. Not since my days as a slave in the Abyss have I felt so helpless and afraid. It feels like someone has beaten me into a bloody pulp and left me cold and shivering in pain. Goddess, what have I done?
(End Transcript)
I've been turning Rudolph away for over a month. He's been rightly concerned about my health--physical and mental. I haven't had the courage to tell him about what I found. Not since Dratha, Niela, and Orwin left have I dared see another living being. Whenever I see someone I can't help but ask myself if they're borne of the Mists or of a man and woman. I now see everything in this world in a new light, and I hate it.
Before I had assumed that the Land of Mists was a divine construct, a product of the gods. But what I read says it's not so. Indeed, the gods seem to ignore this world. So where does the power of faith come from? Do these unknown rulers of the Land grant us power? As soon as I stepped into this world I felt the absence of my goddess, yet with my abilities intact I assumed it was merely distant. Instead I draw on some foreign source. This crisis of faith has finally come to an end, though. Wherever these powers I use come from, my mission hasn't changed. I am a paladin, and I must fight against evil no matter what.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Oct. 19, 724 BC)
Rudolph and Shauten encountered a strange, skeletal being in their travels. At first they thought it was a lich, something that they haven't had all that much experience with. Yet even after destroying everything they thought could be its phylactery it came back. Further, they developed a festering disease I recognized as mummy rot. Yet their description of the creature is different from any mummy I've ever encountered. It appeared to be more powerful, more sinister.
Either I sit back and lament my mistake of learnings things I shouldn't have, or I put that knowledge to good use. My first step should be continuing the search for creatures of darkness with Rudolph. The rules are different here; if I hope to survive, I must learn what they are. For now, Rudolph has expressed an interest in travelling to Har'Akir, a distant country known for its practice of mummification. I've been asked to go as both a fighter and a translator; my aptitude for languages will be needed. Somehow I doubt that the Akiri speak Darkonese or Mordentish.
But mummies are undead--undead are powered by negative energy. Does this mean mummies draw on both? Isn't that impossible? Or are they actually evil deathless?
Gygax himself stated that that the mention of positive energy was an error (Though he could come up with an explanation if pressed.) In the Slayers Guide to Undead regarding Mummies and the Positive Energy plane, he basically writes that it was a mistake, and like all undead, it should say Negative Energy Plane.
Gygax himself stated that that the mention of positive energy was an error (Though he could come up with an explanation if pressed.) In the Slayers Guide to Undead regarding Mummies and the Positive Energy plane, he basically writes that it was a mistake, and like all undead, it should say Negative Energy Plane.
Thank you. I'll make this reference as an error; a mix-up of undead and deathless mummies (deathless are guardians, and they do pass into the afterlife). It makes sense there would be "good" mummies that are deathless and not undead.
The expedition to Har'Akir has been planned for just after the New Year. While Rudolph and some allies I've never met before prepare, I decided to empty out the magic bags and backpack I carry to see what I might have that would be useful in the desert. I must admit that, with virtually unlimited space to put things in, I really just forgot about most of it. Several bottles of alchemist's fire and acid, a bundle of tindertwigs, three augmented sunrods, and wands with less than ten charges each. Among them were two wands of hydrate as well as a nearly-full wand of endure elements. The last time I saw those was during a trip into the deserts of Calimshan. We never did find that rogue efreet, though.
Another discovery was a decanter of endless water. I remember finding it, but never using it. That would certainly come in handy in a desert. Another was a scroll, yellowed around the edges but otherwise in good shape. It was the shinobi teachings I'd found in Rokugan centuries ago. Though it's not a definitive treatise, I could learn the basics of the ninja arts with study. But that's probably not something I'll pursue. I'm more concerned with my studies as a paladin.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Jan. 12, 725 BC)
I've met the "guide" that Rudolph hired. He claims to have been across the Akiri desert several times, among others. Yet there is something about him that just doesn't sit right with me. Maybe it's his plans to use a one-way Mistway in the southern Sea of Sorrows; we sail out to the edge of the Mists and then take a life boat the rest of the way until we're beached in the desert itself. Certainly he should know of a two-way path. But then I realize I don't know as much about this world as I thought I did.
The rest of our company hasn't improved matters much. Besides Shauten and an affable rogue called Emery, our healer is a Sithican elf called Tamalie. Like every other Sithican elf I've ever met, she's arrogant, condescending, and rude beyond tolerance. She questions everything I say or do, and I've grown tired of her endless "the elven ways work better because..." speeches already. If not for the fact she was a powerful cleric of Paladine--a name that I find comfortingly familiar--I'd suggest she just leave if she's so unhappy with us. But we'll need her skills as a healer and her divine spells. Plus she seemed to calm down and act like a civilized person when we began to discuss the tenets of Paladine, Mishakal (or Quenesti Pah), and the other gods. In fact, she acts as if she enjoys my company when we're talking alone, going from subject to subject. Yet whenever someone else comes around her tongue turns razor sharp. I'm nearing six-hundred years and I still don't understand women.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Southern Sea of Sorrows, Jan. 19, 725 BC)
Mid-winter storms and poor wind have delayed what should have been a three day trip south into seven. I've spent most of that time bent over the sides. It doesn't seem to matter what I do, I get seasick within moments of stepping on a boat. Thank the goddess we had no problems with monsters. In that state I was helpless to do anything except wretch and heave. I guess that's a weakness I'll never get past.
The trip on the life boat into the Mists wasn't much better, especially since I'm terrified of the mysterious vapors. Yet we "landed" safely amidst the dunes of Har'Akir around dusk. Again, I ask whether this guide knows anything about desert travel; he was shocked to learn that deserts grow cold at night. Rudolph knew that much and after seeing what he packed, I realized he was sorely uprepared for the rigors of this trip. His source of information was a well-meaning but dangerously shoddy book written by a scholar that has clearly never set foot in a desert. Heavy clothing? Metallic armor to reflect the sun's rays? Drinking alcohol to cool off? These are tips that will get one killed!
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Uknown, Har'Akir, Jan. 20, 725 BC)
Our "guide" collapsed today from severe dehydration. What I thought was a waterskin was more like a wineskin. His breath reeked of booze, and he had a couple more skins--all filled with powerful Lamordian spirits. Had I known this I would have confiscated them. Alcohol is more useful to us as a coolant on the skin or as disinfectant.
We were able to travel only a few more miles that day. He suggested we stop at an oasis, but I vetoed that idea. Oases are as often traps as places to rest in a desert; bandits would have surely found and attacked us had we stayed there. Besides, there's the problem of biting insects and the blood-borne diseases they carry. Instead we found a small outcropping of rock where we had some defense against the winds.
Another odd thing is that Tamalie hasn't been as vicious lately. Since we got here she's been subdued, quiet, even passive. I'm a little worried about her. But Emery, as always, is upbeat and optimistic. His spirit has kept us afloat all this time. I hope he's this high-spirited when things go wrong.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Unknown, Har'Akir, Jan. 21, 725 BC)
Blasted charlatan! I should have trusted my instincts and said something much earlier. This man we hired as a guide has only seen sand on a beach back in Mordent. The heat finally got to him and he broke down, blubbering about how he was hoping to score some easy money. Only moments later we were attacked by mummified humanoids with lamprey-like mouths. Our "guide" ran away as we fought these things off and we have yet to find him.
Worse is the fact we've been wandering around the desert for two days and we have no idea where we are. I tried to detect a temple, and picked up on something to the west. I doubt it's a temple to Detriana. More likely it's one to Ra, the Sun God. Hopefully there will be priests that can direct us toward some sort of settlement. Of course, this is also assuming I haven't picked up on a burial temple where only the dead have reign.
(End transcript)
We've been travelling for three days and are running low on certain supplies. Most of our fuel oil is gone and the sunrods I packed have been used up during watch at night. Food and water are not concerns; besides my decanter and an everfull sack of food, we have Tamalie's magic to sustain us. But with no way of seeing at night, beyond my own heightened vision and Tamalie's, we have proven to be proverbial sitting ducks. Emery took first watch just the other night; the poor halfling ran out of oil midway through and didn't see the shapes coming toward us.
I was awakened by the distinct wail of a desert zombie. There must have been over a dozen that converged on us from all sides. It wasn't too hard to drive them off, but we did suffer some injuries and are lacking our usual complement of spells this day as a result. What really bothers me is who--if anyone or anything--sent those zombies? Was it just bad luck?
Today we spotted what appeared to be an obelisk in the distance just as the sun began to set. The primitive telescope Rudolph brought shows that it's covered in Akiri heiroglyphics. It's only a mile away, but we have to cross over some pitched dunes that will slow us considerably. We'll try to make it to the obelisk in the morning.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Temple of Anubis, Har'Akir, Jan. 25, 725 BC)
Once more I've forgotten to take into account the unique rules that apply to this world. I detected a temple, but not one to a god of law and good, just to law. Yet the temple of Anubis proved to be a relief all the same. We came in just as some acolytes were returning from an expedition into the desert in search of the undead. They brought back the bodies of several of those odd mummy-things with lamprey mouths--muduat they called them. One of them was our guide, an irony we all took a jaded laugh at.
In exchange for the gift of water the priests of Anubis offered us a place to stay. The others retired to walled rooms and straw mattresses while I stayed and talked with the high priest at length. Their expeditions to hunt down the undead are apparently taken out of a sense of religious duty. I knew the Akiri believed the body must be preserved for the afterlife, but Anubis demands that even those of his foes be preserved, if only so that they may face their judgement.
Besides the undead that haunt the desert, and particularly mummies, I found a new spell I can learn. It blocks the dead from spawning as undead and will be quite useful in the future. This was among a series of spells presented in a large scroll, along with instructions and incantations for the dead to follow. In Mordentish, it roughly translates as Book of the Dead. It's meant to be a spiritual guide for the newly deceased as they travel to the Land of the Dead and are judged by Anubis himself. Those whose hearts are heavy with sin are consumed by dread hounds with crocodile heads.
On the subject of mummies, the priests spoke of deathless guardians. They are allowed into the afterlife and rise only when their tombs are disturbed by grave robbers. They insisted that only those who chose such duties were made into such. Yet with a little pressing they admitted to corrupt versions of the same rituals. Instead of positive energy, these creatures are fueled by negative energy and are an evil blight on the world.
Editor's Note: This is the first time we've ever heard of the ancient dead being powered by negative energy and not positive. Alexander never once said a word to Uncle Rudolph. But then there seems to be no reason to do so as the weaknesses presented in the original Guide are still relevant. Still, if this is true, our write-up of the spell dance macabre in the recent Van Richten's Arsenal will need to be revised. -- Gennifer Weathermay-Foxgrove
Sometimes these creatures even arose of their own will, powered by souls so wicked in life that they transcended death. Upon comparing just a few key parts of the rituals I noticed little difference. Perhaps it is not the ritual so much as the person being mummified that corrupts? Certainly some call out to dark gods and evil powers, yet in most cases the familiar gods were called to guide the soul to Anubis. I've theorized that deathless mummies do go on to their final judgement and that's when the link to the Positive Energy Plane is forged. Undead mummies never face this judgement and stay in opposition to all natural and supernatural laws, allowing the Negative Energy Plane in through the holes created by such acts. But I have no proof either way, and I doubt I'll be able to study this firsthand.
I thanked the priests and retired to my chamber. Tomorrow we head off to the oasis of Muhar, the only sizable city in the entire domain. Despite having plenty of information on the processes, Rudolph is insistent we study some of the tombs in person. It looks like I will be instructing the others on the proper rituals for entering such places without offending the gods or the dead while we travel. The everfull sack should provide us with the necessary food to placate the spirits, and the walls of these tombs are literally covered with heiroglyphics. I get the feeling we'll be staying in Har'Akir for quite a while.
(End transcript)
We've arrived in Muhar, and never have I seen such a depressing populace. In my travels I've gone to many deserts, met many dwellers in such, and all take a sort of jaded pride in their persistence in the face of such harsh conditions. Instead these people seem cowed, terrified of shadows and any sort of foreign intrusion. I thought Tamalie was bad; the Akiri are proving to be even worse!
But that's not entirely fair. This year the oasis failed to flood and the crops the resulting silt deposists fertilize will not grow. Tamalie did her best to make the water rise and flood, but it fell short of the natural floods. Further, there has been some sort of disease plaguing the people. They grow weak and can the children and elders can barely move now. The symptoms don't match any disease I've encountered or read about. I will have to prepare the proper spells to determine what's wrong on the morrow.
Another oddity is that other foreigners are here. They're a trio, two men and a woman, from Borca. They arrived a week earlier and tried to trade with the Akiri for the rumored mountains of gold treasures that supposedly lie inside of the tombs. Instead they got angrily snubbed for even daring suggest that these sacred places be desecrated. Though a few Akiri have been trading the little wealth they have for things like iron and steel weapons and tools, this seems entirely too little to keep them interested. Further, though they hid it well behind civility and friendly words, when I took a focused the gem that replaced my eye I saw their hearts were black as pitch. I can't read their sins, but my gut tells me they might be connected to his plague. A few Akiri say that the sickness started shortly after they arrived. This can't be a coincidence.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Uknown, Har'Akir, Jan. 26, 725 BC)
On a hunch I asked Tamalie to prepare some detect poison spells today. I first used a spell to detect for disease on a particularly ill little girl; I felt nothing. Then she cast the spell and found that the girl was suffering from an exotic poison. Her father had been one of those who first snubbed the other foreigners when they suggested grave robbing. I just know those Borcans are responsible.
Using her magic, Tamalie found the source was each family's water jug. The Akiri get an allotted amount of water, based on the size of the family. Inside over a dozen she detected the aura of poison. Some had been poisoned again that morning, to keep things toxic. Without knowing the type of poison I can't create an antidote, but between me and Tamalie we cured the most severe cases using spells and magical items.
I plan on staking out those Borcans tonight. If my suspicions are true, they're poisoning the village for refusing to bring them grave goods. Greed is truly a vile trait.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Muhar, Har'Akir, Jan. 27, 725 BC)
I found one of the men, Janus, stalking in town before the sun rose this morning. Though the Akiri are awake at this hour, it was easy for him to slip in unseen. When I made my presence known he turned and drew a rapier; I had no choice but to skewer him with Dawn's Fury when he attacked.
Editor's Note: To clarify, Alexander carries three weapons. The first is an enchanted adamantine dagger called Repose. The next is a golden curved sword called a "katana," Dawn's Fury. The final is a warmace that he often keeps in his magical backpack, the Saint's Anger. We've seen him use other weapons, and he carries a pair of flintlock pistols at all times, but those three seem to be his "favorite." -- Laurie Weathermay-Foxgrove
The commotion drew the villagers and they found us as he gurgled out his last words. In his left hand was a glass vial filled with viscous fluid. One of the villagers identified it as cobra venom and immediately the heads of his two friends were called for. Except they had escaped into the night without anyone noticing.
On Janus I found a journal. Janus Dilisnya is his full name! I know that surname all too well. I've crossed swords, as it were, with the Dilisnya before. They're poisoners and assassins, fiends of the mortal world that will kill anyone for enough gold. No doubt I've made some enemies this day, but I should be used to that. The path of good is often a lonely one.
With the venom I was able to create an antidote. Some of the eldest folks didn't survive even after being cured, though. All of the children did, and for my part in helping uncover this treachery and helping heal those afflicted we have been welcomed as friends of the Akiri. The people are more willing to talk and show us to places where we can find what we need. More than that, one little boy said he wanted to become a priest of Osiris and heal the ill after witnessing everything. If I've influenced one person to make a difference, then it was all worth it.
(End transcript)
For three days we've been exploring various tombs and other places in and around the area outside Muhar. I've collected charcoal etchings of many of the heiroglyphics. Most are stories of those interred, none of them ancient dead. The funerary rights of the Akiri are well documented and explained in intricate detail. Clearly they place great importance on the passage from life to death.
Rudolph and Emery made the first incursions into the deeper halls, offering up a prayer and an offering to each sarcophagus as I instructed. I was lucky to find some fine-cut rubies on Janus's body and I cast continual flame spells on three lanterns so they had plenty of light to work by. What they found was more heiroglyphics for me to translate, though Emery did a fine job of deciphering them on the spot.
We have a solid idea of how mummification is done and why, as well as the rituals that precede and follow the actual procedure. Apparently the body is first laid on a slab and an incision in the side made. The hapless cutter is then chased away with stones throne at him, for it's a crime to violate the dead in such a way (a cultural idiosyncracy). Then the heart, lungs, liver, intestines, and stomach are removed and placed in canopic jars filled with natron--a salt that occurs locally and greatly dehydrates the organs. The next step is to pierce the bone inside the nose to gain access to the brain, where strong date wine is poured in and allowed to sit for a few minutes. Then a hooked skewer is rammed in and swirled around to dissolve the brain matter. Once it's fluid enough the body is turned over and the mass is allowed to drain out the nose. The Akiri believe the heart is the source of all thought, and the brain is just responsible for creating mucus.
Once these steps are complete the corpse is cleaned and stuff with natron, then covered in the same. This often takes upwards of thirty days to fully remove moisture. Once complete, the body is once more cleaned out with herbs and scented oils, stuffed with onions and sawdust, and then they begin the actual wrapping of the mummy. At various places and at various layers of the white linen cloth wrappings they place amulets made of stone, gold, silver, and other such things that are then held in place with resin as they lay another layer of linen. These are protective wards as well as items believed to be necessary on the path to the afterlife.
Once the corpse has been mummified, the true funerary rituals begin. Most are laid in simple wooden coffins, but some are buried in stone sarcophagi and even given "death masks" made of gold and precious stones; the latter is not practiced in Har'Akir, but they tell me it was an honor reserved for nobility and the Pharaoh--the ancient god-kings.
All this work can only begin once the individual has died, so those wishing to rise as mummies can only do so if others perform the necessary rituals. This is an important point, since the process can be tediously slow. According to the legends of the hated Ankhtepot, whose undead mummy still haunts Har'Akir if you believe the locals, the process can take as long as seventy days. These are obviously reserved for only the wealthiest.
Rudolph even voiced a theory that the splendor of the mummy's tomb had a role in determining its power in undeath. The more opulent and rich, the more powerful the mummy. The tomb of a mummy is sort of like the haunt of a ghost or the coffin of a vampire. Except the link is much more direct and has greater influence. If this is true, then certain items in said tomb may also be the physical links to a mummy's power. Destroy the link, the mummy loses its associated power.
All this is untested as of yet, and frankly I'm beginning to grow tired of seeing the insides of musty, fetid tombs day after day and learning little. I don't wish to encounter an actual ancient dead. What little Rudolph has told me says they are quite resilient and difficult to take down in physical combat. Blows that would cripple a mortal man are more like mosquito bites to these creatures. No, I'd rather we begin our return to Mordent and compile all of the data. I tire of sand, sun, and scorching heat.
Tamalie has also asked me to come to her room in the Muhar inn tonight. I don't know what she wants, exactly. Maybe to apologize for her attitude? Or to slash at me with that razor tongue of hers. I pray this isn't a setup for yet another of her tirades.
(End transcript)
I met a priestess of Osiris named Isu Rekhotep today. She's been involved in restoring one of the local tombs and showed me many new heiroglyphics that I hadn't seen before. They tell the story of Ankhtepot and offer many new insights to the story.
In life Ankhtepot was one of the greatest pharaohs, yet he feared the afterlife and sought immortality to avoid this. As the years passed he became wrathful and even razed several temples to Ra, his patron god. For such heresy Ra granted Ankhtepot his wish--he became immortal, but unliving. The other priests of Ra hunted him down and slew him, yet his spirit was trapped in his body and could see, hear, and feel everything as if he'd been alive. They mummified him in that state, probably driving his soul mad with pain. Then they locked him in a sarcophagus. Yet this wasn't the end of his terror.
For decades at a time, Ankhtepot "slept" in his tomb. When his attention was needed he was forced to rise and handle affairs once more. One case that is especially disturbing is that of Senmet--a priest who tried to take control of Ankhtepot. For his temerity he was turned into one of the Children of Ankhtepot. Apparently Ankhtepot is capable of creating new ancients and the resulting creatures are powerful. Thus not one but possibly dozens of these "greater" mummies lurk in the tombs and ruins that dot this land.
Back at Muhar those that died had the rituals of mummification begun. Their lowborn status meant that they were not buried in natron, but the sands of the surrounding desert and without their organs removed. The hot sand will dry the bodies enough for proper burial without having to expend valuable time and resources to keep the body looking as lifelike as possible. This will take several weeks, and Rudolph has agreed that we've found what we came for, so we won't be here to witness the actual rituals.
As for what Tamalie wanted last night, I really don't know what to say or think. She admitted to having strong feelings for me, hiding behind a veneer of contempt because she was afraid of being rejected. So I told her I needed time to think. This isn't the first time I've had this happen with a woman, but it never gets any easier. The affairs of the heart never do.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Muhar, Har'Akir, Feb. 2, 725 BC)
Heavy rains have extended our stay. Without plants and trees to hold it in place the topsoil of the desert washes away quickly, creating flashfloods and landslides. Much of the area outside Muhar has become a morass of water and sticky sand. The Akiri are using this as a chance to stock up on precious water by leaving numerous ceramic pots out to collect all they can.
Without anything to distract me I finally faced Tamalie and admitted to my own attraction. I consider her a friend, but a lover? No. I just don't feel the spark yet. This seemed to please her all the same, and she's become more than a little physically affectionate.
Editor's Note: My sister and I argued over whether or not to strike this last part, but it was left in because it explains Tamalie's actions later on. But the question of why my sister wouldn't want it printed is one she won't answer. I know it's not polite to gossip, but I do believe she's jealous. -- Laurie-Weathermay Foxgrove
For most of the day I translated the etchings we took for Rudolph to read over. More than once I read of a priest, noble, or even pharaoh that offered to guard their tomb, their lands, or something else by becoming a mummy and returning from the afterlife to fulfill their duty. The details of the link to the Positive Energy Plane were extensive, perhaps in an attempt to differentiate these "guardian" mummies from those that sought to remain in the mortal world and thus perverted their existence. Since these deathless mummies are often willing to return to rest once their duties are complete, I doubt that any of us will encounter them in an antagonistic manner. At least that's the hope.
The rains have finally stopped and within a day the desert will be as dry as ever. We will set out in the morning for a pair of obelisks. The local priests have recorded numerous accounts of people disappearing as soon as they set foot past them, and of foreigners appearing to walk out of thin air. This must be a Mistway, and one priest who dared try it reported that the lands beyond were "thick with trees so tall they pierced the sky and with bark so black it was like the night sky." This sounds like Falkovnia; I loathe to take a trip through that place, and Tamalie is rightly terrified. Yet we have no real choice. Hopefully we'll be able to escape the notice of Drakov's Talons or the other soldiers.
Then there's those two Dilisnya from before. I've seen neither hide nor hair of them and I doubt they were prepared for an extended stay in the desert. If I never see them again I'll consider it a wish come true.
(End transcript)
It's been two days since we passed through the Mistway. I was right; it does lead into Falkovnia. Unfortunately for us there was someone waiting for us on the other side. Thost damned Dilisnya laid a trap!
Some two dozen men in plumed full plate with hawk-faced helmets led by an older, wizened man surrounded us as soon as we came through. Those two Dilisnya were there was well. They tried at once to grab Emery and Tamalie, so I began fighting them off. It was stupid and suicidal, but I couldn't let them hurt my friends.
I managed to take down maybe eight before one managed to knock Dawn's Fury out of my hand. I fought them off as best I could with Repose, but they were cutting me into pieces and I was losing steam. That's when one of the Dilisnya fired a crossbow at me--only Tamalie jumped in the path and took it for me.
At that sight I caught my second wind, collapsing one of the soldier's faces with my mailed fist as I grabbed Dawn's Fury. All I remember until a minute or so later is slashing violently at each man, cutting him down in a raw fury that defies logic. By the time I recovered my senses, only the older man and the Dilisnya were left. The latter two were watching with sadistic glee.
The older man calmly drew a short sword and a rod and began to attack as soon as his men were defeated. He was a seasoned warrior and I had to keep my defenses up. Blows that proved fatal to his men were merely painful to him. We fought for several minutes before I got in a lucky shot, and he fell to his knees. I could see it in his eyes--he wanted me to kill him. A death in battle was glorious to him.
That was when I realized why he looked so familiar. This was Vlad Drakov! I had bested the infamous tyrant in one-on-one combat! The fate of a country--of several countries--laid in my hands. Yet...this was a "lord." To let him live would mean unknowable deaths in the future, but it would leave him to rot in his own weakness. If I killed him it would mean he'd won a small victory by dying in battle as he clearly wanted, but saving the lives of many.
I sheathed Dawn's Fury and instead uppercut him right on the chin, leaving him to his fate. If he died, so be it. If he lived, this was another humiliation that would haunt him. Besides, the two Dilisnya were still alive--now terrified that their protection was unconscious. I slew the man with Repose and then marked the woman's left cheek with the dagger, scratching a sigil that would leave a permanent scar--my mark. I let her go, telling her to warn her kin that all of them were now my enemies and I wouldn't rest until I had claimed the last of them.
She ran, and I finally got back to Tamalie. Rudolph had pulled the bolt out and found it coated in the same cobra venom as in Har'Akir. She'd died within moments of being shot. He told me her last words were that she loved me. If she died protecting me, she would be at peace.
Another woman I dared open my heart to has died because of me.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Kriegstaht, Falkovnia, Feb. 5, 725 BC)
Without a dust to dust spell, we had to cremate Tamalie's body. I wish her soul all the peace in the multiverse. But we're still in danger; Drakov did survive and has provided a detailed description of me--or my illusory form--as well as that of Emery. Rudolph was described just as a man in a cloak with a voluminous hood travelling with us. Once more he escapes the noose by some sort of luck.
We stopped in a hamlet called Kriegstaht. Emery decided to head north to Darkon while Rudolph and I are heading west to Dementlieu. It's easy enough for me to change my appearance and avoid the authorities. That we're here without travel papers is a problem, but most peasants are willing to look away for a few extra coins.
A carriage owned by a Dementlieuese merchant is in town and he's agreed to let us ride along as guards in place of the "odious Falkovnian brutes." This is a stroke of luck on our part.
As for me, I've been haunted by Tamalie's death. I took my revenge, but once more I forgot that such only leaves you empty inside. I have created an all new set of enemies and now I must face the consequences of my actions. I don't fear for myself as much as I fear for those around me. I can protect myself, but I can't protect everyone around me all the time. Then again, it's about two weeks travel to the Dementlieu border. I'll have plenty of time to think about my actions and consider what to do next.
Goddess, I need a drink.
(End transcript)
Rudolph has gone on ahead of me, as I've seen too much to simply stand back and watch. I am practically writing my own death warrant, but then that never stopped me before. I watch as sadistic soldiers brutalize peasants and I can't help but feel a righteous anger well in me. Evil unpunished is the worst injustice. Yet I can't take them on in the open. To do so would be to invite all manner of problems I couldn't handle alone.
To that end I've been studying the shinobi scroll extensively. I'm beginning to learn the very basics of the ninja arts, yet if I ever want to learn more than that I will have to find someone to teach me. I haven't even heard of such a culture in this world and any who might know these secrets would of course take care not to share them. Until such time as I can find someone willing to show me more, I can do no more than take first steps.
There was another reason I sent Rudolph on ahead. I lost my fight against the siren's call of the bottle and I didn't want him to see my weakness. Yet when I took a sip of the local brew, I grew nauseous and broke out in a rash. Then I ran out into the streets and began to vomit violently. Since that day I've learned that even the smell of alcohol is enough to make me sick; to ingest it is to poison myself almost to death. So now I'm denied the escape of a drink? Ironic doesn't even begin to describe it.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Chatueaxfaux, Dementlieu, Feb. 10, 725 BC)
I feel more at peace today than I have in many years. Many paladins would be horrified at what I've done, but they forget that good is served by a code of conduct and is not created by such. I've met others like me who know that blind adherence to an inflexible code leads to arrogance, moral blindess, and even evil. They're still paladins, but they're hated by our brethren.
Yesterday I witnessed two soldiers--Talons by their armor--brutally beat a peasant for splashing mud on their metal-clad feet. So I tailed them all day, watching the duo regularly extort money from the poor and even try to assault a young lady until I finally taunted them into a fight. I won easily, but left them alive and conscious. They vowed vengeance and left for their homes, just as I'd hoped. Then I waited until nightfall and enacted my plan.
The first lived alone. His was easiest to sneak into, despite numerous bottles on the floor and overturned furniture. He'd passed out on his bed, drunk and snoring. I gave a silent prayer and then plunged Dawn's Fury into his chest. He died instantly and no one saw a thing.
The second had a wife, though the bruises and bandages suggested it wasn't a happy marriage. It turned out she was also several months pregnant. I took a chance and revealed myself to her; she didn't even scream, fearing what her husband would do for being woken up more than anything I might. When I offered her the chance to leave Falkovnia, she broke down and cried, saying "the Silver Hawk has answered my prayers." Not even the fact I was going to kill her husband as he slept bothered her. Indeed, she seemed glad I was going to end his life.
Once more a quick plunge into the chest. He woke up and saw what I'd done, but his lung had been pierced and he couldn't make a sound. His death came a split second later. Except for his wife, now packing to leave this wretched hole, no one witnessed his death.
Our flight took us across a Vistani camp, where I negotiated for passage to Dementlieu. We arrived just as dawn came over the horizon. We've managed to evade any Falkovnian pursuit and I doubt they will be able to find us now.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Southern Dementlieu, Feb. 10, 725 BC)
Mira, the woman I inadvertently rescued, has proven to be quite intelligent and a skilled seamstress. Once she learns to speak Mordentish I'm sure she'll be able to make a good living for herself and her unborn child. I also healed all of her injuries and I found that the hawk brand on her forehead is easily removed with minor surgery. I need only remove the scar tissue and heal the flesh, but I'll wait until we're in more sterile environs.
I now realize that following the path of law does not mean following every law written by every culture. Indeed, law should support goodness. When the two are in conflict, I have always chosen the latter. Many a time I've had to atone for going a little too far in that pursuit, but so long as I work within my code I won't stray from the path of a paladin as I have in the past.
Killing those two men in their sleep was not against the code I follow. It was an underhanded thing to do, but they were clearly deserving of death. Law is only pertinent to me as long as it's legitimate. To promote evil is not legitimate to me or to my goddess. Now I understand. My morals and my code come before what the local law says is okay.
I tried to emulate what I read in the shinobi scroll and I'm still pretty rough. When I return home I will begin training as hard as I can. To slay the wicked by stealth is to not draw undue attention to myself, and thus live to fight another day. This is a new chapter in my life and I will do what I must to continue doing good. The haze has lifted from my eyes and the apathy from my soul. With the coming dawn I will be a different person.
(End transcript)
Also did he miss a power check or how did he come by his curse to be allergic to alcohol?
As for the allergy, that's a biological reaction--as biological as can be for an outsider. He'd been regularly poisoning himself with booze for years, and his body just had enough. His system just plain refuses to metabolize alcohol anymore. It's similar to an iodine allergy, where your body gets so much over time that more becomes toxic to you (ask my father; poor man can't eat real crab or lobster ever again).
Edit: I forgot to mention that the allergen to alcohol will be a serious Achille's Heel. If it comes into contact with his skin it's not going to do a thing, but if he ingests any drink or is wounded by a weapon coated in alcohol it acts like a poison (1d6 Con and Nausea/2d6 Con and Nausea, DC 40 Fort save for half damage and to negate nausea).
It was easy to remove the scar tissue that formed Mira's brand and heal the wound to eliminate all traces. Save for her thick Falkovnian accent she's been learning how to speak Mordentish and will soon be able to pass for a native. Only her enunciation remains a problem. As I've leared over the past decade, many Mordentish do not trust foreigners--Falkovnians in particular. I know that the other citizens mean well, but they're ignorance is the last thing that a widow with child needs to deal with.
While feigning a throat problem I've seen her to many of the services held by the local anchorites. Religion seems to be something she's always had an interest in and the warm words of Ezra are just the spiritual salve she needs in this time of transition. Already her interest in the teachings of the Mordentish see have been greatly aiding her attempts at learning a new language. I think she'll fit in just fine here.
As for myself, I've not written for these past five days. Every spare moment I can get I use to practice what I read in the scroll. Already I've noticed a big improvement in areas I once passingly studied. More than that, I've found the calm in my mind has only heightened and now I can spot things that before I wouldn't have even noticed simply because I didn't have a trained eye. Save for a few final tricks, I believe I've finally taken the first step towards the ninja arts.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Feb. 16, 725 BC)
Rudolph finally returned today. He seemed less annoyed by hearing about the things I did in Falkovnia as he did about my decision to employ the Vistani. In this case even he agreed that it was the wiser decision, but I still sense very strong feelings of hate whenever the gypsies are mentioned.
Our little adventure in Har'Akir seems to have clicked something inside of him. He announced his plans to write down what he knew about vampires and put it all down into a book. Others may follow, but vampires is what he knows the most about. I've asked not to be mentioned in this book--or any future ones--in fear that my name will draw the wrong kind of attention. I've already made a lifelong enemy of Vlad Drakov; what would happen were I to cross Azalin or even Strahd von Zarovich? No, it's best I remain as anonymous as possible.
In the meantime I've decided to test my new skills by investigating some of the abandoned manors scattered about the countryside. Certainly the walls of such places have stories to tell. How much more exciting would it be if there were real ghosts there to detail their lives--and deaths?
Editor's Note: It's at this point that Alexander begins to record interviews with the dead at great length. The sheer number of such interviews recorded on parchment is astonishing. These include more interviews with ghosts and other spirits, but also with seemingly mindless zombies, horrific Mist ferrymen and Mist horrors, and other things we can't even begin to identify. One of the more interesting is with a creature he calls an Angel of Decay. Look for these soon. -- Gennifer Weathermay-Foxgrove
In order to train myself in skills sorely underdeveloped I've decided to try my hand at breaking into the abandoned manors that dot Mordent. It's not been easy; besides physical obstacles like complex locks and even the odd trap set by someone (or something) there have been more than a few ghosts and other creatures who didn't take my intrusions well. The Mordentish often embellish the stories of these manors, adding sordid details and magnifying the very real tragedy. Yet as exaggerated as these stories are, there's still a bit of truth to them.
My first target was the manor of an old man who dabbled in both the arcane and divine. Rumors of demonic influence and human sacrifice made him one of the most hated men in the region before Mordent was drawn into the Realms of Dread. Yet other stories say he was misunderstood, instead a tinkerer who enjoyed making various items and expanded into magical goods in his latter years. Then there's the fact that he married a woman barely a fourth of his age just before his death. By all accounts she was beautiful in body and spirit, but no sooner had she married him than neither left the mansion for over two years. Visitors came and went all the time, but neither left. Until his death, that is. She was seen twice after that, the second time saying her husband had cursed her before dying. After that she just disappeared.
After a telling interview with the old man himself, I have a much clearer idea of what happened.
Alexander Dreamfire: Herbert Williams, why are you not at rest?
Herbert Williams: Because of my murder.
AD: Your murder?
HW: Yes, my young wife killed me.
AD: Why did she kill you?
HW: I was a craftsman in life, making all manner of things until I reached my limits in mere non-magical goods. Finally I took up the study of wizardry, then I learned the ways of an archivist. I excelled in both and made many great and beneficial items I'd hoped to share with others. Then Helen, the woman who would become my new wife, seduced me.
AD: Go on.
HW: After spending a night together, Helen claimed she was with child, and we were forced to marry. It was a lie; I had used magic to ensure that such could never happen. But the town believed her and I was forced to marry this dishonest woman. I learned that her gentle spirit was just a veneer to hide a greedy, selfish, and ruthless side. She demanded I create all manner of items for her, or she would claim I had aborted the child with a spell, and I would be hung for the crime.
So I worked, terrified of her threats. I was a feeble old man. I could hold off a mob with my magic, but I dared not harm another being. And if I had to kill dozens of people then more would come to ensure my death. I tried to cast all manner of enchantments on her as well, but a ring she wore protected her from my spells. She had thought of every angle to ensure that she remained in power.
AD: Then why not kill her?
HW: I couldn't! I...I can't hurt another creature. My own weakness held me in check as much as Helen's wicked maneuvering.
AD: What exactly did she make you craft?
HW: Once she learned how long it truly takes to craft magic items, she grew wrathful and forced me to make a few powerful items. One is a model mansion that grows into a real one upon command and remains that way until commanded again. Another is a cloak that greatly heightens one's ability to hide and sneak, as well as protects them from all manner of divinations and enchantments. But the three Helen most coveted were a sword that could kill with a single scratch, a robe that protected her more than any suit of armor, and an orb of silver that allowed her to charm the minds of many at will, even forcing them to do what she wanted.
AD: This orb, was it a charm or a dominate effect?
HW: Both! She wanted to control their hearts and minds, and I gave her that power. When I saw her use it for the first time on a vagrant woman and her infant child. This was just what she needed to ensure that people would believe she had a child and had merely been hiding him. Hiding him because of me! Because I threatened their lives if they left. She had slandered my reputation beyond repair and made me out to be a monster.
AD: What happened with the woman and her child?
HW: I ran out and dispelled the effects, begging them to leave before Helen could do them harm. They did as I asked, but my wife was furious. She took the sword I had crafted for her and stabbed me. I could feel my life force being sucked away, and with my dying breath I cursed her that she would be bound to the orb for all time.
AD: Then what happened?
HW: I couldn't pass on, and I returned as a ghost. Helen soon realized that if she let go of the orb for even a minute she wracked by pain until she once more took it in hand. She left the manor twice, apparently looking for a way to lift the curse. In despair she finally drank a mixture of foxglove and cyanide, hoping death would sever her bonds. Instead she found her soul bound to it as tightly as her body.
AD: So why are you not at rest?
HW: I cannot rest until I know that the orb has been destroyed and Helen has been sent to the hells where she will surely burn for her sins.
AD: So be it. Where is this orb?
Herbert Williams led me to a bedroom on the second floor, a four poster bed with moth-eaten silk drapes taking up much of the space. On it lay the corpse of a woman, still clutching a tarnished silver orb. Prying it away required the breaking of a few finger bones, her grip on it was still so tight. No sooner had I taken it away then her specter came back in full fury. Williams held her back with his spells while I released a burst of positive energy. It hurt Williams a bit but caused her to evaporate into the ether.
With her out of the way I withdrew Saint's Anger and smashed the orb. It took four blows of the heavy adamantine mace to fully rupture it and destroy the enchantments. With its destruction I heard Helen scream one last time, the fading protest of a soul released to its final punishments. Before fading away himself, Williams told me where to find the robe and sword he'd made for her, as well as a cache of items he hid from her inside his own laboratory.
Many of the items have lost their magic over the centuries, though the model mansion and cloak both remain in near perfect condition. As well there was a rod, maybe six inches long and an inch thick made of steel filigreed with silver. I took these items and left, knowing the souls of two people have finally been laid to rest. As for the items, they will require some research before I dare use them.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Feb. 23, 725 BC)
My research into the magical items I obtained from the Williams Manor has been frustrating and slow. I've managed to figure out the rod and even both the sword and robe. But the model mansion and cloak aren't so easily figured out. I'm no wizard and the lack of arcane spellcasters in Mordent is not helping my efforts. Those in Dementlieu are, according to rumor, all stage magicians and of even less skill than myself.
The local clerics of Ezra have helped, but the neophyte members are of even less skill than myself. Sentire Felix Wachter himself helped to identify the sword as a Life-drinker, and has agreed to try and redeem the vile item into something more benign. His skill also identified the rod as an item referred to in texts as a Rod of Stalking, an item that enhances its holders skills in stealth as well as conferring improved invisibility at will. I will be using that particular item a lot in the future. The robe is simply a silk robe that creates a barrier of magical force around its wearer, a simplistic but powerful enchantment that rivals all but the most powerfully enchanted full plate. Perfect for a wizard or someone else not trained in the use of armor. I've decided to hold onto it, and maybe see about expanding its protection to include forms of energy like fire or electricity.
But both the model and cloak have proven to be quite elusive. The cloak is a hooded traveler's cloak made of what seems to be metal woven like silk. The cloak itself also appears to be pearlescent in how it reflects light, thought it retains a faded silver color in and of itself. Williams told me it was made to compliment the rod, heightening one's stealth skills and also providing total protection from all manner of divinations and enchantments. What strikes me is not its enchantments, but how it was made of metal woven like cloth? Only a few groups in the multiverse know how. It won't work as armor, but it does lend a preternatural resilience to the cloak itself.
The model mansion is the most mysterious--and terrifying. Williams claims to have found it, and not made it himself. It does as he described--it turns into a lifesize mansion when set on the ground and given a command. But when I told this to the anchorites, they mentioned similar items called hell houses. These items act as traps to the unwary and even act as what I believe is a miniature domain in itself. This doesn't fit with what I've learned, but then I know so little it's entirely possible and operates on a principle I haven't elucidated.
I've already spent three days trying to figure things out and I'm getting a bit tired of waiting. I'll perform my own experiments as I continue to explore the abandoned estates and other sites. I just hope it doesn't blow up in my face.
Editor's Note: At this point Alexander apparently disappears for over a month before returning to his estate in mid-March. His journals detail what he did, but not what became of this magic model. We plan on asking him about it as soon as we see him again. -- Gennifer Weathermay-Foxgrove
(End transcript)
These last three days haven't been the most appealing. Mordent is known for a nearly perpetual cloud cover, but for the past three days it's been raining in sheets and the few paths have turned into marshes. Thank the goddess for all the old growth around me. I was able to move through the thick limbs of the forest much faster than through the sticky morass of sodden wagon trails. It's as if something is trying to stop me from going on my search. But if that's the case, it will take a lot more to stop me.
In another search of the items I've collected and forgotten about I found the suit I'd been given by Danael before I came here, a suit of chainmail so fine it can be worn under clothing without giving itself away and that projects a constant magic circle. After that episode with the flesh golem years ago I've not gone without my armor, despite the looks. Now I can have a measure of protection and not get odd reactions. Goddess, what one forgets after a couple centuries.
Today I finally made it to shelter, however minimal. I've ducked into the stone shed of a manor long left to rot. In the distance I can see lights, likely a town or some other settlement. Perhaps I can get some information from them about this place. When I first looked at it I had a flash of the Near Ethereal, an image of the estate as it had been in the past. Strangely the image didn't match the current layout. It's like someone altered the layout after something happened to imprint the place as an echo. Whoever did that probably didn't get to enjoy their modifications, though. Just looking at the place gives me a chill and makes my stomach knot.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Ashmond Estate, Mordent, Feb. 27, 725 BC)
The town was barely a village, maybe thirty residents at most. They seemed quite suspicious of me at first, as is usual in this country, but still offered all they know about the estate. Briarthorp, as the village calls itself, has a rather colorful little history linked to the Ashmond Estate. Official records still exist in the mayor's house, though now yellowed with age and being copied for the sake of preserving history. What these records told me made my blood run like ice.
The Ashmond family had been one of the more decadent--nay, deviant--of noble families. It was well recorded that they practiced all manner of magic such as animating the dead, toying with the minds of others, even rewriting a person's whole being and body to better suit their tastes. Having witnessed this sort of thing in the Abyss using spells any wizard can learn, I have to think it's true. But this is just the beginning of their excesses and crimes.
Annually the Ashmonds demanded that the most comely young lad and lass in the town be sent to their estate. They were apparently forced to become the personal playthings of a specific member of the house, used and abused how they saw fit. Others became sacrifices to a strange death god whose name is not recorded. Still more became subjects of experiments in biomancy--flesh grafting and shaping. Some were horribly mutated using spells and alchemy or else altered surgically in ways I dare not write about.
But none of this was made known to the locals. Indeed, the Ashmonds took great pains to hide their vile nature. Many of the "yearly sacrifices" were seen in town as if nothing was happening. When questioned, they said life was fine and that their new masters wanted privacy. To further make themselves appear benevolent, they often magically summoned hordes of creatures--from the descriptions, I'd guess goblins and kobolds--to attack the town on a semi-regular basis. They claimed only their magical prowess kept these creatures from completely overcoming them all.
This situation continued for an unknown period, perhaps generations. Inside the Ashmonds fell deeper and deeper into depraved acts. Inbreeding had been common and the results were taking their toll. Many of the last sons and daughters were unable to conceive, and even more were beset by madness. The last matriarch, Juliana, believed herself a horse by the end of her life and walked on all fours at all times, even eating hay and oats. Her son and daughter finally put her out in the stables, where she was promptly killed when one of the horses got spooked and crushed her skull.
Adrian and Adriana, her children and twins no less, realized they had to get new blood to ensure their family's survival. They called for every relative that still lived, but these cousins, aunts, uncles, and many others didn't all share the same dark tastes as their perverse hosts. They refused to stay inside the manor and told the town all that they saw. The resulting mob stormed the iron gates and slew every Ashmond and servant in the house wherever they were found. No questions were asked, no quarter was given, and by the end of it all the halls of the Ashmond Estate were literally running with the thinned blood of the now dead nobles.
A century passed and the Ashmonds were forgotten in all but hateful tales of their excesses. Then a foreign merchant came to town and declared he was going to live in the supposedly-haunted manor and even expand on it. During construction the workers would regularly find bones and other remains--those victims that didn't survive the Ashmonds' predilections. To combat ghosts the bones were separated out as much as possible and given proper burials. But the mummified remains of the Ashmonds and many of their servants had been propped up with wire and wood in a glass case, displayed to be taunted by the descendents of those who suffered at their hands.
Then one morning, the merchant didn't come back out. Those who dared go in found that the mummified bodies had somehow been put back in place where they were found, frozen in their last acts of life. The merchant himself was found in the basement, eviscerated by a pendulum left over from the old days. They say the corpse of the family butler, Vigor Justin, was found with a bony hand on the lever that activated the swinging blade.
Since that day no one has dared get within ten feet of the exterior wall, now a crumbling row of stones and worn mortar. They called me mad for even going inside the shed. But I chose that place for two reasons. One is that it's close but also far enough away that the overwhelming ethereal resonance has kept whatever spirits at bay. Second is that I found a strange stone circle under a thin layer of dirt. The shed had been hallowed.
Tomorrow I explore the grounds and even venture into the servants quarters in the back. The secrets of this place must be laid bare, just as the souls of those trapped must be laid to rest.
(End transcript)
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Ashmond Estate, Mordent, Feb. 28, 725 BC)
Sleeping on the stone circle without some sort of cover has proven to be very uncomfortable, even with a bedroll. I'll have to see about getting some straw or a thick blanket before the day's out. I'll be surprised if I don't have imprints of the runes in my skin.
It was still dark when I began to explore the grounds. An enchanted lanter did much to help dispel the gloom, but it didn't help me see something protruding out of the ground. I lost my balance and fell flat on the ground. When I looked over at what I'd tripped on it looked like some sort of white rock. As I dug around I realized it wasn't a rock; it was a skull. When I dug up the earth I was dismayed to find a mass grave. Not all the remains of those who died at the hands of the Ashmonds had been found by the villagers.
Immediately upon uncovering this grave I was hit by the noise of hundreds of voices, the dead buried and forgotten in this hole. In order to quiet them I had to spend the day sorting out the skeletons and giving them proper burials outside the confines of the estate. Thank the goddess for my trench spade. Had I done this with a mundane shovel I'd still be out there.
The dead were quite helpful in assisting me to make sure every bone was put with the proper body. But hearing voices in my head all day has left me with a splitting headache. No matter what I do I can't shut their voices out, so I have to do what they want to get them to shut up! More than ever I think this ability to hear and speak with the dead is more of a curse than a blessing.
Come to think of it, I never did find something to cover the floor of the shed.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Ashmond Estate, Mordent, Mar. 1, 725 BC)
I wasted no time in going to Briarthorp as soon as the town was up and bought two thick quilts. The old woman that sold them recognized my amulet and confided in me that she's a witch of Hala. I haven't met one of Hala's followers in two-hundred years. I'd heard they were around, but never found any. Even on other worlds, Hala's followers tend to be discrete. But to find a benevolent goddess of healing is always a plus. Especially if their clerics aren't as preachy as those anchorites. She was also an outlander like myself, and so offered whatever services she could to help me. For now I just needed the quilts to pad the floor. She also offered me a magical bedroll she'd found in her journeys. It was certainly nicer than my own, so I bought it as well.
With these items in hand I returned to the shed and made a makeshift bed for later that night. My previous trip around the grounds had been interrupted by the dead I uncovered the day before. This time I didn't stumble over a half-buried skull, but my journey was no less disturbing in other ways.
In the back of the house I came across a rusty iron fence surrounding the old Ashmond family plots. None of the headstones were legible, save a few. The first I noticed was that of Julian Ashmond, one of the sons from several generations back. The inscription was partially rubbed off, but I did make out the words "demon," "consorting," and "master of." I'd suspected demonology as a part of their practices, but I'd somehow convinced myself otherwise. That century and a half as a slave to the succubus goddess has left me with an intense hatred and fear of demons. I'd sooner not face them again.
Another was that of Kristina Ashmond, healer and black sheep (or is that white sheep?) of the family. She was "loved by many, but not her family." So there were some good Ashmonds after all. But that was the only one I found that suggested such.
The most disturbing was that of Patrick Ashmond. The inscriptions said, "Even to the Ashmonds he was a fiend." Considering of what I know was accepted I can't even begin to imagine what he could do to offend his twisted family. If I'm lucky maybe I won't find out. Sometimes it's better to just let things lie.
Nearby I found the servants quarters. Compared to the ostentatious stone and iron of the estate, this simple wooden building seemed out of place. The building itself, though, was strangely well-preserved. I'd have thought that by now the wood would be gray and rotting. Instead it retains the deep color of cedar and even the smell. I was careful to draw Dawn's Fury before I went in to have a look around.
Individual rooms lined one hall and a somewhat luxurious gaming room was just past the northeastern corner. Tables with the rotted remains of playing cards and dice, what I took to be a billiards table with the felt almost completely eaten by black mold, even a fireplace and a bookshelf filled with crumbling books. None of them seemed very important, so I began to search the rooms themselves.
The first was empty, dusty and looking as if no one had used it. Other rooms I explored were likewise empty and undisturbed. Those that did contain any sort of items proved to be quite informative. Among them I found the journal of a maid. She described at great length how her mistress, Lillian Ashmond, performed all manner of lewd and disgusting sexual acts with her as well as some of the other servants. I wouldn't even mention this if not for the fact that, as time went on, the maid began to change mentally. In the beginning of her time there she was mortified by these things; by the end, she had grown to enjoy them greatly. This clearly wasn't magical, as the change was gradual and I could recognize the loss of moral and ethical boundaries in her words. That's saying nothing of her sanity itself.
This seemed to be a constant theme. A manservant to Justin Ashmond told of how his master used magic to physically warp the still-living bodies of those that crossed him. He wrote how Justin turned a business rival into some sort of living sculpture--what my people would call abstract art. Many survived for years after, trapped in constant pain and used as furniture or decoration by the others. At first this manservant was appalled and tried to avoid watching these transformations, but Justin forced him to look and accept. Over time the servant began offering sadistic ideas of his own, taking a sick pleasure in watching what he had once railed against.
By then I'd had quite enough and was close to heaving. The sun had also set and spectres had come out. One asked me if I would join her and her mistress for some "fun in the bedchamber." I couldn't run out of there and into the safety of the hallowed shed fast enough. What troubles me most is that I have to go back and finish my explorations. I don't know want to hear anymore of these sick deeds, yet I can't back away now. I have to continue my work. Goddess, grant me the strength to continue onward.
(End transcript)
With the sunrise the spectres have once more faded away. I've seen others that lose power during daytime, but never so completely. Only vampires are so terrified of the light. But that means I can explore without being harassed by the spirits while the sun is up. Unfortunately it also means I can't talk to them until after dusk. Well, at least I got a decent night's sleep last night. The lack of sleep was beginning to take a toll.
Today I moved all the journals, diaries, and logs from the servants quarters to the shed and girded myself for the horrific. In reading the accounts I saw a lot of all too familiar practices from my days as a slave. They've brought up very bad memories as well as made me look more closely at myself. Behind all the efforts to fight back and resist, I realize I began to enjoy some of the things I was doing as a slave. In the servants who succumbed to the evils of their masters, I saw myself. I could try and justify things, but I won't. The damage has been done and I must live with the consequences. Once I finally admitted to myself that I, too, had fallen for such things it was easier for me to read and accept what happened. But I managed to fight back against my own impulses; these servants didn't have the spiritual strength.
In reading everything again and taking a harder look, I've begun to understand what drove these people. Lillian Ashmond was a carnal deviant of the worst kind, while her brother Justin Ashmond was a wizard of great power as well as vile tastes. I dare not write about Lillian's exploits; those hit on too many nerves. But Justin is one I feel I have to detail. If only so that I can remember how truly monstrous he was.
His passion besides the arcane was sculpture. At first he was content with stone and clay, but as he grew he began to use fresh bodies coated in resin to create "living artwork." Soon that wasn't enough, and he wanted to combine magic and sculpture into one art. Flesh to stone spells and the sculpting of the resulting statues proved unsatisfying. Instead he worked to use polymorph and other transmutations to alter the body or parts of it permanently. Worse, as his skill grew so did his evil. By the end he turned anyone that crossed him into living sculptures, twisted into geometric shapes and kept alive in constant agony. He was among those killed when the villagers attacked all those centuries ago.
More disturbing, if less graphic, is the twins Adrian and Ardriana. I have no doubt theirs was an incestuous relationship. Yet beyond the madness that had claimed so many others they retained a cunning that made them all the more dangerous. Their attempts to restore their family went beyond inviting their extended relatives. At first they tried to use marriage and adoption of blood-kin borne of servants and slaves. Yet this proved too slow and often the children died of malformities and genetic diseases before their first year. In desperation they contacted their extended kin, hoping to sway them to stay and hopefully continue their line. Instead it led to their demise.
From these I can identify Lillian, Justin, and Adrian and Adriana as four key ghosts that sustain this haunting. No doubt I'll find more when I enter the actual mansion and begin my search for more. But once I exorcise them and lay them to rest I will be that much closer to finishing the work before me.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Ashmond Estate, Mordent, Mar. 3, 725 BC)
I took my first steps inside the mansion today. The skeletons of servants in the mansion cried out for help--literally. I could hear their spirits pleas to end their torment and lay them to rest. So once more I spent the day laying bones in graves and giving them proper burials. But instead of retreating to the shed once the sun had set, I braved the inside and sought out all that I could learn.
My strange connections to the Ethereal Plane let me interact with those I saw inside as I would the living. Most responded to my presence in a rather positive manner--if such can be called positive. They invited me to join them in their pursuits, and were willing to talk at length. Most were just servants of the Ashmonds, but I found three more Ashmonds in the estate. The first was Patrick, the "fiend even among the Ashmonds." This turned out to be a literal thing; in life he was a cambion, and celebrated as the grand patriarch of the family. He even sired a couple of generations before being killed by his great-granddaughter Kristina. In a way his ghost proved to be anticlimactic. I expected a man who was fiendish on the inside, but what I got was a rather pathethic individual fiendish only the outside. He was supported by his family so much I wonder why they didn't hear him on a litter. Throughout a century of life he did little except indulge his taste for hunting and flesh. By the end of his life he was so decrepit a single dagger through the heart proved enough to end his life. His ghost is likewise less-than-magnificent. He retains the horns and fangs of life, but is still corpulent with flesh folding over itself in disgusting flaps and greasy with sweat. In death he's lost the few powers of his bloodline, but remains because he cannot rest until Kristina finishes what she started. He must not have been too bright in life; he let slip that her spirit was locked in the basement.
Another new Ashmond was young Ellie Ashmond, maybe thirteen or fourteen when she died. She remains a beautiful young girl, just barely blossoming into womanhood. In life she didn't share her family's predilections and found herself alone a lot of the time. So instead she read whatever she could get her hands on. Not surprisingly what she could find was most often about the Lower Planes, Machievellian practices, and sordid pillow books. Those were all she knew in life, and in death she's confused and scared. Even when her own relatives began to arrive she was too shy to talk to them. When her family was killed she hid in the walls, escaping one death only to die of heartbreak when she saw what had happened. Despite the tastes she developed thanks to her unique nurturing and other factors, I could see that her soul remained free of evil. Indeed, she followed me around like a puppy and even laid next to me in the shed, somehow not repelled by the hallow spell left behind.
The last, and the reason I fled the manor this eve, is Juliana Ashmond. In life she was quite mad, but in death she has regained her lucidity and is now one of the more powerful ghosts, just behind Adrian and Adriana. Her face, once as beautiful as Ellie's, is now hideous to behold. Her eyes are sunken and black, and her hands end in wicked claws. Her hair has become stringy and her body is covered in wavering shadows like armor. She was quite upset by my presence and shrieked at her daughter, Ellie, to go back to her room. Instead the girl defied her and Juliana attacked first by giving of a wail that shattered the room's windows. My amulet protected me from the effect, but in a rage she attacked me with those ghostly claws. With each attack I felt my physical strength wane, and I had to leave quickly.
As I write this I've just cast restoration on myself and recovered from the attack physically. Yet I'm shaken that my defenses proved useless against this woman. Ellie is laying next to me, watching me with the eyes of an enamored young woman. Strangely for a ghost she's warm to the touch, not cold. But now I'm too tired to try and figure out anything right now. I'll take up the task once the sun rises.
When I asked Ellie if she would be harmed by the sun, she didn't know. For all this time she's been kept in her room by her hateful mother. The more I learn about her the more I think she is just another victim that must be saved.
(End transcript)
Ellie didn't disappear with the sun. Instead she began to play in the feeble dawn and giggle like the child she is. She refused to follow me back inside of the house. But before I left I checked her magically and proved a hunch I had. She's not undead; she's deathless. This would explain why she was warm to the touch, as it's the negative energy that makes undead feel "cold." Her body, infused with positive energy, would then feel "warm" to living things. But why hasn't she passed on? Is there some sort of connection that she can't escape? I won't know until I've finished exorcising this place.
As I investigated other areas of the estate I believe I found Justin's lab. Most of his "creations" have apparently been incorporated into a wall. Outwardly it looks like a regular stone wall, but I could see faces pressing against grayish flesh and hands clawing at the air. Wails and moans of agony could be heard from a distance as the dead pined for release. I've never encountered this sort of thing before, but I have read about it. A "living wall" is a cross between constructs and undead, not wholly one and not wholly the other. But defeating it is deceptively simple and almost impossible; I just have to throw its creator to it and the souls will be released. By now Justin is just a ghost and a pile of old bones. But I wonder if throwing his remains to those in the wall won't also draw his spirit in for its just rewards?
I left the lab and went to the other end of the mansion, suddenly finding myself in a flashback to my slave days. Instruments of carnal torture and pleasure as well as other devices lined the walls of one room. In another the skeletons of servants lay in rotting beds, remnants of leather collars around their necks. Finally, in the main bedroom, a dozen skeletons lay on the floor near the doorway. In that instant I saw a flash of naked servants jumping to defend Lillian Ashmond when the villagers broke in. They were slaughtered as they stood and Lillian herself was stabbed in the heart with her own rapier. But I saw no blade in her ribcage. That might be the key to destroying her, but she may also have it herself. If so I'll have to somehow disarm her of it.
Finally I found Adrian and Adriana's room--one bed, like I'd thought. Masses of papers with various things written on them--mostly about rebuilding their family--were scattered about. Books of their genealogy were piled against an old dresser, as were details on various fertility rituals. Finally I found a few of the invitations they sent out to their kin, left beside their bodies where they lay in bed. They'd been together all through life and now were together in death. Through all of it I saw a fixation on keeping the Ashmond name alive, by any means necessary.
My last stop before leaving was the dining hall. The stench of mildew and mold was almost overwhelming. Gray, powdery remains of what might have been food lay on the table, and several servants' remains lay amidst dust of the centuries. One skeletons in a chairs dressed in a a tattered wizard's robe caught my eye. Clearly these were Justin's remains. So I took a chance and gathered them up in an old burlap sack, hauling them down to his lab. If I was right this would kill two birds with one stone.
Unfortunately I hadn't been paying attention to the time. Just as I set the bag down his ghost appeared. Immediately he began ranting and casting all manner of spells at me. I barely dodged the volley, mistakenly backing up to the living wall. If I got too close I'd join them, but now I was cornered. I saw his spectral eyes glow with power as a fire spell formed. Then I remembered I could touch him--maybe I could also drag him?
I took a massive explosion right in the chest, but my ring managed to absorb a good chunk of the energy. My flesh felt like it was melting off my bones as I reached forward and grabbed him by his transparent throat. Immediately he began to claw at my hand, trying to free himself. It was working. I was able to pull him over and actually give him to the living wall. His wails were loudest of all as he joined his last, most heinous creation and partook of each one's pain all at once. I had to cover my ears and close my eyes to bear it.
When I didn't hear anything more I saw the burlap sack with his bones was now empty. The living wall had also changed and was now just a wall, though I'd bet gold to copper his bones are inside somewhere. As I watched a small hole crumbled in it and a niche lay behind. Inside was an enchanted mace as well as a dagger and a solid silver holy symbol. The moment I touched them I heard a woman's voice behind me. There stood Kristina Ashmond, freed from a prison built by her own brother. She thanked me for freeing her and asked if I would help her permanently destroy Patrick. As she asked she helped heal the wounds I suffered. I had no choice but to help.
We found him in his room, admiring his hunting trophies. I managed to catch him by surprise and buried the dagger I found into his chest. To my surprise it stuck out of his incorporeal body as it would a solid one. Ghostly blood came out of his mouth and he fell to the ground, vanishing into vapor as the dagger clattered to the floor. Kristina thanked me profusely before she, too, disappeared. That's when Juliana's ghost appeared, more angry than I'd seen her the prior night. In my left hand I was still holding Kristina's mace, and in a defensive move I used it to block.
Juliana screamed in pain and pulled away as her hand seemed burned by acid when it touched the mace. Further she could see the holy symbol tucked into my belt and recoiled from it. These might just be the items I need to destroy her, though what connection they have to her beyond being her daughter's is another story. Come to think of it, I still don't know what happened exactly when Kristina tried to kill Patrick. There's more to this story, I'll bet.
Back at the shed I found Ellie waiting for me. For a ghost she's proven to be quite affectionate. Maybe, once I've gotten rid of her kin, she'll be able to move on. But a part of me fears she won't, instead clinging to me in defiance of the afterlife. Until I reach that bridge I won't know for sure. Goddess, this is getting more complicated every day.
(End transcript)
Juliana attacked me and Ellie this morning. Just as the sun began to rise I set a foot outside the shed and was immediately attacked by her ghost. She was raving, though the only things I could make out were directed at her errant daughter. It makes my blood boil to even think about the words that spewed from her spectral mouth. No parent should ever say those things to their child!
So I spent the large part of the day comforting Ellie. My ability to touch as well as attack incorporeal beings also allowed me to offer her a shoulder to cry on in the most literal sense. Once she collected herself again she seemed to take real notice of the fact I was as solid and substantial to her as I would be to any material being. She even commented that, for the first time since she died, she could feel using her sense of touch. But only on me. Her cheeks took on a cherry hue and she asked to be alone soon after.
Whatever is going through her mind I can't really guess at. But after watching her mother lose so much power in the rays of the sun I've formulated a plan to destroy her. All this time I've assumed the ghosts of Ashmond Manor were unable to bear the sunlight in the most literal sense, fading away as soon as the light hit them. Instead they can bear it, but it drains them of power. I'd held back from channeling the sun through my weapons, afraid the light that shined would cause them to disperse and ruin my chances at attacking them.
So tonight I grabbed Kristina's mace and stormed inside to attack this hateful spirit full on. But first I prepared a dimensional anchor spell and cast it on her as soon as she manifested. Unable to escape to the Near Ethereal I began to lay into her with a rage borne of senseless hate. I was brutal in my attack by anyone's standards. But I succeeded in sending her to a true death.
My celebration was cut short when Adrian and Adrianna showed up. They thanked me for getting rid of their mother, saying she was the only thing that held them back. They then attacked, Adrianna thrusting a hand into my chest and seeming to grab hold of my heart. Not even the light shining from the mace in my hands deterred them, and I had to thrust Repose into her arm as I would a material attacker. The blade cut her spectral arm off clean, releasing me from the death grip. Yet I watched as she reformed it and moved to make another attack. This time I was able to get a burst of positive energy off, searing both her and her brother's immaterial flesh and scaring them away.
I could barely walk, but somehow I made it out to the shed. Ellie was upset by my injuries, and did her best to help. But she knows nothing of medicine and has no spells to aid me. So I sacrificed another scroll and restored myself. It still hurts to move, though, and Adrianna's attack has drained my stamina as well as my spirit. What in the Nine Hells is she!?
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Ashmond Estate, Mordent, Mar. 6, 725 BC)
I didn't even go near the mansion today. Instead I pored through the journals I had gathered from the house. Looking at it again I began to notice some of the entries contradicted each other. One speaks of Adrian and Adrianna using cantrips to fluster the servants as children, but another deliberately says the two "showed no apptitude for magic." As I compared things I realized that all the journals claiming the twins were simply spoiled aristocrats were written much later than those that spoke of them using what can only be magic.
I got sloppy. I didn't read between the lines and now it nearly cost me my life at the hands of a powerful sorcerer. The fiendish blood introduced by their grandfather/great-grandfather manifested itself in innate magical abilities. As young as six the two were showing budding talents, and were well-versed in the arcane by the time they reached majority. Besides their magic, they also had minds as cunning as a balor's. I can only assume they also tried to hide their talents, going so far as to have servants rewrite journals to hide the facts--likely after burning the originals. It's only because of Ellie that I learned the truth. As much as these twins tried to hide the truth from others, they still lorded their magic over their kin.
These powerful personalities would no doubt defy their own death with all the strength they could muster. Further, given the nature of their demise, I can see how there would be sufficient emotion to create truly powerful ghosts. In life they were powerful, but in death they're more than I can handle alone. As I write this I can't help but feel rather ashamed of myself. I preach the value of patience, yet I'm just as brash as any young adventurer.
In reading their mother's journals, I also realized she wasn't insane. Instead she was dominated magically, made to act as if she were, and then in the barn the horse was no doubt spooked by the twins. Yet they made the mistake of not destroying her own words. In it I learned of her burning desire to control them at any cost. She was the metaphysical barrier between them and their full power. Now I've gone and destroyed it without any idea of how to destroy them. I can't just walk away from this, as they'll no doubt begin to terrorize Briarthorp anew, perhaps picking up where they left off. I've made my bed and now I have to sleep in it.
My only hope now is to find a way to contain them while I search for the way to lay their spirits to rest. Perhaps the old witch in town will know something?
(End transcript)
Sorry I haven't updated for so long! I've been on a brief hiatus to rest myself for the upcoming holiday rush (when I should be even busier, using horror as a way of escaping the holiday overload). That, and my b-day is the first of December. If you can remember when the Atari 2600 was still in production and what the cartridges look like, you'll get an idea of how old I feel.
The old witch, Muriel, proved to be a great source of information. I spent the better part of the day at her shack, listening to what she had to say. In my haste I've been ignoring clues I should have noticed. I guess I still have a lot to learn.
Adrian and Adrianna are indeed sorcerers, and they've shored up each other in terms of strengths. Adrian has always been the more social of the two, his spells focusing on enchantments and illusions. Adrianna was much more fiery and ill-tempered, so it comes as no surprise that her repetoire focues more on evocations and other attack spells. They're obsession with rebuilding their family began with an illuminated chart of their geneaology. If I destroy this literal family tree I may have the means to lay them to rest.
If I can get past the twins I can set fire to the chart. But against powerful sorcerers I'm no match. When I mentioned this to Muriel she offered to add a mantle to the inside of my cloak, saying it would offer resistance to all sorts of spells. So I let her do just that, watching her weave two different magic items into one in only a matter of hours. I'd heard of this, but never seen how it's done. The techniques are interesting, to say the least.
When she was done the cloak was much broader in the shoulders and had a more regal appearance. Well, if she's right I should be able to resist the spells cast at me. The enchantments on the cloak already protect me from most of Adrian's spells. This is for defense against Adrianna and her destructive magic. In preparation I've decided to ready a spell I haven't used in years. It will force the two into a corporeal form and take away their maneuverability. It's going to be hard to get to sleep tonight.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Unknown, Mordent, Mar. 7, 725 BC)
In my time I've seen many things. Yet this day ranks among the weirdest. As soon as dawn broke I made my assault, heading to the twins bedroom where I found the family tree hanging on the wall. Tindertwig in hand I was ready to set it ablaze when the two showed up. I invoked the spell and a purple haze filled the room, forcing them into corporeal forms. Neither was prepared for this, and I was able to use Adrian as a human shield.
When I got near the chart she shrieked and began to cast all manner of spells at me--with her own brother taking the brunt of the damage. One of the spells she cast as a powerful fire spell, and the entire room caught. I had to let go of Adrian moments later as I felt the fire burning me. It was then that I realized the fire wasn't from the room; Adrian was on fire! So was his sister. The two burned as the chart went up in a blaze of blue and white flames. I took that as my cue to leave and barely made it out before a blast of fire blew out the front doorway. Windows began to explode outward as the fire consumed everything. I stood back and watched, listening to the crackle and shuddering as the house itself began to issue forth strange fluids from its outer frame. I would swear the house was bleeding as it died, and as its master did as well.
After a time I returned to the shed. Ellie was waiting for me, her spirit even more translucent than before. She wanted to thank me for saving her and in exchange for a loving embrace she could find peace. As I held her in my arms I felt her spiritual body dissipate into nothingness. I sat for a couple of hours in the cool shed and waited as the fire died out. I wanted to be sure that this place was truly destroyed before I left.
I returned to Briarthorp to thank Muriel for her help. But when I went to her shack it was abandoned. In fact, it had been abandoned for years by the looks of it. When I asked around the town I got strange looks. They claim that the witch Muriel died two-hundred years ago and that the shack has been the way it is ever since then. They said she was the last person to try and assault Ashmond Manor, and she didn't survive.
I would think myself delusional if not for the fact I have the magic bedroll and the mantle. When I went back I found the gold coins I'd paid her for the bedroll sitting on a table, still in pristine condition. I was amazed and terrified by this revelation. Had she been a ghost all along? Or was something else at work here?
I've decided not to bother thinking about it. Instead I gave a prayer for her and left. This whole experience has left me more than a little shaken and I'm sure I'll be studying what happened via my journal for years to come. For now I'm headed south. There is still so much left for a paladin to do. I can't very well rest now. Not when there's still good to be done.
(End transcript)
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Harpshire, Mordent, Mar. 10, 725 BC)
My past experiences prevent me from saying, "it can't get any worse." But I'm tempted to say so nonetheless. For the past three days I was alone on the road. Not that that's so odd so early in the year in this part of the Core. The weather has been abysmally rainy and depressing; even by Mordentish standards the past three days have been bad. If not for the magic in my boots I'd probably be suffering hypothermia as I couldn't even get a fire going.
Finally I began to see what I thought were signs of civilization. One mile in between each other I saw lone farmsteads, though both were burned to the ground and the fields left fallow. I didn't stick around to investigate, but followed the trail to a town near the eastern border with Richemulot. Soon I'd come upon a strange sight. What appeared to be a large city was locked down tight. The only signs of life were the pillars of smoke coming from the chimneys.
My first stop was at the inn. The door was locked and barred, but someone on the other side came when I knocked. The people inside seemed surprised to see me alive. Their cheer heightened when they learned I was a paladin. It seems that the town had been suffering from some strange incidents and the aid of a holy knight was most welcome. At first I thought they were exaggerating the problem, describing in lurid detail the gory remains of several families found first in the countryside, then in the city. Blood and entrails were used to "decorate" the scene even as the half-gnawed remains of victims were found. One victim got away with little more than a bite, but over scant hours became pale and "cold as the grave." The town doctor said the man's eyes were also clouded by cataracts like a corpse long in the grave. He was killed before he could do any harm, and the body was burned.
That had been day before, and before I arrived there had been three more families murdered in the same fashion. At each one of the members was still around, turned into the undead with a single bite. They described the creatures as "rotten and decayed," so my first thought was that they were under attack by some degenerate ghouls. But without having seen one myself I couldn't be sure. They'd also burned all the bodies inside a warehouse outside of town, as the rain made it impossible otherwise.
By this time the rains had stopped and dusk was setting in. Many residents began to file out and back into their homes, leaving me and the innkeeper as well as his wife all alone. If this was a ghoul infestation it wouldn't be too hard to curb it by finding the hive and clearing it out. It would almost be a relief after the Ashmond Estate to have a straight-up fight.
So I hid and waited outside until I heard a shuffling sound. I could see animate corpses that clearly weren't ghouls walking about. From the darkness I used my bow to fire on a group of six, killing them almost too easily. Then I heard something pounding on wood and found another cluster of six, all easily dispatched. I then spent several hours investigating the rest of the city, but it was all quiet. It was almost anticlimactic.
I've covered one body in magical oil to preserve it long enough to perform a proper autopsy in the morning. It was already in such a bad state of decay that it still fell apart a bit when I moved it into a storehouse offered by one of the residents. One thing I do know is that this is not a ghoul infestation. To be honest I've never seen anything like this. They're more like zombies, but they eat living flesh like ghouls. It also seems that each "zombie" was also once one of those murdered--the man told me the body was that of James Marsh, one of the farmers. If what he says is true and each of the creatures was once one of the "murder victims" then this mystery just got a whole lot more complicated. I actually regret using alchemist's fire to burn the other bodies to spare the locals. They could have told me whether these others were also former residents. What's done is done, though.
(End transcript)
Upon waking this morning I found snow falling in thick sheets. Just getting to the storehouse was a nightmare as I had to dig a hole just to get out of the inn and into the storehouse. At least the frigid weather kept the smell of rot down. I was expecting the body to be quite aromatic when I began to cut it open. Instead the cold made it tolerable, though I'm still sick to my stomach from everything else.
The first thing I noticed was that the body had been ripped open before and then sewn shut again. Thick black thread was holding the abdomen closed in long tracks that ran up to its chest. I chose to open them up first and I found nothing--literally nothing. The internal organs had been removed save a sac-like organ akin to a stomach. Inside that I found partially-digested remains of flesh and bone. The creatures were eating their victims, though why is another question. Their missing organs are explained by the savage tears; each one was a previous victim that had their organs ripped out and eaten by another zombie.
Why someone just bitten by one would turn into a zombie as well is a question I can't find an answer to yet. Likely it's a disease or magical curse similar to ghoul fever, only a lot more virulent. This leads to yet another question: why would the bodies need to be sewn back together? Wouldn't the agent of reanimation work on a relatively whole body? Clearly I'm looking at some new form of undead.
Then there's the strange behavior at the murder scenes. Thanks to the locals burning down the scenes I can't verify their stories of lurid gore and almost ritualistic behavior. But it does suggest a mind beyond the bare sentience of a walking corpse. The sewing of victims back up also suggests someone is taking the time to make the bodies suitable as undead minions. I fear that I'm facing a necromancer. If true then my duties just got a lot harder. Besides the fact I'd be facing a spellcaster, the necromancer has to be found to be fought.
I spent the day asking around about the locals. From what I gathered I know I'm not looking at some madman in a remote location outside town; there are a series of suspects I need to investigate. The first is a tailor that's been acting weird, going out at night and not returning until the early morning. Another is the butcher's wife, who has taken an inordinately high interest in her husband's trade as of late. Yet another is a strange family that moved in weeks earlier. There are at least a dozen more that need to be investigated. Already news of who I am has spread like wildfire, so it's likely that whoever is the necromancer has gone to even greater lengths to hide their activities and made this much more difficult.
As night falls I can't continue any longer this day. I'll have to start again as early as possible. As for that body I cut open, I covered it in alchemist's fire and burned it to fine ash on the earthen floor of the storehouse. Then I laid a consecrate spell over the place to remove any lingering taint. I pray that things will be brought to a swift, peaceful end.
(End transcript)
This morning the inkeeper's wife made a comment that shook the cobweds from my head. "If only the dead could speak." For years I've tried so hard to ignore the constant murmurs of the dead I've forgotten how useful such an ability can be. This ability is at once a blessing and a curse in these lands. Whoever coined the phrase "silent as the grave" obviously didn't have the ability to communicate with the dead.
With my one subject now cremated and the others likewise destroyed I have nothing to interview in that sense. Even the farmsteads are now little more than useless ash. So instead I decided to talk to the living. In a city so close to Richemulot I knew that I was going to have to sift through gossip and rumor. I wasn't proven wrong when I began to ask around about suspicious activity. By now I can't tell what's worse: the undead eating people or the all too human evils I've heard about.
From what I've heard there are three suspects that could be a necromancer in town. The first is a local dilettante that's been seen using arcane magic and has been rather outspoken about its study. She's also been seen going about town late at night and has been known to spend days or even weeks in her estate performing some sort of magical experiment. But given what I know of wizards this is hardly incriminating evidence. In fact it seems normal.
My second suspect is none other than the local undertaker. Over half of the zombies had died a natural death and were in his care when they appeared as cannibalistic undead. His case seems to be the least likely as the times bodies were stolen he was at the local inn having a pint. But I can't rule out his involvement. I've heard from more than one source that he's just plain incompetent at his job, though.
My final suspect is the local butcher. For years prior to the incidents he was just getting by. Now he has some sort of new sausage that's become quite a hit with the locals. Stories of butchers using humanoid body parts in their products are as ancient as civilization, but I wonder if it's true in this case. He's been acting secretive lately and more than once large, ice and sawdust-packed crates have been seen delivered to his shop with great care. Alwayst at night to boot.
This is only the beginning, though. In a city of some ten-thousand I have a lot more suspects to consider once I eliminate these folks. I may be at this for a while.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Harpshire, Mordent, Mar. 13, 725 BC)
I've eliminated my first three suspects in under a day. The butcher has been importing some expensive cuts of meat from Borca, as I suspected. Likewise the undertaker proved to be a dead end; the man is a drunkard and regularly leaves his shop to indulge his habit. Ironic that I once shared such a foul practice.
Finally the wizard came to me before I could get around to watching her. She divined my intentions and has offered to help her modest skills. Under magical scrutiny I was able to confirm she's not responsible for the zombies. Indeed she's been investigating herself with her magic and has found some clues that I would have never noticed. Not because of her spells, but because she's highly-placed in society.
Unbenknownst to the lower classes there's been some strange rumors going about the nobility for months. A local lord whose fortunes were going bad did an about face all of a sudden when his son returned from studying in Darkon. It's an open secret he's a wizard as well, but he's shown a strange fascination for death and dead things. Using my magical hat I was able to look like one of the aristocrats and glean even more from a ball being held this night. Lurid rumors of his diet and carnal leanings aside, it's pretty much an established fact that the young man has an unhealthy interest in the arts of death and necromancy. He took great joy in shocking the others by casting animate object on a suckling pig on the banquet table, causing a stir when folks mistook it for an undead horror. No one even noticed it was his doing, and he took a grim delight in watching the mortification of everyone else.
This still isn't solid evidence that he's a real necromancer. It could just be he has a sick sense of humor and some bizarre interests. It wouldn't be the first time I've jumped to the wrong conclusions. So I followed him to his home, an old manor outside of town. Armed guards patrolled the place in droves and I wasn't too sure of my skills in infiltration. So I've let him go for tonight and decided to pick up more about him tomorrow. From the distance I've also spotted what seems to be an addition, made of stone and iron like a fortress. While it certainly isn't proof of wrongdoing, it doesn't exactly help his case. A fortified addition? It makes no sense.
(End transcript)
After only a day I wonder if this guy really is a necromancer. His skill in magic is far less than I thought; he relies on simple cantrips and various wands to create most of the effects he uses. I'm beginning to wonder how he even learned the minimal skills he has. Matthew Williams, as he's called, probably couldn't get his act together long enough to finish a conversation. This could be a ruse. But if it is it's the most effective one I've seen. No, this guy is an idiot through and through.
So now I'm back to square one. No new zombies have appeared in the past two days and neither has anyone disappeared or been murdered mysteriously as far as I can tell. The whole affair may have been nothing more than an elaborate trap to catch someone like me--someone who would fight off such creatures and able to oppose anyone who created them. It's been too easy so far not to be a trap.
My suspicions were validated when I returned to find a dagger stuck into my pillow at the inn. The edge is jagged and it's covered in dried blood and pieces of flesh. I've taken it to Elizabeth, the mage, and she learned it belongs to Jonathan Williams, Matthew's father. But that makes no sense. It's a matter of record that Jonathan Williams died over ten years ago.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Harpshire, Mordent, Mar. 15, 725 BC)
My investigations into the Williams family has turned up some interesting bits of information. It seems Jonathan was a wizard himself, and was quite powerful at that. He was also a trader in various goods used in magic and had a standing feud with the Boritsi Trading Company. Upon further research I found out that everyone killed had some sort of tie to the BTC--either they were employees, supporters, or Boritsi's in disguise. Given my own experiences with those upstarts I can hardly fault him for wanting to get his revenge. But if he's been dead for ten years, and his son is a poor wizard at best, how is he reanimating the dead?
My answer came when the librarian remarked that "old Matthew's didn't die well. His coffin was closed the day he was buried, and one boy that sneaked a peak say it looked like a skeleton with flesh stretched tight." It sounds like he attained lichdom and had his corpse buried for others to see, only to have it exhumed later. Or his spirit inhabits a different body now. I must admit it's a masterful ruse. Everyone saw him buried and thus wouldn't believe he's still around as a walking corpse.
Yet the attack I stopped clearly had nothing to do with the Bortsi family. That feels more like a probe--a test of my abilities by whoever sent them. In that case I'm off the hook...somewhat. I've revealed only a fraction of my true capabilities. I learned not to go in full bore a long time ago; it causes more problems than it solves. If Jonathan underestimates my abilities I'll have the edge in this protracted fight.
Now I have to figure out a way inside that fortress the Williams call a manor. I've exhausted all other resources for information and now have little choice in the matter. If Jonathan is a lich I have to see for myself, and get a sense of his own capabilities. Goddess help me in this endeavor.
(End transcript)
There's been yet another murder. Normally this wouldn't even raise suspicions as the victim was a poor, destitute man. From what I can gather there isn't a day that goes by that one or two of the city's poor doesn't die somehow. But the manner of his death is too close to the others to be coincidence. Unlike the others the organs were crudely cut out and the body wasn't sewn back together. My own interview with the body only raised more questions.
Alexander Dreamfire: Who killed you?
Anonymous Victim: William Matthews.
AD: Not Jonathan Matthews?
AV: No.
AD: What did he do?
AV: He slashed my throat, then began to cut out my organs and sew me up like a doll. That's when my wife and daughter returned and caught him.
AD: What happened next?
AV: He killed them. My daughter screamed before she was killed, and neighbors heard. He used magic to hide and took their bodies with him.
AD: How did he transport the bodies?
AV: He dumped them into a wagon and left.
AD: Did anyone see this wagon?
AV: Yes. Everyone who came saw it. It left only after everyone else did.
At this point I had all I needed and let the morticians take the body for burial. My interviews with the poor--which cost me plenty of silver and gold--revealed that it's a simple open-back wagon used by people all over. What was odd was that it was the wagon used by one of the families that had been murdered. They'd used imported Falkovnian timber and the cart was pitch black, something no one else had. Further one person spotted a brand on the back of one of the two horses pulling it. I drew it as she described it and took it to the library. It was the Matthews coat of arms.
My case against the family is building, but now I wonder if my assumptions are all wrong? Maybe William Matthews really is a skilled wizard? Though the cuts were done hastily, I did notice a pattern used in necromancy about them. Clearly he was ritually preparing the body when he was caught. With only two bodies I doubt he'll send them after me. I've clearly demonstrated I can deal with two cannibal zombies rather easily.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Harpshire, Mordent, Mar. 17, 725 BC)
The daughter of yesterday's victim made a visit during the night. I was fast asleep when I heard the screaming of a young girl outside the inn. When I got downstairs the innkeeper and a crowd of others had gathered outside to gawk at the zombie. After a few seconds it collapsed, truly dead. Clutched in its hand was a scroll--addressed to "the meddling holy knight." It was a challenge--a challenge to face them directly. Though who "they" are wasn't specified.
The fine calligraphy of the note was a clue I honed in on. Johnathan Matthews was known for his mastery of writing and always embellished his letters and notes with illuminated script. So this comes directly from the hand of Johnathan himself? I can't rule it out.
On a related note I received an invitation to the Matthews Estate for a ball tomorrow night--hand-delivered, no less. The invitation makes it sound like the Matthews are simply trying to keep people's spirits up during this time of fear. But I fear it's some sort of convoluted trap; several wealthy citizens are also going and it would be foolish to attack me with so many witnesses.
As I write this, I wonder if it's not another attempt to probe my abilities? I'll have to see for myself. This is my best--my only chance to see what I'm up against.
(End transcript)
I had to have the local tailor create some finery for this evening's party. I hadn't packed anything for such a grand affair when I left. The clothing I've chosen is a little more garish than the local gentry would accept, but that's the style I like. Besides which I've been running around in full-plate armor. By now folks are used to me shocking them with my dress.
The party had to be filled with hundreds of people--nobles from near and far, wealthy merchants, even high-ranking anchorites. I felt more than a little out of place; I may be nobility myself, but my family's "noble" status is more a character trait than a social rank and I'm no different. "Nobility" here has nothing to do with upstanding values and more to do with the bulge of one's coin purse.
When I first arrived I was greeted by unseemly--if all too human--guards in desperate need of a bath. Once inside I began to realize the truth of the Williams' massive number of guards. Those outside are human, but inside they're all undead disguised by illusions. I dared not detect them for fear of tripping some sort of magical alarm, but the damn crystal in my eye socket revealed them plain as day. This obviously wasn't a trick Johnathan thought me capable of. It's times like this I find some greater purpose behind a century and a half of enslavement in the Abyss.
Throughout the night I cased the place like a thief would. Beyond the undead guards magically disguised as living beings and some traps there is little on the inside to worry about. It's just getting past the outer defenses that I'll have a serious problem with. I'm loathe to kill the living guards; they're just doing their jobs. But those undead creatures are likely slaves of Johnathan's and William's.
Speaking of which, I began to see another side to this fop. Elizabeth cast a detect magic spell on him and found a strong aura of enchantment. I'm beginning to think he may be magically altered by his father or even himself to come off as a wastrel and a spoiled noble temporarily when he really possesses a mind of horrid cunning when the spells wear off. These unusual tactics seem to be a family trait and are certainly more than enough to throw off most others.
Once I had a plan of attack I socialized among the others. More than a few women gave subtle and not-so-subtle hints that my presence in their bedchambers would be very appreciated. I must admit it's tempting; their husbands are often unfaithful themselves and it's been years since I knew the embrace of a woman. Yet I can't. Not so much because of my code as a paladin (in fact, offering comfort to others has priority over following mortal law) but because I can't stick afford to become involved with anyone. I have to be able to move freely.
I offered them only the possibility, which isn't to be in reality. After tonight I have an idea of what I need to do in order to stop these foul wizards from further murdering the locals and spreading their evil. Once the truth of the Williams' comes out a night with me will likely be the last thing on their minds.
(End transcript)
Editor's note: My sister and I had a fight over whether or not to include this entry in our publishings. I thought his observations were vital to show how creatures of darkness can use simple tricks to great effectiveness. Yet Gennifer stubbornly refused, only blushing and saying it was just one example among many. In the end I won, but even now she becomes quite upset if Alexander's amorous encounters--no matter how chaste--are mentioned.
--Laurie Weathermay-Foxgrove
Things took a rather bizarre turn even before I arrived at the Matthews' Estate. The first was the paucity of guards--where before I had seen them patrolling in pairs and often grouping at vital areas, only six were around to patrol an area that would take five times that many. At first I thought this was just a ploy to try and draw me in, but when I got inside I saw things that made me think twice.
Inside lay the bloody, stripped bones of several guards--all of which were already undead. These former zombies had been eaten! Now they were simply dead bodies. An interview with one revealed what happened.
Alexander Dreamfire: What happened tonight?
Guard #1: We were attacked.
AD: Who attacked?
G #1: William attacked.
AD: How did he attack?
G #1: Tiny creatures swarmed us and ate our flesh.
At this point I couldn't get any more answers out of this corpse, but others in the area offered up descriptions of worm-like things with legs that stood upright, their heads giant mouths full of sharp teeth. They attacked in waves and literally ate the undead flesh in a gory feast. There's only one kind of creature I know of that likes undead flesh--the avrolaka. These giant worm-like things are capable necromancers and insatiable necrophages. Certainly the creatures could be immature avrolaka, but if so my troubles have taken a serious turn for the worse.
The trail of bodies continued into the stone addition and down into a lab that had once been heavily sealed and magically warded. Someone--or something--had forcibly gone through everything and left a mass of broken wood and twisted metal. I had Dawn's Fury ready when I saw an emaciated thing in the remains of tattered purple and blue robes engaged in some sort of a magical duel with Matthew and a large, grayish worm-thing with multiple legs. Masses of tiny, purple-fleshed creatures like those the corpses described were all over the floor--most dead and laying in green ichor, others feasting on their dead brethren.
My appearance disrupted the lich, Johnathan, and the avrolaka let loose some sort of spell that turned him into dust. William began gloathing, saying I was the perfect patsy. With his father distracted by my activities he found a chance to overthow him and take power. With that he tossed me a small box of pig iron--Johnathan's phylactery, it turns out--and then cast some sort of a gate spell and escaped with his new ally before I could reach them.
This anticlimactic ending is but a prelude to something bigger. Going through the estate I found William's journals--the avrolaka had contacted him almost a year ago and offered to help him overthrow his father, in exchange for future favors. Apparently he accepted, and once he was able to stand up to the lich his father had become he began killing off locals and animating them to lure anyone to distract his father's attentions. Once his father was dealt with he could move on to bigger things.
One thing I didn't understand was why he would leave behind everything in the arcane lab--until I successfully smashed the phylactery nearly a mile outside of town. There was a shockwave of magical energy and explosions inside the Estate could be heard. Magical traps had been placed, so that if old Johnathan Williams was destroyed all of his magical goods would go with him. I returned to the site in time to join the others in town in watching the place burn. Whatever strange substances were stored in the place give the flames various hues of blue, green, and purple; I must admit it was a sight to behold. I haven't seen pyrotechnics like that in years.
The journals I had salvaged were all the proof the mayor and constable needed to clear me of any criminal charges. They were thankful that I had driven the evil from their town, but I couldn't share in their jubilation. There's a mad wizard and a necrophagic monster I still have to deal with. But I have no idea where they went and even a Vistani seer I encountered earlier had no luck in finding them.
For now I have to let this one go. I plan on returning to the interior of Mordent and investigating some sites I've heard about. The first is a strange graveyard that seems to appear and disappear at irregular intervals outside of a town called Darrow. Those that enter rarely return, and those that do are often no longer among the living.
(End transcript)
It's been two days since I left Harpshire and I spent most of that on the road. Alone with my thoughts. With nothing to do except recount the past few days and think about things I didn't want to. To say that I'm upset over falling for William's little plan would be an understatement. If I ever manage to find him I'll rip his still-beating heart out of his chest with my bare hands! And as for his avrolaka friend...I'll be sure to burn every last piece of it in a blessed fire before I'm done.
Last night was particularly weird. During my forced march I noticed how the mist kept cloying around me momentarily and then backing away suddenly. It wasn't normal fog, either; it was the Mists. Normal fog tends to react when you move your hand through it or a breeze comes along. What this means I can't really say. It did give me the creeps, though.
I made it to Darrow with an hour to spare before sunset. The locals were as suspicious of me as expected, but someone seemed to recognize me. I had never met this young man before, but he'd apparently heard about me and Rudolph and our quests to stop the creatures of the night. That was enough to at least get the innkeeper to rent me a room. I know that wearing full plate makes folks in the more technologically advanced countries a little wary, but after that incident with the flesh golem I'd rather deal with odd looks than have all my limbs broken in several places and wait for my amulet to regenerate the damage.
I skipped dinner in favor of my everfull bag of food; I'm getting tired of stewed beef. If I could drink, I might have hit the tavern. Instead I'm turning in early so I can get an even earlier start on my investigations.
(Supplemental)
I'm not quite sure when I woke up. All I know is it was dark and the rest of the inn was asleep. So I quietly got myself equipped and went out the window so as to leave the front door barred. A thick, normal fog had filled the place and severely dampened the sounds. But I still heard rocks being kicked aside by a stepping foot and turned to see a young girl dressed in her night gown walking through the streets. Here eyes were open, but they were glazed over and appeared not to see anything. Then I noticed a figure in the fog ahead of her. Tall, gaunt, dressed in a cowled robe, and beckoning with a shriveled hand. My first thought was that this was a Mist Ferryman, but we were nowhere near any water.
The disruption I have on this reality seemed to dispel whatever enchantment the girl was under--once I got within ten feet of her. The creature seemed to take great offense at this and lunged at me, wrestling me to the ground as the girl began screaming. I was too busy dodging a mouth filled with teeth like knives to notice the townsfolk gathering around us. It was only when the thing looked up and stared at someone that I managed to draw Repose; the bright light it gave off caused the creature to scream in pain and I saw as its ghostly flesh began to smolder and burn. It ran away howling, into a strange graveyard I'd not seen earlier. Then, as I watched, the entire graveyard disappeared and was replaced with fields of untilled soil.
The girl was sobbing in the arms of her parents, and an older woman was also sobbing, crying out the name "Christopher" over and over. I think that won the townsfolk over, because several of them helped me up. An older man with a full beard approached me and pulled out a fancy pocketwatch; it was barely ten minutes past midnight. According to him, I had just saved another of their numbers from being drawn into "an otherworldly graveyard where souls are lost."
It was too late to discuss things at length, and after that scare I think all of us needed a chance to rest and recover. The old man was the town mayor, and I've been invited to breakfast once the sun rises. He wants to discuss what's been happening, and there are questions I have for him as well.
(End transcript)
It was only after the sun finally rose that I let my vigilance go. No one else in town dared leave their homes until such time, either. I could see candles and oil lamps in the windows of buildings, smell the smoke of fires in hearths, yet never once encountered another person until after the rooster's crow. After what I encountered, I can't really blame them.
I was taking a rest near the town well, splashing my face with water when the mayor's personal maid came for me. After a night like that I was more than a little hungry. I barely had time to get something in my stomach when the mayor began to barrage me with questions. Who I was, what I was doing out here, everything he could think of. Breakfast was cold by the time I had finished answering everything.
Then it came my turn. This "graveyard" had appeared almost six months ago and did so rather suddenly one night. The town's small militia--maybe twelve at most--sent in their four best members to investigate. None of them ever returned. Then people began to disappear every so often. The first was one of the farmers that lived outside the town walls. Only he returned about two months later--composed of the Mists, his face twisted into an S-shape and a wail issuing from his toothless mouth. Folks tried to drive him off, but their attacks didn't even touch him. Yet he didn't retaliate against them and let himself be claimed by the sun once it rose. In the thing's place was his body once it finished literally burning away in a hideous, ghostly pyre.
The next person was the "town harlot," Alma Red. A teenager, going on a dare from his friends, entered the graveyard one night and found himself near a small creek. He heard her voice coming from a boat and ran to find her. In place of her heavy rouge and tight corset were the bleached bones of a skull and a hooded robe. She slashed at him with vicious, bony claws, but he managed to escape. At the time an anchorite was in town and managed to cure the boy of a supernatural infection.
Twenty more disappeared over time until last night. The last one was the local cobbler, Christopher Hunts. He was last seen four nights ago, entering the graveyard as if in a trance. That was the creature that attacked me, once a man and now a Mist horror. Yet certain details just didn't add up; I've not had the misfortune of fighting many Mist horrors, but I've never heard of them having such a violent reaction to light, either. Then there was the fact that the victims never came from the same household. This was a point even the mayor brought up, and that led to my next lead.
In the town archives were records from fifty years ago. Five adventurers had come and successfully destroyed a Mist golem that was plaguing the town at the time. Yet one of them didn't survive his wounds, a rather unknown bard called Christopher Hous. One thing the archives did note was the arrogant cockiness of Hous, and how he claimed he would defy even death itself. He was also known to have a morbid fascination with graveyards! Reading the headstones was what gave him inspiration for his work, and he'd long searched for a way to extend his bardic abilities to the undead. Whether or not this was some dark obsession or a way to aid his friends in fighting them is unknown. Certainly he wasn't an evil man in life, but neither was he terribly good. He'd help his friends but would blithely ignore the suffering of others--even if he could have changed things.
Details of his death are sketchy, but strange symptoms were well recorded. His wounds never bled, but instead gave off a fog like that of breath in the winter air. Never stocky to begin with, his thin frame became emaciated and shriveled. Finally, when he died, his body just collapsed into mist and blew away. One of his friends was a cleric of an unknown god, and blessed the spirit of her dead comrade. Eventually the four survivors married locals and began families there. All of them died of old age in the past decade and the memory of Christopher Hous died with them.
In tracing the family trees of the known victims I found that each was the child or grandchild of one of these four. Each bore several children, and their blood ran deep in the town after only two generations. When I asked the mayor about why no one noticed the connection, he had no answer other than the fact that their tale wasn't widely known. In fact, aside from a few of the older residents that remembered the incident, the records I was reading were the only ones of their deed. It was like the town wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened and did so quite well.
I spent the rest of the day interviewing the direct descendents of those four unnamed adventurers--at least, those left alive. Other than rumors they had never heard a thing about their parents' past. The only thing that proved to them I was telling the truth was when I identified several "family heirlooms" as being enchanted. Swords capable of cleaving even incorporeal flesh stood above fireplaces gathering dust, armor that could turn away even a pistol's bullet sat forgotten in old chests, and other items that could have aided the town had they only chosen to remember.
One item that did turn up was a journal kept by one James Hunts, a fighter in the group. Through the sloppy handwriting I made out that Christopher Hous stuck to the shadows more than their rogue did. Apparently he was blinded by bright light, and was sensitive even around mere candles. This wasn't always so, but began after he used darkness spells to cover his own retreat from a series of encounters and left his friends to their own devices.
Suddenly things began making a lot more sense. I'm not positive that whatever force controls all this is Christopher Hous, long-deceased bard and darkness-loving coward. But it made sense; the appearance of a graveyard, the victims all being descended from one of his four friends, and the strange sensitivity to light the creatures display. Plus the trance-like state of that girl I rescued--I've seen it in targets of enchantment spells and those targeted by bardic music. Hous was quite proficient in both.
The sun is setting now and I plan on investigating that graveyard for myself. But I need to sleep first to refresh myself and pray for spells. My gut tells me I'll need all my strength if I'm going to go in there.
(End transcript)
My trip began around midnight. The innkeeper was still up, watching over his wife while she slept. I'd heard that the entire town was doing the same thing with their loved ones. Hopefully they would be able to stop them, get them back to reality. A fine plan until this little problem gets nipped in the bud. And as a result of all this there were folks to witness my entry into the misty graveyard.
When I reached the borders I felt...resistance, I guess. It was like pressing against a gummy wall in a way. I could feel the barrier tear open as I got within ten feet of it, the maximum length I will this strange influence I have on this reality to be. Whatever force was trying to keep me out clearly had no chance. This actually made me more alert when I thought it was merely to make me underestimate things.
But as I wandered I began to realize that I overestimated things. In the hours I walked the length of this graveyard I encountered lowly ghouls and zombies at best. All of them dissipated into fog when defeated, yet they had very real attacks. I was about to try and call the ghost of David Hous when I stumbled over something. It was a dead body, a young man dressed in the local style. It didn't look like he'd been attacked; rather, it seems that he died of thirst. I can't be sure without an autopsy, but the abnormally dry tissue would indicate such. I couldn't just leave him, so I carried the body to the same place I'd entered from. Once more I felt the resistance as I stepped out and back into town. No one was around, so I placed the body on the ground in a respectful pose and returned to my task.
That's when I felt a change--a shift in the world around me. It was subtle and almost impossible to notice. I could still see an exit from this place, but it seemed farther away than before. Likewise the entire graveyard seemed to have tripled in size. There was also a new sound off in the distance. Water in a rushing torrent, I could tell. That had to be the stream that Alma Red was found near--now a Mist ferryman.
Indeed, I found such a creature near the shore. Either it didn't see me, or it didn't care. Either way I was able to rush in with Saint's Fury drawn and kill it with ease. An older, buxom woman's body was left behind when it faded away. Judging by the red hair and heavy make-up it was pretty clear who this was. All attempts at speaking with the dead failed; I fear that her soul has been devoured. The only other thing worth noting is a small glass bottle in a not-so-secret pocket on her dress. Laudanum, a concentration of opium. While it's not unusual for prostitutes to use drugs, what stuck out was the sheer number of needle tracks on her arms. Some were easily twenty or more years old. Quite a long time to be addicted to such a potent poison.
I gave her body last rites and moved on, knowing the town would never let a lady of the evening be buried in sanctified ground. When I went to take a drink from the stream I found out something else; the water turned to fog as soon as I pulled it toward my mouth. That didn't bode well for those who had gone ahead. A humanoid can only survive at most three or four days without water. If the creatures hadn't killed them I suspected that thirst had.
From there I began to wander, more than once getting lost in the mist, often tripping over half-formed gravestones and other things I'd expect inside of a cemetary. Only when I came to a fully-formed gazebo did I stop. Now this was unusual. Not only for what it was, but because it was complete and whole while everything else I'd run across in the past few hours was still taking shape. That was when he appeared, a man in the flared finery of a gaudy stage performer with a flute in one hand and a book in the other. His face was calm and collected, but I could see a sadness in his eyes. That's when I tried speaking with him.
Alexander Dreamfire: David Hous?
David Hous: I am he. Who are you?
AD: Alexander, paladin. I've come to put an end to this.
DH: Are you going to kill me? I am already dead. What good would it do to kill what isn't even alive? It won't end a thing.
AD: Why won't it end?
DH: Because I can't rest until the others have paid for their sins.
AD: Those you called into this...place?
DH: Yes. They have all committed horrible acts and not yet paid for their crimes. Only when they have been properly punished can I rest.
AD: Let's say I believe you. What "sins" are these people responsible for?
Editor's Note: The full list of foul deeds was contained in the original journal and goes on for nearly fifty pages and has been left out on purpose. These were not simple crimes like theft or lying. These were deeds that make my sister and I sick to read. This serves as a reminder that anyone is capable of horrible evils. -- Gennifer Weathermay-Foxgrove
AD: I don't want to believe you...but my instincts say you're telling the truth.
DH: Reality is often harsh. I have been paying for my cowardice in this place for decades. No living being can imagine how painful it is to be dead and trapped in the mortal world. I seek only my final rest, whether peace or punishment.
AD: There are twenty-three names on this list. Twenty have been drawn in already, so three are still out there. What if they were punished by mortal law instead? Could you rest then?
DH: ...I don't know. I believe it possible, though.
AH: Then allow me to bring their crimes to light and see that they pay for these heinous deeds.
DH: I cannot promise anything. I am not the one in control of this place. Instead I am merely a pawn to some other, higher power. But I will not call the others for a fortnight. If this works, we won't meet again.
At this point the bard simply disappeared, and I found the exit standing right behind me. Dawn was breaking over the horizon and I had no time to waste. I made it mere moments before it disappeared once more, left to the grim task of seeing if there was any truth in this creature's words. I hate this part of being a paladin.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Darrowshire, Mordent, Mar. 27, 725 BC)
I wanted to believe they were lies. Yet the truth stood before me in all of its horrid glory. The mayor and constable were instrumental in finding the evidence to see things through. It also brought a sort of morbid closure to many more in town. I mark their crimes here, if only so I won't forget what I had to face.
Harold Winters, 42, a farmer found guilty of killing wanderers and seeding his crops with their blood, fertilizing the soil with their organs, and stuffing their bodies with straw to act as scarecrows. He was also found guilty of murdering his own daughter when she tried to expose the truth. Her body was found while the others were being taken down for proper burial. His sentence was execution by my blade, carried out immediately.
Christina Jennice-Irine, 30, a merchant's wife found guilty of kidnapping and "exploiting" young children before killing them and burning their bodies as sacrifices to a dark god. A shrine was found underneath her house, where blood and a scorched altar lay hidden behind a wine rack. Further there were spirit waifs who could testify as to what she did, trapped by her vile acts. Her sentence was execution by hanging, carried out that evening.
Ashley Noland, 16, a young girl found guilty of "stealing the innocence" of her much younger friends for her own perverse amusement. Some accused her of being an immature hag, and her sentence was delayed as I magically traced her ancestry. She was entirely human, and sentenced to death by hanging, carried out only hours earlier.
None of them expressed genuine remorse over their deeds, Harold and Ashley even dared claim innocence when the evidence was overwhelmingly clear and magical divinations proved them guilty beyond any doubt. Sometimes one needn't look for the supernatural to find the evil that dwells among us. All of us are capable of dark deeds, things we dare not admit even to ourselves. In this case the graveyard was created by evil, but not that of David Hous. Instead it was the punishment for mortal sins, given shape by a man still haunted by his own guilt even in death. Whatever eldritch forces created the graveyard must have a twisted sense of humor and irony.
I went in search of supernatural horrors to fight, and often find only mortal sins in its place. It's times like these that remind me of my true mission as a paladin. Never favor one source of evil over another; all are equal, and all must be treated as such. Tomorrow I head back north, perhaps even leaving Mordent and exploring Dementlieu for a while. Goddess knows I could use a change of scenery.
(End transcript)
Sometimes I think cartographers are a dying species here. Accurate maps of Mordent are as rare as diamonds. But given the nature of the land (natural and supernatural) I guess it's not surprising. I'm not entirely sure where in the country I am, but I'd guess I'm about thirty miles southwest of Mordentshire. The thought of going back to my estate for a few days of rest before heading north crossed my mind, but lately I've found myself rethinking why I'm travelling on my own like this, and the methods I'm using.
Full-plate armor is fine when I know I'm going to be attacked, but lately my clothing has been chafing me thanks to this. So I dug out a suit of adamantine armor of the celestial batallion I'd found earlier in my years and largely forgotten about inside of a bag of holding. While digging I also came across the rod of stalking I found at the Ashmond Estate and an enchanted silver mask I once wore as part of a nom de plume. Once the name the Silver Mask struck terror into the hearts of the wicked; then he gets himself enslaved by demons and turned into a succubus goddess's toy! Talk about ignoble defeats.
I don't quite know if I'll resurrect my alter ego just yet, but the chainmail will be a nice replacement for my full-plate. At least I won't get those odd looks from folks anymore, and it's a lot easier to move in. Plus I guess it would be wise to actually use the rod; I'm so used to seeing invisible things I forget that not everyone else can do the same. Ah, I'm getting old and forgetful in six centuries of life.
As for why I do this, I only had to reopen the holy writs of my goddess and reaffirm my beliefs that I'm making a difference. I might not change the world or even take down a single bureaucrat. But as long as I can pass the flame of righteousness on to another, I've done well. With that in mind I slept without trouble for the first time in a week.
Then this morning my journey took a turn. I was following signs of civilization when I heard a scream. Off in the distance was a fancy carriage turned on its side, along with the horses still hooked up and struggling to get back up and a dead driver. Judging by the wounds and some hairs I found I was on the trail of a lycanthrope. I hate those things; in other worlds they're almost universally vulnerable to silver, but here they're vulnerabilities run the gamut from wood to stone to other metals. I have a hard time keeping things straight.
Among the moss-covered trees I saw a werewolf attack a young woman in a fancy dress--only not with its claws or teeth. Instead it gave her a backhand and began devouring the corpse of a young man. It was too distracted to see me as it gorged itself. So I drew my bow and pulled, an arrow forming as I pulled the string back. The wound was little more than a graze, yet the thing fell over dead as the magic snuffed out its life force. I sometimes ask why solars use such lethal weapons, but there's no doubting their efficacy. In its place was a young woman, nude except for a locket, and covered in all manner of bruises and half-healed cuts.
The girl was unconscious but alive. So I grabbed her and carried her back to the carriage. I calmed both animals and cut them free of their reins, curing a broken leg on one as well. Then I put the girl on one and rode the other back into town. Apparently that was where the carriage was headed, because the locals recognized the horses and the girl.
Everyone was calling me "Joshua" and asking me what happened to Eileen, where the carriage was, why I was wearing such, what happened on the way. When I spoke they asked if I'd hit my head or something. Clearly I was being mistaken for someone else and it took me nearly a minute to get the crowd to settle down enough to explain the reality. I expected them to react as they did and patiently waited until a search party returned with news of their findings.
Locked in a wrought iron cell I sat and listened as the lurid details of the site were told by five different people. One of the party was a ranger, and she could confirm my story that the nude corpse was a werewolf. A tuft of hair allowed her to use magic to get a vision of the creature, and the claw marks on the two male bodies matched those of a large wolf-like creature. Plus she recognized the nude woman. It was one of Eileen's maids and she'd been acting strangely for weeks. Whispers of lycanthropy had made the rounds, but no evidence had been found until that incident.
Then that exact same ranger recognized me. She'd heard of me and my work with Rudolph van Richten. It had to be a blessing of Ezra that I was there at the right time. Personally I think it's just a coincidence. Still I am a paladin and can't turn down an honest plea for help. One day that attitude is going to get me killed.
(End transcript)
From an early point I just knew it was going to be "one of those days." Upon waking this morning I stepped on a rotten piece of the floor and my foot fell through. It was painful enough getting it dislodged, but then I found an inch long sliver buried under my flesh once I did get my foot free. From that point on I was watching where I stepped all day.
As I came down the stairs of the inn I was told that Eileen wanted to meet me in person. That was going to be where I started, so I thought it was a bit of luck. When I arrived at her family's estate I was greeted by her mother--an attractive older woman in a dress of midnight; Helena Weathermay, cousin to Lord Jules. Despite the friendly smile the crystal that is my left eye could see her heart was blacker than her clothing. Even as she made friendly chat I sensed she wasn't happy to meet me; quite the opposite, really. Her contempt seemed to be barely contained.
When I told her why I'd come she revealed some of her true colors. Her shrill voice called every name in the book and then some even as she accused me of trying to take advantage of a widow--and I don't think she meant her daughter. The woman was almost foaming at the mouth when she slammed the heavy wood doors on me and told me never to come back. For a minute I just stood there in shock. I've met such hateful and unpleasant people in the past, but you never do get used to it.
Editor's Note: I remember our grandfather telling us about his cousin Helena when we were little girls. My sister and I could scarcely believe that such a spiteful woman was related to us. These journals also answer some questions regarding what happened to this branch of our family. My but Monsieur "Archer" gets around. -- Laurie Weathermay-Foxgrove
As I was leaving a maid came up to me and told me to wait in my room at the inn. Her "mistress" would meet me there later. That was fine with me. I never wanted to meet that vile woman again if I could help it.
An hour later, as I was talking with some of the locals on the first floor bar, I saw someone in a voluminous, hooded black cloak come in and proceed upstairs. It wasn't hard to guess who this was, so I took my leave and went up to meet with the girl I'd saved. I guess I gave her a start when I entered the room since she jumped and drew a silver dagger. But even that didn't compare to the utter look of awe on her face when she saw me.
Eileen Weathermay-Smythe turned out to be the exact opposite of her mother. She was just as beautiful inside as she was outside, an innocent in a horrid event. My heart melted and I wanted to do anything I could to protect her, to comfort her and help her through this ghastly time. In her eyes I saw she wanted to reciprocate those feelings, though I wonder if it wasn't merely emotional vulnerability and the fact I looked almost exactly like her dead husband.
She told me what had happened on the road. She and her newlywed husband were on their way towards Richemulot for their honeymoon. These were two very much in love with each other and she looked forward to starting a new life with him. But not an hour on the road passed before their carriage was tipped over violently and the growl of a giant animal came out of the woods. Their driver did his best to hold it off while they ran, but soon it caught up with them and killed her husband with a single talon across his throat. That was when she tried to run to him and the creature smacked her and knocked her unconscious. This was where I came in.
The fact it was one of her household's maids was even more of a shock. She had noticed the changes in the woman--as well as others on the staff--but never once guessed it could be lycanthropy. I told her that was an observation best kept secret for now, but she should lock her door and windows at night. At this point I picked up the dagger she'd dropped and handed it back to her; she'd need it more than me if she was even half-right.
Our meeting was cut short when a commotion broke out downstairs. Her own mother had come in search of her daughter. Despite being twenty-years-old and married, Eileen knew her mother would beat her mercilessly if she got caught with me. I told her I'd meet her later that night and used the rod to turn utterly invisible. Then I watched as her mother barged in, yelling and swearing profanities that would make sailors blush. Her arguments were based on Eileen's need for rest, but I sensed she didn't want anyone getting too close to her daughter. Clearly this woman was up to something. But what I don't know. Since she was "alone" her mother just ordered her to return to her room and not come out. But then the woman did something strange; she sniffed the air and investigated where I'd sat as I talked with her daughter with her nose.
At the time I thought it strange, but now I realize she was getting my scent as a dog or a wolf might. A werewolf maid, a possessive mother, an attack on the carriage just outside of town, it was pretty obvious what was going on. This woman was a werewolf herself, though she clearly hadn't infected her offspring. So that meant she was likely an afflicted lycanthrope since the disease would be spread to those she birthed. So that explained why the beast attacked and what was going on with the staff.
But why she would be so adamant about keeping her daughter isolated was a question I couldn't answer. And why would she want her son-in-law killed by one of her progeny the same day as the wedding? There wasn't even time to consumate the marriage. Wouldn't she at least want a grandchild to further the bloodline?
To get the answers I just knew I'd have to contact Joshua Smythe's family. I hear that messengers were sent and they're due in a day. This should shed a bit of light on what in the Nine Hells is going on.
(End transcript)
Having observed her mother's...ability, I chose to meet Eileen in her estate's garden. To further obscure the woman's bizarrely heightened sense of smell I used an alchemical compound of charcoal to neutralize any odors I might have. I hate having to ask her about her mother's possible lycanthrope, but so far Eileen is the only one who can help me figure this out.
Once I showed up at her window, to say she was happy to see me would be an understatement. I've become the one beacon of light in her world ever since the attack. And everytime I see her I just get this overwhelming desire to hold her tight. The first rule of investigation is, "don't get personally involved." Seems that I've broken that rule and danced on top of its grave in this instance. My religion demands I comfort those in pain, be it physical or emotional, and I must admit I find Eileen attractive on many levels. But if I'm going to find out what happened--likely even save her life--I have to remain neutral.
Like I said, it was going to be "one of those days." I step on a rotten floor and get a huge sliver in my foot, I get my head bitten off by a nasty woman, that same woman disrupts my investigations, and now I find myself falling for the victim. Plus it was only nine at night; there was still three time for something else to go wrong.
I had to carry her down to the ground, a not unpleasant experience. Once in the garden I bit my lip and asked her the hard question about her mother. I'd expected her reaction to be a lot more vocal than it was. Instead of getting upset or even angry she just lowered her head and said she thought the same thing. Apparently she'd suspected the same thing for several years. In the past her mother wasn't exactly a paragon of sweetness, but over the past seven she'd become worse. More vindictive, more cruel, just...worse. If that wasn't bad enough, her secret habit of bedding the household staff was getting out of control. It is possible to spread lycanthropy through intimate contact, so I wonder if she isn't doing this to intentionally infect them.
It was when I changed the subject to her late husband that she broke down. Without thinking I held her in my arms as she told me about the horrible relationship he'd had with her mother. By her accounts the man was the nicest person you could ever meet. Yet Helena found fault with everthing he did and said things so vile her daughter dared not repeat them. Yet after two years of courtship she agreed to let them be wed; apparently Joshua came from a wealthy merchant family and stood to inherit a rather large sum of money as well as a controlling portion of a thriving sea trade company as soon as he married. Suddenly things began to make a lot more sense to me; Helena just wanted the inheritance her daughter would receive when her husband died--even if it was mere hours after the wedding.
Law isn't a formalized affair in Mordent, at least beyond the basics. This would be ugly when the Smythes arrived and learned what happened. There was going to be an ugly battle over who got control of Joshua's inheritance. Legally it was Eileen's, but if it was merely an oral contract it can't be held as binding in court. Further muddying the water is Helena's lycanthropy and her obvious involvement in her son-in-law's demise, though no one but myself and Eileen know that bit. I'd have to find out when she was infected and who did it to go any further.
When I went to leave she asked me to stay. She didn't want to be alone. My heart was being torn in two. As much as I wanted to stay, to hold her and feel her next to me, I just knew I couldn't. Not as long as she was still under her mother's thumb. That was shen she mentioned Ezra being unfair, and I hit on idea. My relations with the Mordentish See of Ezra are cordial if minimal but I am recognized as an ally of the church. There's a little-known law that states individuals can be taken under the personal protection of someone affiliated with the faith. This isn't hard law but the locals are just as faithful as others, and if the local temple recognizes my claim to take Eileen into protection then the mayor and sheriff will likely follow suit. Helena won't be able to say no without risking the locals' wrath, or endangering her chances of getting Joshua's inheritance in the local court.
Once I know Eileen is safe I can begin to find out what in the world is going on with her mother. I don't dare tell anyone my suspicions, but are likely legends or rumors of lycanthropes nearby. Those are good a place as any to start. Another lead is that silver dagger Eileen was carrying; she claims that her mother once used it, but then one day gave it to her "as a precaution." If I can find a half-decent diviner I'll be good to go.
(End transcript)
Toret Phillips granted my request of sanctuary for Eileen, though not in the way I'd thought. Whatever went on between the two when I left the rectory is likely the main reason. I can't really argue with his logic on this, but it is a hindrance to me in my investigations.
Eileen Weathermay-Smythe will be granted asylum so long as I am at her side at all times.
The Toret's argument was that she would be safer in the presence of a holy knight and hardened warrior than among simple clergy. I'd have to agree with him. Most of the clerics here aren't actually spellcasters and they have no weapons with which to defend themselves. He also pointed out that, if there was an attack, it would be directed at Eileen and her presence would put the lives of others in danger if I weren't present to help. So where she goes, I go. Or vice versa.
While Eileen was unpacking in her simple room I asked the Toret about any rumors of lycanthropes around in the past. His reaction was to go silent for a minute before calling me into his rectory to speak in private. Six years ago a servant in the Weathermay household came and confessed something. She'd followed Helena into a nearby glen with a cave. There she heard voices and then a growl and her mistress gasping. Moments later a guttural voice asked if "that's what she wanted" to which she replied "yes." Then there was a yelp like a wounded dog. A minute later Helena came back out, a bite on her arm and her clothing and face covered in spatters of blood. In her hand was a silver dagger also covered in blood.
Since that time he's watched her grow darker in spirit. At first she was rather spontaneous in her newfound cruelty, chaotic in manner and action. After months she seemed to regain some control over her temper and behavior, though she was ordering a lot of raw meat from a local butcher. Three years ago the orders dropped to half the usual amount, and a year ago to half of that. It was late last year that some of the staff began to show similar symptoms to her earlier ones. This time there was no increase in orders of meat; I believe Helena has gone to outside sources to obtain her staff's newfound dietary requirements. This would make it harder to trace the line of lycanthropes back to her unless one knew what to look for.
In regards to Eileen, the Toret added that Helena has been oddly...jealous of her daughter, as he put it. Jealous that Eileen was just coming into the bloom of womanhood while she was beginning to see the marks of age and the flower of her life wilt as time ran out. He shared my suspicions that Helena had her own son-in-law killed, perhaps as much to hurt her own daughter as to gain an inheritance for her estate. This story just got better and better.
Eileen knocked on the door just after that and disrupted our chat. She was ready to go about town for a while, something she'd never been able to do in her mother's house. It was a real novelty for her to be able to go about like a normal person, I must admit. She dragged me around for hours before she agreed to accompany me on an errand. I hated to take her to the glen, but she has just as much right to know as anyone.
There was a cave with the bones of a human inside. Judging by the moss I'd say they'd been there a few years at least. The following is what I could get from the remains.
Alexander Dreamfire: Are you the one that infected Helena Weathermay with lycanthropy?
Harold Washer: Yes, it was me, Harold Washer.
AD: Why did you infect her?
HW: She asked me to.
AD: Why did she want to be infected with lycanthropy?
HW: She said she wanted to be my bride. It's lonely being a werebeast and I thought she honestly loved me. Only she betrayed me.
AD: Betrayed you?
HW: Yes. Soon after I bit her arm, she plunged a dagger of silver coated in wolfsbane oil right into my heart. I was as good as dead already, but she then stabbed me several more times just to make sure.
AD: Then she can be cured? With your death?
HW: No. She has followed the path of a moonchild. She's learned to control the inner beast so much they have become one. She is a pure-blooded werewolf now. I knew someone would come someday, and I've waited to tell the story. We are of the same bloodline now, me and her. I could control the changes of my progeny and so can she. But she is just as vulnerable to silver and wolfsbane as I was. Go, destroy my greatest mistake. I've paid for my ignorance and regret everything I've done. I will gladly burn, if I know she will be joining me in hell.
I thought the voice had been just in my mind, but apparently Eileen had heard it too. She was holding herself and shaking uncontrollably. It wasn't so much the shock of the dead speaking, but of learning the awful truth about her mother. For several minutes she just leaned into me and cried uncontrollably. She wasn't stupid and easily put the pieces together. It wasn't enough that she hide her daughter like some leper, but she had to go and kill the only person she'd grown close to as well?
We returned in town just in time to see Franklin Smythe and his aide ride into town. He wasn't even willing to rest a bit before he got down to the business of seeing his son's body and finding out exactly what happened and who was involved. I could see wrath in his eyes when he saw Eileen; he must blame her for his son's death. So I led her back to the church, rushing her inside so I could deal with her father-in-law.
He was raving, demanding to see her. But after what she'd just been through I didn't want to subject her to this madman's rage. Heated words between me and him soon turned to fists when he tried to sucker punch me in the gut. The mail under my clothes stopped his attack cold, and I reacted by laying him out with a hand between his neck and shoulder blade. Maybe after he'd cooled off we could sort things out. His aide was quick to pick him up, and paid me a visit an hour later.
The younger man proved more reasonable, and listened in stunned silence as I related all that I knew. He didn't look surprised; the Smythe family had known of Helena's dark character for some time. To learn she had turned herself into a werewolf wasn't much of a stretch. The theory I was working on about killing her own son-in-law just after the wedding to spite her daughter and collect an inheritance just fit too well. It was clear what had to be done, but first I wanted to settle the legal affairs. If I could get Sir Franklin to agree that only Eileen receive the inheritance then she could be independent of that vile witch. Helena's reaction would likely be violent, and if push came to shove I'd drive the same dagger she killed Washer with into her heart.
By the time we had settled everything it was well past dusk. Eileen had been waiting for me the whole time, reading one of the many books in her room. If I was going to be by her side through this, she demanded that I also stay in bed with her as she slept. This time she wouldn't take no for an answer.
Editor's Note: My sister insisted we edit out the remaining paragraph, even though it sheds much light on Alexander as a man and an "outsider." She was flatly uncomfortable with the content while I found it a bit romantic. Suffice to say that Eileen got what she'd wanted--to know the love of a man. Laurie Weathermay-Foxgrove
(End transcript)
After being up all night I was not in the greatest of moods. Yet I still had to meet with Franklin Smythe. Aside from a stiff neck he was more like himself that morning. I explained what I knew, including Helena's lycanthropy and the possible motive for his son's murder. No parent should outlive a child and I didn't fault him for crying. This was going to make the funeral that day even more bitter for him. But the truth, like surgery, hurts. But it also heals.
Rain fell as the bodies of the maid and carriage driver were buried and given funerary rites. Joshua's body was blessed and placed in a casket for transfer back to his family estate and burial in the ancestral plot. The undertaker did an excellent job of hiding the worst of the injuries and making it seem as if the poor lad hadn't been decapitated. Franklin Smythe wept anew after seeing his son. It was good that he as grieving. Once Helena was exposed and executed he could truly begin to recover. And it was at the funeral that I popped the surprise on her--without even having to do anything, it turns out.
Joshua had been an adventurer for a couple of years, a swordsman of some skill who had come to recognize the telltale signs of lycanthropy. He dictated a will before his wedding in dread suspicion that his mother-in-law-to-be was going to have him killed for his money. She certainly hadn't hidden her true motive for allowing the marriage and he was clever enough to suss her out. So he did what I had planned on doing; all of his inheritance was to be put into his bride's care and her care only. This was in addition to a brand new house in Northrup near the Dementlieu border and a full staff. Her mother was not to be allowed one copper of the inheritance or to be allowed near the new home.
Helena was livid. She tore a silk handkerchief in two even as she screamed--an animalistic howl that set my hackles on end. Soon there was a cracking like bone and she began to transform right then and there. I've seen a werebeast change, but the sight still makes me sick to my stomach. To see and hear bones and muscles reshape themselves like that...it's hideous!
She was in hybrid form, covered in the tatters of her black dress, when she lunged for her own daughter. I managed to step in between them, but Helena knocked the silver dagger from my hand. Next thing I know my clothing has been shredded and blood was oozing from under my my armor. No one else there was any match for this beast, so I had to grapple her. She retaliated by trying to tear my throat out with her teeth and managed to bite my shoulders. The feast of oblivion spell I had cast months earlier was still active in my blood and she'd made a point of swallowing some. That proved a fatal mistake.
We were locked in hand-to-hand combat, only by now I was beginning to see double from blood loss. Had I been wearing silver gauntlets I might have done more to actually hurt her. As was I couldn't even scratch her. Even when I managed to punch her right in the muzzle, she shook it off and knocked me to the ground. She was going for the kill this time and all I could do was hold her back with both hands. Still she came in closer and closer and I could smell the carrion on her breath. For a few seconds I honestly thought I was going to die.
Then she let go of me and clutched her stomach. I wriggled out from under her and she began to retch violently. The spell was finally taking effect. In terrible pain I just crawled away and watched. That was when Eileen made her move, clutching the silver dagger coated in wolfsbane oil. All the anger and hate she felt towards her mother, all the times she'd been hurt by the one person that was supposed to love her more than anything else, it was all there in her eyes.
I just watched as she drove the dagger right into her mother's heart. There was a loud yelp and beast began coughing up blood even as she slowly changed back into human form. No doubt the knife had punctured her lung so she couldn't even speak. Instead she just reached out to Eileen and heaved once before collapsing, dead. It took Eileen a moment to realize what she'd done, but I knew she didn't regret it. Her only concern was me and she ran to my side. I managed to croak out a few words of comfort before I felt my consciousness slip away.
The next thing I knew I was surrounded by the locals, a cleric healing my wounds. Eileen was ecstatic that I was still alive, and my abilities as a paladin assured the rest I wasn't infected. Not that I could be infected even if I wasn't a holy knight. Already half a dozen staff had begged for the clerics of the temple to cure them of their own curses. One other ran off into the surrounding woods and wasn't found. I don't think he'll return to Miller Creek anytime soon, but I do think he'll turn up again once the hunger takes over.
Eileen is safe, the murders have been solved, and Helena Weathermay has been punished for her crimes. In a gesture of regret, Eileen gave the town her old estate and told them to use it to help themselves recover from this trauma. The church has already asked to turn it into a grand library and hospital. I found that fitting, really.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Northrup, Mordent, Apr. 4, 725 BC)
I accompanied Eileen and the Smythe party back to a town called Helan where Joshua was finally given a proper burial. His bride finally realized that her husband was gone at this point and broke down, finally beginning to grieve herself. Her attatchment to me wasn't healthy, but I did grant her request of one last night together.
We arrived at her new home earlier today and I helped her begin to move in. This is where we part ways. As sad as she was to see me go, and I to leave her, we both know this is for the best. She has her own life to live, while I'm bound by a code to help others in need. I do plan on visiting her in the next few years, and she's made it clear I'm welcome in her household any time.
Being this close to the Dementlieu border I decided it was time to head north and see what I could do. For now I'm resting in a guest room in the new Weathermay-Smythe estate. Even if the physical wounds have healed, the past few days will be burned into my memory forever.
(End transcript)
I arrived in Port-a-Lucine about noon via carriage. Almost immediately I was approached by an aristocract wearing a coat made of the finest crushsed velvet with buttons of solid gold. He seemed to be taken by the unique style of my clothing; in reality I had simply altered my appearance and clothing using my abilities. I may have inadvertently hit on the "next big thing" for the fashion-conscious nobility of the realm. I'd heard that the Dementlieuese were shallow, but this was ridiculous.
Before I could even get a word in I was being escorted around town to various high-class taverns and even a gentlemen's club. Nothing I saw was too surprising; prostitution, poor treatment of lower classes, indulgence of snuff and strong alcohol, nothing that wouldn't persist in one way or another even if I tried to clean it up. "Change what you can't tolerate, tolerate what you can't change."
Most folks were quite taken aback by the fact I don't--really can't--drink. "If you can't enjoy wine, monsieur," one courtesan told me, "then you can still enjoy women and song, no?"
For a gold piece she was also willing to share the pleasure of conversation. I wasn't too interested in "companionship," but I was eager to pick her brain for anything of interest. I knew part of her job was to stay abreast of any current events, if only to make a decent conversation with a customer. One of the more interesting rumors was that of a new crime boss called "The Brain."
From what I could gather this was someone possessed of quite a keen mind and possibly even psionic power from the way s/he could weed out spies and traitors with uncanny accuracy. More than once I'd heard that the Brain was literally that--a disembodied brain. I don't think it's likely, but I can't dismiss it out of hand. I've fought against brains in jars, undead monstrosities with an intellect only a lich could match. More likely, though, it was a mentalist using the affectation.
I spent the first night at the manor of my self-proclaimed friend, Michel Poriet. I've always wondered what goes on behind closed doors at night when the rich think they're secrets are safe. So I stayed up and searched. It was a rather disappointing experience since all I found were some doctored trade ledgers. Even those were done to help some group called the Noble Brotherhood of Assassins. I'd heard of them; "character assassins" would be a more fitting title. Not that too many nobles have good characters to begin with.
My host was, in fact, a rather upstanding fellow. I wonder if that's why he was so quick to approach me. Those of noble spirit are often more attracted to paladins, while those of darker character are subtly repulsed. This was a welcome twist. If he truly was one of the good guys I might have found my first ally in this nest of hypocrisy. I have got to start taking the seconds I need to see others' true colors. Even if it does give me a headache.
(End transcript)
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Port-a-Lucine, Dementlieu, Apr. 6, 725 BC)
It amazes me how little the wealthy truly know about the realities of the poor. But I was once as ignorant, too. Splitting my time between classes on courtly etiquette and skulldugery I thought I knew both worlds. It was only after I began to travel, to adventure and see the raw realities, that I realized how little I truly knew. Here I see my own naivete made manifest in the ideals of the Noble Brotherhood of Assassins. Yes, their methods work and quite well I must add. But they're only treating the symptoms.
Monsieur Poriet invited me to a party of nobles tonight, others who think that a few coppers in the church's poor box is "charitable." That rickety tenements and gruel so thin it's like water is "helping." No suffering from the pains of hunger and cold for them, no having to watch a parent or child die from illness due to malnutrition or exposure do they experience. Instead they sip fine wine and dance in clothing worth more than most peasants earn in a lifetime in manors using resources that could have sustained thousands for years in relative comfort. They pay lip-service and conveniently ignore the bloody conflicts over a scrap of food or a dry place to sleep that goes on just outside their doors.
It took all my will not to denigrate these people for their utter hypocrisy. The vast majority know what really happens; they just don't care. So long as the children in their sweatshops continue to fatten their purses with gold they're only too happy to destroy the lives of innocent people. So long as it never intrudes on their worlds they build for themselves, they just act like it doesn't exist.
Monsieur Poriet admitted he only took me there to show me how truly bad the conditions were and to get my blood boiling enough to help the NBoA in its work. Yes, I'm angry. But what good is it to humiliate the wealthy when the poor are still hungry and cold? A few members aid the poor directly, but it seems like most aren't that directly involved. I've always preferred a more direct approach. I'll aid the NBoA the same way they support the poor; I'll aid the poor directly. As for the corrupt nobles, I'll hit them where it really hurts.
It's time the Silver Mask was resurrected.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Port-a-Lucine, Dementlieu, Apr. 7, 725 BC)
The evening handbill was emblazoned with the story of the de Jule family and how doctored books to avoid paying taxes "mysteriously" turned up in the hands of the authorities. As if to add insult to injury, their entire manor was stripped clean of anything valuable. Gold candlesticks, fine silk clothing, jewelry, hidden caches of gold and silver, anything portable. This couldn't have come at a worse time. Without many liquid and hard assets to pay off the massive fines and back taxes they'll be destitute by morning. Yet the masses are more upset about the inhuman--and inhumane--practices of these morally bankrupt nobles.
I didn't do what I did because I wanted to, I did it because I had to. These were conditions worse than an Abyssal prison--and I'd know. Rotten food, bad water, eighteen-hour work days, and living quarters so unsanitary that it's a miracle the lot aren't dead of cholera or filth fever. All of the de Jule's family members knew; I watched as Katarine de Jule taunted a little girl with a piece of bread on a string just this morn and heard Gregory de Jule gloat about how his workers weren't even people. Just cogs in a machine to used and disposed of like tools.
Now the workers are receiving proper food and medical care thanks to some Halite witches that agreed to help, and they'll each receive enough money to begin a new life, drawn directly from the profits of the de Jule's goods being fenced. It isn't lawful by mortal standards, but it is lawful by cosmic ones. The de Jules will be punished in a manner fitting their crime and those who were wronged are now receiving justice. Law without goodness is not lawful.
Other paladins may question my methods and I don't blame them. Sometimes it's hard to remember that we're not beholden to laws that are unjust or that fighting evil must come before all else. When the law itself is corrupt, it is already broken. I have exposed the problem and already begun to mend the wounds. But things will not heal properly unless the broken law--like a bone--is reset and things are corrected. That is out of my hands, though. I have no control over the government, nor even the legal right to propose such as I'm not a citizen. So instead I can only stand back and wait to see what happens.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Port-a-Lucine, Dementlieu, Apr. 8, 725 BC)
Once the wheels of justice begin to turn there's no stopping them. Just this morning the de Jule family was found guilty of numerous crimes. To my non-surprise there was no mention of the mill workers. That would mean admitting to the real problem and the nobles aren't about to allow that. But slipped into the new law enacted after the trial was a minimum level of working conditions that any business had to meet. These are far from what I'd hoped for, but it's still a step in the right direction.
Beyond the trial and subsequent executions (now that I didn't feel was called for) of each family member was gossip of the person who brought it all to the surface--the Masque d'Argent. Leaving a rather large bill posted on the central boards of town usually isn't my style. I prefer a subtler approach for such work. But the symbol of the Silver Mask will give everyone something to rally around, to hold as a hope that things will get better.
For now my efforts seem to have gotten some things done as other nobles begin to treat their workers with more dignity. None of them wants to be on the chopping block next--did I really just write that? Rather, their reputations are what's on the line. Only because of magic, ki, and a few hits to the backs of the household staffs' heads--as well as the entire family going to an opera--was I able to pull this one off. Further I had to put aside whatever feelings I have for this "Brain" since it was his agents that bought the goods I stole from the de Jule manor. I doubt I could do this again on such short notice or without help, nor would I ally myself with criminals like that if I had a choice.
For now I'm tired. This experience has left me drained emotionally and I feel a little bit sick to my stomach over this whole affair. I'd say I miss the black-and-white morality lessons of my training days, but that'd be a lie. The Goddess acknowledges that, sometimes, you have to do bad things in the name of good and has empowered Her servants to do such. That still doesn't mean I have to feel good about about it.
(End transcript)
I bid adieu to Monsieur Poriet and his less-than-noble...friends. In investigating the rather extreme punishment, I found that justice wasn't served. The de Jule family was executed less for being ignoble scum and more for being enemies of the wrong person in charge. Everyone claims that it was at the order of a man named Claude d'Honaire, though a few whisper it was his son, Dominic, who really had it done. D'Honaire...I've heard the name before. I just can't quite remember where. But for now it doesn't matter. I've decided to divest myself of involvement with the "nobility" of Dementlieu and start hitting the streets directly. At least most commoners don't try and hide their baser proclivities behind a veneer of proper behavior...usually. The lies told to oneself are the often the most dangerous, after all.
Frankly I'm quite interested in finding out who this "Brain" is. More than a few of his agents didn't seem right when I met them. I'd say they were under some sort of mental influence--a spell, or maybe telepathic powers. It's hard to tell the two apart at times. I think it's the latter, if only because it would fit with his chosen epithet. But I can't be sure until I have more evidence. To get that I have to immerse myself in the criminal sub-culture. I never did like doing this. There's no way to act against the evil I see without getting myself killed, so I have to bite my tongue and gird myself for things that I'd normally not tolerate.
To that end I've been gathering all the information I can on who is who in the Dementlieuese underworld. Charles Montfried is the one most talk about as an authority, though even he serves the Brain. I was able to meet up with him briefly at a rather bawdy bar called the Dancing Lady. Among the cutthroats and thieves I noticed an unusually high number of nobles among them. This is apparently one of the stops for those seeking to indulge their unsavory tastes.
Monsieur Montfried proved quite informative, especially after two glasses of absinthe. The man thought he was being sneaky and cunning with double talk and misdirection in his wording. In truth he was unknowingly telling me all I'd wanted. Names he claimed were important weren't, while others that he played down seemed to be the most influential. I think he thought me just another bored noble looking for a cheap thrill. It was certainly a rather convenient cover that I decided to play up.
But things really got interesting only during a showing of illusions. A young elf girl put on a rather skillful display of lewd images for the crowd's pleasure. At least until one of the patrons threw a mug of beer at her and ended the show early, eliciting laughs from everyone. Now that was just plain mean and I made my displeasure known by literally throwing the thrower out the door into a pile of garbage on the street and then knocking him out cold when he rushed at me with a knife once he got free. The others gave me a light applause--until I drove his knife straight through the wood of a table to the hilt. That got the message across.
Going backstage I met up with the girl. She'd seen what I did and thanked me for standing up for her. She was humiliated by those people on a near-nightly basis. For someone to fight back on her behalf...that was as rare as gold for her. In talking with her I learned her name was Renee "Ren" Snowflower and she was originally from Darkon. She'd studied arcane magic at the University of Il Aluk and moved to Dementlieu some three months ago to try and make her fortune. But the demand for magic here is often of the entertaining variety and she was a little too generalized in knowledge. After a run-in with some thugs, Montfried himself came to her rescue. But as payment she had to either become his mistress or work in his bar until such time as he'd felt her debt was paid off.
Frankly I found that just plain unacceptable. So I did something I probably shouldn't have. I offered to help her pay off her debt right then and there. It was all she needed to hear. At the time I knew she didn't have anywhere else to go and probably couldn't make it back to Darkon on her own. So there was no real choice but to take her with me. This wasn't an arrangement she found a problem with.
Montfried did have a problem with this. He wouldn't accept any amount of money as payment and began spewing rather racist and sexist remarks. Now I had held my tongue--and stayed my hand--on many different things that day and let things slide. But this was the last straw!
We just happened to be beside the same table I drove that knife through just minutes earlier and Montfried had his hand flat on it. In the back of my mind I knew this was just going to cause trouble--now and later. But this man had pushed my buttons once too many and I lost control of my temper. Without a conscious thought I removed the knife and stabbed it through the back of his hand, then jerked it back out. He was screaming in pain even as I picked him up by his shirt told him how lucky he was I didn't just kill him. He certainly deserved to die for all his crimes, but I wanted to leave a warning to others.
That wasn't very paladin-like, I admit. It could certainly be taken in context of my code of conduct; he was wicked and I meted out a fitting punishment. But I shouldn't have lost control like that. So I'll spend tonight in prayer and ritual atonement. I have to learn to control my temper if I plan on doing this much longer. Okay, so many criminals aren't known for holding back. But I'm supposed to maintain the moral high ground. I can't do that unless I'm able to keep my cool.
Ren didn't fault for my actions. She actually laughed about it after we found an inn and had dinner. So while she spends her night taking the first real bath she's had in nearly a week I'll spend my night praying for forgiveness. I haven't lost my paladin abilities, but that's what scares me. Is this because I didn't do anything wrong by cosmic standards? Or have I begun to walk the slippery path of a blackguard?
(End transcript)
I don't quite know when I finally climbed into bed. All I know it was pretty late and I was exhausted. This place is a crucible for those who question their own motives. There are no divine voices to guide you from the path of evil, only one's own moral compass. That scares me. I'm immortal, yes. But I'm still fallible. I've fallen countless times before for seemingly lesser crimes than the unprovoked assault of a rather nasty little man. In fact I wonder if it really "unprovoked." Had I not done what I did, would there have been more bloodshed when guards attacked me and Ren? A riot as other patrons were drawn in? Or was I out of line? Would Montfried have let us go had I just paid him a few golds?
Those questions and more swirled in my mind before I fell asleep, only to wake about an hour later and realize someone was in the bed with me. Since I had paid for seperate rooms for myself and Ren I assumed this was an intruder, maybe a monster trying its luck. Then I heard the giggle I'd come to know well that evening. Ren had sneaked into my room and joined me. More out of a simple desire not to be alone than anything sexual. The day had been pretty big for her and after her meditation she just wanted to be close to someone. I was too tired to argue and fell asleep once more.
After another three hours I woke up ready for a new day. Ren was still there, her head resting against my chest and her green eyes looking up at me with the glazed shine of a satisfied lover. I know that look well and what it means for me. Hopefully the infatuation will subside quickly. I don't exactly relish the idea of a committed relationship right as I'm in the middle of a journey.
When she asked me what I had planned for that day I really couldn't answer. I didn't know myself. My instincts told me it was wise to skip town for a while until Montfried cooled off--or got busted for something. I've always thought it best to take out a threat whenever discovered, and this guy would no doubt want my life as payment for his hand. Leave and let him go, or stay and get rid of a loose end?
Things were decided for me just as we were leaving the inn. Montfried was outside with four thugs, each aiming a pistol at me and Ren. Just by the way they were shaking I knew they'd fire at the smallest provocation. They were scared out of their minds and clearly out of their element. While I doubt that four pistol shots would have been lethal to me, they would have been to Ren. So I did as my old teacher always told me and let my conscious thought go as I reacted.
In less than six seconds I had disarmed each of the thugs before they could move. That broke their wills and they ran off, leaving Montfried to face me on his own. His one good hand held a pistol of his own and he fired on me, the shot piercing my clothes but smashed harmlessly against my armor. Almost as a reflex I pulled one of the pistol and fired on him, getting him between the eyes. For a moment he stood perfectly still, then fell forward dead.
Ren was scrambling to my side even as I pulled out the now-flat bullet. That she wasn't expecting and insisted on checking me for wounds. While the thought was nice, that wasn't the time. Our ruckus had alerted the gendarmerie. Questions quickly silenced when the soldiers saw who I'd fought and killed. There was apparently no love for Montfried in the government. His death was actually rewarded--five-hundred gold coins, which in turn I gave to the local temple of Ezra. All but enough to buy me and Ren one-way tickets back to Mordentshire on a carriage line. The attitudes towards humanoids isn't as open in Mordent as Dementlieu, but she can stay with me at my estate as long as she needs. Both of us have had enough of this place and this encounter was all we needed to decide it best to leave. A haunted house I can handle; a corrupt city I can't. So I'm going back to my old hunts after we return and avoiding Dementlieu in the future.
It would also give me a chance to ask about the d'Honaires back in Mordent. I know I've heard that name somewhere.
(End transcript)
I can honestly say I've never been so glad to see gloomy Mordent before. Dementlieu is an aristocratic nightmare; I could barely stomach the evils I saw committed on a regular basis. I wanted to act, to try and make some sort of difference, but I couldn't. Less because of my code as a paladin and more because of simple logistics. To change that place I would need to upheave the entire social structure. I'd be opposed by hundreds of thousands too indoctrinated or simply complacent people. I know when I can't win a fight. So I've decided to avoid the place from now on. I still want to find out more about the Brain, but that's lower on my list of priorities.
Ren has been staying at my place as she learns more about Mordent, and even scribes new spells into her spellbook from my collection of old tomes, scrolls, and papers. I've no use for them and it seems best to let her have a chance to learn something besides illusions or enchantments. Somehow I doubt that she's going to leave, though. She's been dropping hints that she'd prefer to stay on as a staff mage and could help by creating magical items for use or sale. That would be good for us both. I can create any weapon under the sun (and quite a few that aren't) but I can't enchant them; she can enchant various items but can't create them. This could work out well.
As for the d'Honaire reference I wanted to investigate, I found it. There was a scandal involving a branch of the d'Honaire nobles in Mordent back in 707. A nanny threw herself from the top of the house to her death. Officially this was declared a suicide, but not long after the same family moved north. This coincides with Dementlieu's emergence from the Mists. I doubt it's any sort of coincidence. If the one who drove this nanny to suicide is the one who was named lord of Dementlieu, then I can say justice--if rather dark--has been done.
I've also received a letter from Rudolph, who has been abroad for a while. He plans on returning to Mordentshire, but also plans on taking another trip--one he wants me to go with him on. Lately the subject of "ancient dead" has been on his mind. I don't think the Bog Monster of Hroth has left him yet. This new threat has swallowed him much like vampires did when he began his crusades. I hope he's prepared for a very different sort of monster.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, July 11, 725 BC)
This extended break has proven to be good for my nerves. I had hoped to go back to studying the secrets of Mordent's manors, but Rudolph has asked for my help in compiling, editing, and otherwise making his notes ready for publication as a book. Unfortunately they're listed among a number of other notes on werebeasts, liches, even a few ancients. The monumental task of just sorting things out will takes weeks, if not months. Going through each of the items one by one and editing will take even longer. It may well be years before he can publish his Guide to Vampires. Then there's his insatiable appetite for more knowledge, which will take us far and abroad and delay the publication even more.
Then there's the matter of a new country being discovered. Darkonian explorers recently returned with tales of a desert land where a vast sea of silt lies. Descriptions of giant ziggurats and cannibalistic, halfing-like beings ring too many bells in my mind. Only once have I trod upon the blasted world of Athas, a place I'd hoped never to see again. Arcane spellcasters there were too greedy with their magic, drawing more than was needed just to make their spells more powerful. These "defilers" sucked the planet of its life until at last the world burned and withered to dust. I remember hearing about how a city-state called Kalidnay disappeared without a trace. Has it turned up here? That would be a fitting fate for a sorcerer-king of Athas.
Ever the scholar, Rudolph has asked for me to accompany him on a trip there to find out more. I don't relish the idea but I also can't just turn him down. If this is Kalidnay, then he could be getting himself into a lot of trouble. Water or metal of any sort is worth more than life itself to many on Athas. How will this place have warped the Kalidnayians?
(End transcript)
The trip to Kalidnay has been postponed for a while, much to my relief. I was not looking forward to the trip at all. There are just too many bad memories associated with Athas and I'd prefer to avoid going back there--especially if a part of it has been brought here. But this trip may be worse than the one I was going to take.
Rudolph recently received a letter from Jameld of Hroth, asking for his help in investigating a bizarre series of killings along the Merchant's Way from Kartakass to Sithicus. I offered to go in his stead and see what was going on for myself. Things started out bad, with my Vistani escorts only taking me to the border of Sithicus in southern Invidia. I would have to march the rest of the way to town myself. That included a pass by an old tower, where elven soldiers ran out to confront me and demand a tax "in the name of Lord Soth."
There's a name I'd rather not hear. Loren Soth, the Black Rose who failed to stop the priest-king of Istar and forced the Cataclysm when the balance was upset. A death knight and blackguard cursed to live each life he failed to save. And a petty, jealous man who refused to save a child. His own son! There are no mortal words strong enough to describe how much I hate him. If he's trapped here with me I will gladly die if I can take him with me into true death.
But I'm not a fool. One death knight I can destroy; an entire army is another story. So I paid the tax and let them be. I should have known Soth would be here, but my first priority was to hook up with Jameld in Har-Thelen and see to this Merchant's Way business. The haughty, almost arrogant attitudes of the Krynnish elves has not been reduced any. Strangely they don't call themselves Silvanesti or Qualinesti, but something like Kalinesti--Children of the Twilight, if I'm translating it right. Many insist it means "Dawn," but I think Twilight is more fitting. Certainly, they seem to be a people in the twighlight years of their civilization.
Jameld met me in the town square and proved to be just as gruff and condescending as Rudolph said. If this is indicative of my stay here I'll be very happy to finish this ASAP.
(Exerpts from the journal of Alexander Dreamfire, Har-Thelen, Sithicus, May 4, 725 BC)
Jameld and I staked out the Merchant's Way after sunset. He proved to be quite good at tracking down signs of our quarry. Towards morning we came upon a child-sized being kneeling over a young elf girl. When it turned I saw a sight I can't forgive: a kender vampire! The kender are the innocents of Krynn, a child race my own people have had a rapport with since their genesis at the hands of the Graygem. This was like someone turning my own child into an undead creature, never mind that I'm not a father! Suddenly I had an idea of how Rudolph felt, and I understood the raw and unbridled hate that had fueled his early years. I had one thought: destroy this thing I saw.
From there it's a blank until I awoke in someone's house. Jameld was watching me closely as I lay in a bed, covered by fine quilts. He seemed to be relieved I was okay. But I could also see concern and fear in his eyes. As he explain what happened, I understood why.
Jameld watched as my very appearance began to change, my skin taking on a silver sheen and my eyes glowing bright white. Suddenly I charged the vampire and began to tear at it barehanded, tearing the thing's head off with inhuman strength. The noise attracted three more vampiric kender and I had to wrestle them off of me, crushing one's skull against a tree and dragging the other two out into the rising dawn sun--a hand around each one's neck until they turned to ash in the light. At that point I passed out.
Jameld gathered others to carry me and the girl back to town, where a cleric of Paladine healed her and, after removing my cloak, divined my true nature. It was one thing to have a human in their midst, but quite another to have a true celestial. He asked that everyone keep it quiet, but word began to get around not long after. I found this out when once-arrogant and haughty elves suddenly made a big deal about stepping aside and paying respect. This was probably the worst thing that could happen.
At the temple of Paladine I was greeted by the priesthood and escorted to the deacon. He made it clear that my presence was a danger to everyone in the town. If Soth or his seneschael, Azrael Dak, got word I would be hunted down. Anyone around me would likely suffer from their attention as well, so it was best that I leave. I had to agree. I'm staying just long enough to gather a few leads on where these...things are coming from. No one is sure, but the general consensus is that Soth is responsible.
That leaves the forests near the Merchant's Way as my only other source of information. Besides, I need time alone to reflect and figure out just what happened to me. I haven't lost control of my temper like that in decades, and I've never...changed. What is going on!?
(End transcript)