Reader, I wish for us to pause here. I address you as reader, for what else can I know you by? In truth, I began this record with never the intention of being read, only for my own benefit. And what benefit is that? Now it cannot be to help me remember, for some of the things you have read herein will never leave me… do never leave me, they haunt me in waking nightmares.
But now, I have come to think that this, one day, will be the only thing that survives me. Survives of me. And it is my hope, reader, that what you find within will have been, and will be learningful. That my mistakes will not be your mistakes, and that through receiving the knowledge I impart, you will not have to suffer for it as I have.
I ask we consider the measure of the author. Can we understand their works without knowing of them? This is called critical reading, and it is an important lesson, for it will help you sort the wheat from the chaff I have written.
Taken by years, I lived most of my life not in service to the Church, only service to myself, though I thought it service to my country and to the common good. This is the Dementlieuse delusion, as an interesting aside – a veneer of patrician benevolence over a selfish core.
Taken by experience, however, I have ‘lived’ in my service to the Church, and my meaning by this is twofold – I have been more fulfilled by my labours, and I have seen more horror – and this is the dicotemy of living – joy, and fear.
I have sought a noble spirit in my undertakings, and at times this is painful. I have done terrible things, and it is perhaps to my credit that I feel ill-at-ease with having done them, but be warned; I do not regret them. I will never regret them.
Once in Vallaki I murdered a man. Though know, he was not a man, but a beast wearing the skin of a man. His wife was dead, by his own hands, and he feared, rightly, for his children. A simple Barovian man, turned by the Beast that Rends, and so that he became. I stabbed him through the heart – he was already dead, that man, only the beast behind his eyes died.
What I did to Valio the Red Wizard no-one could regret. If I close my eyes, and recollect, I can hear the soft pop of his oesophagus under my fingers. But it was ignoble; I satisfied only my own dark desires in this; after what he had done to me, I wished to make him suffer even a tenth of what he had done to me.
Juste Moreaux was another ugly crime. I could have blamed it upon Veritas; but that would be cowardice. He was a simpleton, seduced by Marle’s bright light like all the others. That was his only real crime – but his death was nessecary. I dispatched him by pistol, in the manner befitting Dementlieuese men, and in him died a symbol of the waning strength of the Church.
And so Lilas Wurtbeich is only the last in this line. I took no small satisfaction in his murder – as you have no doubt read.
And so this is my lot. I am a man without conscience. Such men are required by the Church to take upon their breast crimes so terrible and horrible that it would shatter the faith and fortitude of the righteous and the good. I take that to be my authority – outstripping my obligation to my mentor, the Bastion, the Praesidius – for they too are corrupted by knowledge. I serve the common faithful of Ezra, I protect them from what they should never have to entertain.
To be such a bright, damned instrument, must condemn me to a lonesome existence? Only part truth. I have few friends within the Church – there are few I can trust enough to call friends. Toret Severin, certainly, who is proven of character and is aware of his own power – like many Anchorites, but unusually his responsibility, which sets him apart. Grevis Sinovia, in who I have a kindred spirit – born to suffer for no reason other than as punishment for virtue. Not even my mentor I consider amongst friends – he is more a glimpse into the future; I can see what I will become. A broken, frightened old man.
Then there are those that know my secret shame. Nara’ia, Sofiya, Tarinyar, Mihas, and those who serve the same cause as I, though not in name, or goal, but in spirit – the Weathermay clan, Arthur, Alanik, Giles.. Perhaps I am lucky to count on two hands people I could trust with my life – demands as stringest and frequent as these forge hard friends fast, I believe.
I admire these people. George, Laurie-May and Gennifer gave up a life of comfort in order to pursue Van Richten’s model. Nara’ia, who has suffered so much.. for no promise of reward, only as her heart commands. Mihas who has overcome his worse nature and found service in a higher goal. Tarinyar, who puts aside her own wants and comforts when it is needed. Sofiya most of all, who will never have what she wants, but keeps trying nonetheless.
Then there is Absalom Nightlyre. Would I count the duplicitous dimutive amongst my friends? He is, was, like Tredow I think – a noble spirit straining against ignoble nature. I think, at the final test, Absalom was proven to be someone I cared for… although he never lived to see it.
They are stronger than I, reader, so know what is written here has never been my work alone. They are not stronger in that they are more skilled, faster, wiser or of more intelligence – although many are in their measures – but it is because they have been called to the goodly labours without my faith. They have witnessed and struggled though the same horrors as I, without faith. I am no coward, but I am not them.
And so now, reader, do you have a portrait of your author? Does it show you a man consumed by heresies; suspicious of every clue, paranoid of what lurks in every shadowy corner? It should. This is what lies in the shadow of the bright lights of my life. I cannot put stock in my leaders; spiritual or political, for I know too much of their connections, their lies and cover-ups to trust them. I am alone in a brother-and-sisterhood of people similarly trapped between their aspirational hearts and the horrible moral blackness that surrounds and attacks us every waking moment.
There is a passage I once read in the library of the Societee des Erudites in Port-a-Lucine. Its providence I am not aware of, but to whomsever spoke it, I feel a great affinity.
What a piece of work is a man. How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty. In motion how express and admirable. In how like an angel, in apprehension, how like a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals. But what is this quintessence of dust? Nothing but a mixture of foul and pestilent vapours. Man delights not me.
When you read of me, know that when I speak highly of my comrades, and lowly of my enemies. When I express fear, or elation, or suspense or apprehension.. know the texture, and rawness of those feelings.
And so, dear reader, go back to the beginning, and read of this journal again. And as you do so, perhaps you will see what happened to the bright young doctor from Port-a-Lucine, and how he became this wretch. Then read on, and remember the portrait I have painted for you here, and wonder again, how this man became whatever awaits you at the end – what I will become.
What I will become, with only faith, duty and devotion as my guide.
Of this..
…
..Of this.. above all things.. above Drigor, above Strahd von Zarovich, Dominic D’Honaire and Azalin Rex, The Gentleman Caller.. above Isolde, and Meisser and Rowley and Noirgrim and LeRochenoire. Above Madame Eva, and the ruins of Zeklos. Above Dulocq and the Temptress herself.. I fear this.
And I am afraid.
