It is not safe. And so I have taken flight. Into the arms of the greater enemy - not in person but in ideology. Is that an irony? Perhaps it is best, thereby, that Barovia, and Barovia's troubles, and Barovia's frustrations are no distraction any longer; but they are not far behind me. And I am glad of it; that with impetus does my mind clarify.
For I have had a thought.
What if I have been mistaken? What if, in my inquiries I have done myself an injury, in ignoring something of, yes, simplicity.. but perhaps more complex than we can understand. What great discoveries have been made from leaps of the mysterious engine of human insight? Moreover, what has been lost, or failed to be discovered through ignoring it?
The pen stalls upon paper, as the author's thoughts drift a moment.
Trees. A clearing in a copse, the season is indeterminate, as is much of the surroundings. Though it is day, if only just, sunlight shaded in pastel blues and greys of morning; mists, thick and broad hide all but the camp. A Vistani caravan. Bright vardos, the roaring fire. In his mind's eye, the Inquisitor sees himself, picking his way unsteadily through the weeds and bush and thorns of the underbrush, confused, disoriented, trailing blood on the green, lush leaves, dewy mist spraying as he blunder through. The proud Ezrite-green of his armour stained by his arteries. He steadies himself.. but movement; amongst the wary, aquine features of the Vistani men; the desperate avoidance of the women.. a child, she approaches, and takes the bleeding and weak memory-author by the hand, leading him into the mist once more..
'Come, she is waiting for you.'
Memory dissolves, and then resolves. A different scene. Stacks of books and oddities and curiosities, a vaulted ceiling. The light is ample to read by. The memory of the Inquisitor is sat at one of the many cluttered tables, across from him a man much his senior, threadbare tan coat, heavily-bearded face poking from beneath his hat, lines and creases in his face that read as a map of many years of burden. He is sharing a book with the memory-inquisitor, the succubus that did fool an Anchorite through not but his faith...
A shack - hot and humid, the sounds of insects and amphibians beyond croaking and chirruping in the night. Tallow candles light the room, barely masking the smell of the men that dwell here. One of them lies dead, upon the floor, at the feet of a man who wears an approximation of the robes of an Anchorite. He speaks in creole, the memory-Inquisitor makes decent attempt to translate. There is a gun to the Sourangian native's head. He tells the memory-Inquisitor to shoot him, if he must, if that is what must happen.. he tells him he has the wrong man...
An oubliette of mind and memory, some dark non-place too cloaked in mists. The Bastion is there; she tells the memory-Inquisitor she is dead, that the blood is on his hands.. but then, something different; some terrible, sensuous apparition . She calls to him, to embrace sin..
Night in Port-a-Lucine - black-clad and hooded two men converse. The memory-Inquisitor does beg with the other to release his information.. 'Dulocq', he is told...
My man is in Lekvarest
