~ luctor et emergo ~ | Edith Bertrand [Complete]

[emptyanima]

Née Farthingale

Click image for portrait link.
[1]

Name: Edith Bertrand
Meaning: Blessed War; Intelligent/Raven
Age: 24 Yrs - Deceased.
Race: Human
Religion: The Divinity of Mankind

Broken Vessel, Troubled Spirit, Mother
Origin: Paridon, Zherisian Cluster (Ravenloft Native)

'I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.' ~ Charlotte Brontë (Jane Eyre)

Edith's Story: Part 1:    
♦️ The Scholar's Suitor ♦️ (Edith Farthingale: Her Past)

Crimson Peak ~ Edith's Theme - Fernando Velázquez

Someday We'll Linger in the Sun - Gaelynn Lea - Franz Kubel/Farthingale/Bertrand

1.

maril1

[emptyanima]

[Edith has on her person, at all times, a collection of notes, letters and other personal clippings, bound almost scrapbook-fashion into a portfolio. Her cursive handwriting is visible on almost every page.]

Consider that Man is tripartite; the mind, the body and the soul work in tandem, in a manner comparable to the cogs behind the clock face. Consider that the mind is known by and through our contemplation, for to know the mind is to examine it with its own self. And while one can take steps to guess at the mind of another, the only person one can ever truly know is oneself. I shall return to that point in a moment.

Consider next the body, one's flesh and bone, the vessel that contains the mind and the soul, but is also equipped with the tools needed to examine the world. It is itself, however, a facet of personhood - a large part of one's idea of oneself stems from what can be touched and felt, what can be seen. For it is by our eyes that we see, and then by process of thought that we comprehend, and by process of soul that the experience may edify us, the three elements of our personhood, our hallowed trinity, that require each other to reach their full potential.

One's consideration of the soul, perhaps the most abstract aspect of personhood, is more difficult. At its core, the soul is the true essence of self, that which cannot be replicated or divided, for soul is not of substance, but of being. The soul is the basis of character and temperament. It is because of this truth that one can improve oneself; for to meditate on it, is to erect the mental fortress and focus on what is within, to grasp at its energy and scrub away its imperfections - that is how we are improved. This focus state can be observed outside of pure meditation.

Consider actions that require both great focus and great skill - the archer lining up his shot, controlling each breath; the mage who draws with their hands and paints with their words to alter and harness magical energy; the pugilist who is more than a thug, who channels their very soul into their fingertips and feet - they all share one thing in common. All who are skilled make their skill appear effortless. It is in this state that one can most overtly, outside of pure meditation, be made keenly aware of one's soul. As effort and skill embrace, there arises a feeling of perfect being. One becomes so involved in the task at hand, that it feels that one scarcely exists at all, and there is a sensation of floating. That, I assert, is the knowledge of soul, sailing over the mind and body. It is at this moment that our being ascends, nay, transcends what is known. It is a foretaste of divinity.

The Divinity of Mankind.

~~

I revisit now my earlier point, the sad truth that one can only truly know oneself. This brings me directly to the nature of solipsism and the solipsist. It is a byproduct of both this theological philosophy and what can be observed. What can we know of others? We can read their expressions, their movements. We can study the cadance of their voice, and we can test their convictions by using their actions as a benchmark. But can we know their true thoughts, their true being? We cannot. We cannot know the soul of another, the mind of another. We can draw closer to knowledge of another's body, but such intimate examination of the vessel of another is improper.

It is here that I must exhort you, reader, to consider all that you know. Consider what you understand of their temperament, their voice, their habits. Burn it upon your memory. And be wary of any change. For it is documented that there are creatures who wear our humanity as a mask. But they lack the soul. There is a sensation that begins to gnaw as one notes the subtle changes in temperament. They play at humanity without truly understanding its subtleties. Understand that this is an uncomfortable truth, though I do not wish to sow paranoia, but it must be said. Know thyself, for you cannot know any other - how many do you pass that wear the human face? It is impossible to tell.

[A small painting, well-loved, is attached below by the corners, allowing Edith to remove and replace it at will.]

[1]

[Should the painting be turned around, a message is visible on the reverse side.]

1.

artsangel

[emptyanima]

[More clippings and summaries are added to the portfolio.]

~~

I have in part achieved what I had hoped to accomplish in coming here - I have found new kilns in which to hone my vessel. Many too have been willing to discuss all manner of topics with me - religion, philosophy, the focus state, companionship, and more. There are none yet whom I can I say I know intimately, but that is as it should be - patience is needed in matters of a social kind, as it is in all endeavours.

I have also began the practice of tonic brewing; I am no physician yet, though it has proved a fruitful endeavour already. Mrs. Heatherdale asked if I would assist her in the mines, but I felt I ought to decline, for while I am not a weak creature, such did not seem a favourable use of my talents. My skills have been tested, to be sure - at times I feel the kiln has been too hot, and I have been nearer to scorching than being hardened. The line between the two is often thin.

There is much of which I should be proud, when I consider all I have done since coming to Barovia. But I should also be humble until such a time as I truly fulfil my potential. Many questions remain unanswered. I watch the various cults and churches do battle with words (for to call it debate would be an insult to due philosophical process), both spoken and penned on the numerous posters and flyers. Perhaps I ought to add my voice to theirs, one of reason and clarity.

This requires further contemplation, I feel. I must reflect.

[emptyanima]

[1]

I have made great progress, much sooner than I anticipated - I have in part to thank François de Penible for that; it was an essay I penned in response to his work 'Lessons in Agony' that earned me a place in the Society of the Erudite. Mr and Mrs Beauchemin spoke such kind words to me regarding my work. But I cannot call this a job well done and sit upon my laurels. As Mr Beauchemin wrote, 'a contemporary intellectual who no longer contributes is no longer contemporary.' I have already set upon the topic for my next piece, and I am confident that I can do the subject justice, especially following a meeting with a fellow scholar, Mr Mazefell.

We spoke at length on Vazaru's treatise on 'The Arcane Universe', for I felt that in order to properly examine the text, I needed a better understanding of the subject matter. Mr Mazefell is an erudite arcanist, who was very clear in his speech and passionate in his subject. It was a great pleasure to spend the hours in intellectual discourse with such a learned fellow. He was also very supportive of the idea that the Society should begin to circulate a scholarly periodical, containing recent works and research, so that the public might see. It is my hope that more might be inspired to join the Society, if they have the talent.

On a different note, I recall Mr Byrne saying that he spends the winter months in Dementlieu. I hope to see him again soon. In the meantime, much to be done.

1.

tamiart

[emptyanima]

[1]

I very much enjoyed the lecture the newly-appointed Professor Locke gave on ghosts, despite the rudeness of many in attendance. The undercurrent of inane chatter, coupled with the constant asking of questions (ignoring the fact that Professor Locke prefaced his talk by saying he would take questions at the end) did prove a slight distraction, but thankfully did not ruin the event for me. I look forward to the announcement of the next lecture, that I might digest the books suggested on the reading list, and prepare my thoughts and queries in advance.

I also had the pleasure of meeting one Mr L'Ecuyer at the lecture, a playwright and author of travelogues. I have carefully read the first issue, detailing his experiences of Barovia. Indeed, I very much hope to speak with him again soon, for he like me enjoys proper conversation. I mean also to pass him a copy of my essay, which he expressed an interest in reading.

I have further plans for this city, small though they may be at present, as well as another paper I mean to write. I shall not let my mind become lazy, for it needs exercising just as any muscle requires. So too must I attend to my body, and be certain to reflect on it all thereafter, for only once I have contemplated my achievements shall they truly be ingrained upon me. Everything in moderation, except improvement.

1.	abigaillarson

[emptyanima]

[1]

In recent days, I had need to return to Vallaki for a time, and unfortunately encountered a highwayman on the road. He was crude, his teeth rotting, and he brandished a pair of blades at me. When I tried to edge past him, he prevented me. I confess I was rather afraid, having little experience with criminal behaviour, and began to fetch coin from my purse to give to him.

Thankfully, clarity reached me. His words, while not overt, pointed to some poor intentions for my virtue. Under the guise of withdrawing my purse, I adopted a fighting stance and struck the unsavoury man quite hard. He retaliated, but found my blows too much. As he fled he uttered a few words that I shall not record, and only say my modesty was impugned.

With my business complete in Vallaki, I returned to Port-a-Lucine, and not a moment too soon. There was an explosion in the Red Vardo building in the Quartier Marchand. Several flocked to the building, including Mr L'Ecuyer. Several of the gendarme arrived with buckets, which we filled with water from the bay and attempted to douse the flames. Thankfully, it seems all were evacuated in time. I imagine, should their planned ball and auction go ahead, the need for donations shall be more pressing.

Mr L'Ecuyer is very much looking forward to the event; he said it would do him a great injury if I refused to accompany him. Naturally, I agreed. He is pleasant and interesting company and he, like me, works to balance his curiosity with etiquette. I have an evening dress fitting the occasion, one I purchased quite some time ago. I should make sure it is correctly hung a few days in advance to avoid unsightly creases. Oh, while I am looking forward to it, I know it will feel very irregular - it shall be my first such event without my dearly departed Silas.

~~

Today has been filled with danger and fear, caused not by brutish monsters, but men. While taking in the evening air on the terraces of the Quartier Publique, two men began to hurl insults at one another. It was assuredly a matter of honour, and neither were blameless, but one of the two barely qualifies as a man - the veil of his civility is much too thin, and I was made privy to the base creature beneath.

He is, by all accounts, a wealthy man, and his decadence only adds to his grotesque manner - Mr Jacques Bertrand. A man who was held responsible by the brother of a woman he reportedly rendered fallen. Mr Bertrand spoke of the poor woman in such base terms, and steel was drawn on both sides. I did my best to gain the attention of a passing gendarme, but he did not respond, save with a telling look of deliberate ignorance. I feared that blood would be spilled, and in a place where such is prohibited. Finally, I found another gendarme who was willing to intervene, but his movements were languid and lacked purpose. Before we reached the two, Mr Bertrand had killed the other, Philippe Auguste.

He took such pleasure from the killing, yet the gendarme did nothing. Upon recognition of this savage in gentleman's garb, the gendarme stammered and excused himself. But even as he had spoken to the gendarme, Mr Bertrand watched me as though he could see my very spirit. His eyes are colourless - his stare rendered me most uncomfortable. But I was not done. This man was bringing a hammer to the pedestals of law and order, the pillars upon which all semblance of civilisation relies, by his words and actions. He drew close, and when he whispered, it brought to mind the snake in the bird's nest, twisting about one of the helpless eggs and preparing to devour it whole.

He asked me if I knew how it felt to be gutted, spoke of Mr Auguste's agony and how he ended it. How he thought he might let me live for hours in the same such agony. Oh, how I shivered... his eyes were heavy against me. When I attempted to remove myself from his unpleasant company, he reached out to touch me and I shrieked, regrettably. He simply laughed, told me I am naive, but that I will see the truth... the truth that lies behind it all. It was only once he was gone that the full weight of his terror struck me - I began to weep. Not wishing to bring more shame upon my character, I hurried into the presses to find a private corner in which to shed my tears. Mrs Beauchemin came to me and chastised me for my outburst, rightly so. I had thundered inside like a brute beast, with no care for dignity at all.

When I confided in her what had come to pass, she was sympathetic but also admonishing.

I am fearful. It is men such as Mr Bertrand that truly frighten me. The gilt sheen of their characters is so simply wiped away, and what remains is sickly, damp and sanguine - all lusts condensed into a singular being, appetites never sated, a hybrid beast formed of all our worst qualities. I shall be looking over my shoulder from now on, lest this creature wishes to toy with me further.

I must remain focused upon my studies, and prepare for what is planned. For each moment that man prevents me from acting as I would, he claims a victory over me.

1.

nadyanilo

[emptyanima]

[A collection of scholarly pieces is added to the portfolio. Several of them seem to expound upon pieces she has already inserted into the portfolio.]

As one reads de Penible's most controversial treatise, it is important that one bears in mind a few important questions, as one should when studying any products of man, be they artistic, literary, scholarly or otherwise. First, one must consider what reason an author has for writing and publishing their work, for nothing exists in a vacuum. Consider the political and social climate, the culture in which the author was raised, their own life experience, for all of these will contribute to one's worldview, even if not explicitly mentioned. Mr de Penible hails from Richemulot; its people are practical, and neither live in poverty or great wealth (and while they are governed by hereditary aristocracy, all seem to live comfortably). They value information above wealth and secrets above currency.[1] It seems strange then, that a man born and bred in a land such as this could develop such extreme ideas. One cannot guess at what might have occurred in de Penible's life to deviate so widely from his cultural norms. And while it is purely conjecture, one might suggest that deep pain lies at the heart of his existence, and that his writings are a means of justifying his pain to himself, an external outworking of inward insecurities. But, this being conjecture, I will leave it merely as another question to consider when presented with his work.

Second, does the author have anything to lose or gain from the publication of their work? Are they a lone voice in a flock of unthinking sheep, risking much by making their thoughts known? Do they have vested interest in toeing a particular line? These are also important to consider. Mr de Penible's works have become en vogue in recent times among the poorest of Dementlieu's citizens. It is here that one begins to see why it is here that de Penible circulates his work in this location. Dementlieu, for good or ill, has a great disparity between its classes. The 'haves' and 'have-nots' could scarcely be further apart. The poor delight in his criticisms of the rich. It is a wholly natural reaction to his work, for his words have stirred something in their spirits. And with this context fresh in mind, reader, let us now examine those words. In this case, our text is 'Lessons in Agony'.

The crux of de Penible's essay hangs on the notion that only those who have experienced pain, on some level, can truly appreciate life in its fulness. There is some merit to this idea. Consider the remark that a funeral is 'no place for a child'. While this statement is sweeping, by and large, most children lack the maturity and understanding of death that adults possess. In accepting the reality of death, one is forced to grow and mature, painful though this may be. Pain also brings with it emotional intelligence, a sense of sympathy that is healthy and moderate. Again, if one loses one close to them, it is often those who have also experienced loss that are the best means of support in such matters. They are a picture of endurance, the survivability of pain, the proof that there is life beyond loss. As a final example, one who loses the use of one of their senses for a time, whether by spell or injury, tends to appreciate it more when its function is restored. It is beyond reasonable doubt then, that there is some knowledge to be gained from suffering.

However, 'Lessons in Agony' goes far further than a moderate response. Mr de Penible goes on to say that 'the maimed, the leper and the terminal ill are truly blessed, for [...] they break past the barrier of human sensations [...] experience new senses... the enlightenment of their souls.'[2] Beyond the offensive, improper nature of this statement (for it is cruel in the extreme to suggest that any in these conditions are blessed, and points to great ignorance or lack of empathy), it is altogether untrue. Many afflictions lead to a loss of sensation. The absence of sensation cannot also be called a sensation; the notion is absurd. In addition, many afflictions are of the mind - to suggest that those who are sick of mind are somehow advanced in experience is both cruel for the aforementioned reasons, and highly dangerous. It encourages mental instability and prevents those with illnesses of the mind from seeing their need for help - they instead believe that they are misunderstood, and above others. One can only imagine the sort of behaviour that could be engendered by such a twisted ideal.

In closing, de Penible's chilling conclusion leaves the reader with this; 'Perhaps it would be in the best interest of man if he were in constant agony all the time...'[3] In making this statement, de Penible fails to see the position of hypocrisy in which he has placed himself. He has lamented, with some merit, that those who live without pain lack the full spectrum of experience, as well as sympathy for those who know pain, which is in part true, as previously discussed. Surely then, to seek a life purely of pain is to be just as wrong as those who envelop themselves in decadence? Neither one has the full picture - one toils in the mire, and one is kept from all dirt. Perhaps de Penible could stand to learn something from his fellow Richemuloise men and women - moderation.

To conclude, while it is clear that de Penible's philosophy may stem from legitimate concerns and ideas, the extreme to which he takes these ideas is both disturbing and hypocritical. The merit in his words comes when applied in moderation. For balance of mind, body and spirit, pleasure and pain, tears and joy - that is the fulness of life. To have only one is to have a fragment of understanding, and only a single thread in the tapestry of existence.

1.	The author's knowledge of the Richemuloise is based first upon their meetings with its people, and secondly upon their reading of the place. They acknowledge that they may appear to be wide generalisations, but their purpose is not to dissect the social structure of Richemulot, it is to paint a picture of de Penible.
2.	de Penible, François A Lesson in Agony
3.	As previous

Before presuming to speak with clarity and confidence on this subject, it was necessary for me to learn a little more of the arcane - I would like to thank Mr Mazefell for his patience and completeness in answering my questions.

~~
Vazaru begins her essay by referring to an illustration she used in another treatise, describing arcane forces as 'cracks in the veneer of our orderly world, glowing lines of chaos pouring through the slits in the door like the morning sun.'[4] My discussions with Mr Mazefell led to the idea that these 'cracks' might in fact be leylines - 'places where the force of raw magic gathers naturally within the world and can be an interesting blend of order and chaos - it is Potential.'[5] So, it can be asserted that there does exist, in places, a source of magic, a well of potential.

Its potential is actualised when it is cast; there are two sorts of person who are able to accomplish and truly master the casting of magic. There is the studious and prepared scholar of the arcane - the wizard. Then there are those who take the wild and chaotic form, one in the blood. Sorcerers. Magic ebbs and flows in their emotional state, which could be considered dangerous in untrained hands, though it is the same as any who wield a weapon without proper practice and training, and likewise, more a danger to themselves than to others. Due to differences in source, wizards and sorcerers are given to different styles of casting. As Mr Mazefell put it;

"The wizard uses such forces as an engineer might, using formulas and constructions to harness the effect they want. Translating magic into the desired effect, as the builder of a watermill harnesses it to turn grain into flour. The Sorcerer is more an artist, letting the force itself and their own whims dictate the change that occurs. A young sorcerer might throw paint at a canvas in a metaphorical sense, while one of skill learns to control the colour with various tricks and tools as an artist with brushes."

So when Vazaru moves on to define the arcane, it should be noted that these differences can lead to multiple definitions and 'contextual truths.' Of course, much of what I have written so far is common knowledge among those with arcane knowledge, though I believe it is worth noting for the context and background it supplies to any discussion of the topic.

We came then to the bulk of Vazaru's piece; the assertion that the arcane is change. We came to the agreement, based on our evidence and experience, that magic can exist as both potential and kinetic forms, much like energy. Perhaps this is how the Lamordians seek to do away with the notion of the arcane entirely? Perhaps it is written off as merely being energy, lacking any magical qualities at all. The Lamordian worldview should probably be studied further before I seek to make such claims, though I thought they bore mentioning.

We next discussed Vazaru's bold claim that magic is 'the thread that holds the laws we consider reality together, the bricks that keep the walls of the world up'.[6] I thought immediately of my own beliefs - that those men and women who seek to actualise their potential shall transcend and reach divinity - and found Vazaru's claim to be troubling. For if the fabric of the universe is indeed bound by magic, does it not then follow that those who become divine forces must also possess either learned or blood-given knowledge of the arcane? It seems to me to be an idea that engenders a belief of arcane superiority. Mr Mazefell confirmed that many arcanists believe that they are superior to 'mundane' men, and we moved on to the last portion of 'The Arcane Universe.'

Our thoughts turned finally to the morality of magic, as Vazaru's piece does (it being a common view in parts of the Core, and beyond, that magic is evil), and we agreed that it is reasonable and proper to suggest that the arcane, being a tool and a force (much like the wind that drives the windmill), is apart from morality. As we blame to the wielder of the blade and not the blade itself, so we should apportion morality to the arcanist, and not the arcane itself. 
~~

It is my aim to collect my thoughts and ideas on each of these treatises, as I have done here, to create a full picture of any counter-argument which may build. This being done, I seek to write a response to the trilogy, for I believe a periodical re-examination of the ideas around us, whether we accept them or not, shall help us to grow as intellectuals, and to temper the tools at our disposal. If we repeat the philosophical and scholarly processes, we shall only improve, and the material we produce shall do the same.

4.	Vazaru, Daciana 'The Arcane Universe'
5.	Mazefell, Quinn
6.	Vazaru, Daciana 'The Arcane Universe'

I revisit now a point I touched upon in my summary of the Divinity of Mankind, the sad truth that one can only truly know oneself. What can we know of others? We can read their expressions, their movements. We can study the cadance of their voice, and we can test their convictions by using their actions as a benchmark. But can we know their true thoughts, their true being? We cannot. We cannot know the soul of another, the mind of another. We can draw closer to knowledge of another's body, but such intimate examination of the vessel of another is improper.

This brings me directly to the nature of solipsism and the solipsist. Solipsism is a philosophy which acknowledges this fact, that oneself is indeed the only self that one can possibly know in completeness. The solipsist acknowledges that as oneself is the only self that one may know, it is the only self of which one can be certain. From this, some solipsists derive an outlook that, upon first glance, appears to be one that encourages paranoia and distrust. But before this can be judged, one must consider the environment in which this philosophy exists.

The regions of the Core (and its surrounding locales) have their tales of phantasms and spirits, monsters and misanthropes, all manner of brute beasts poised as their antagonists. Of course, one must bear in mind the limitations of the oral and written traditions, the altering of narratives over time and the limitations of our imperfect languages. New words and phrases are conceived of in context, a backdrop that later generations will not recall, an atmosphere that not even the greatest documentation can conjure in its completeness. The meanings of words themselves are altered with the passing years. Yet, casting all of this aside, there is a kernel of truth at the heart of each legend. While our mortal senses, given to failing as the sun sets upon our earthly existence, are indeed fallible, the weight of evidence supporting the existence and activities of these creatures is difficult to ignore, to a point where such behaviour might be called wilful ignorance. Why do I write of all this? Consider the creatures one might encounter. Consider how many of them wear a human face.

Upon this mental map of our known world, a world populated by both monsters and men (and those who fit into neither category), I now motion to Zherisia. It is a place encircled in fog. In its city, Paridon, the industrial boroughs cough blackened fumes. And while there are pleasant places within, it is not inaccurate to consider it a city coated in a thick film of vapour and soot. One's sight is often clouded here, and one must look beneath.

Allow me to preface my next statement, for I understand that I write of matters which are not well-documented. I have found no book, even one penned by Van Richten or his contemporaries, describing the phenomenon. I am acutely aware of the experiential and limited knowledge I have, and that its provenance is therefore questionable. Beyond my experience, there is only a name. There is a creature which exists in Zherisia which appropriates the human face as its greatest weapon - the doppelganger.

I shall endeavour to give an account of the creature's nature from my limited experience. I know not how its hunt begins. I know not the motives it holds (I can only guess that it seeks power, or to cause strife). I know only that the creature snatches away the bodies of Zherisia's citizens, using them as its own, like a macabre marionette. I know there is no cure - the victim must be deceased for the doppelganger to take hold. There is no return to humanity. The change is not immediately noticeable, but subtle and slow. It was a change I could only document because the victim was of my intimate acquaintance. 

I began to consider what I could understand of his temperament, his voice, his habits. He began to change in these, and I became wary. There grew a sensation that began to gnaw as I noted the changes in behaviour, and it led me to this conclusion; they play at humanity without truly understanding its subtleties. I understand that this is an uncomfortable truth, though I do not wish to sow paranoia, but it must be said. In Zherisia, I took to the idea quite firmly; to know thyself, for you cannot know any other - how many did I pass that wore the human face as a mask? It was near-impossible to tell.

Of course, to simply transfer this philosophy following my relocation would be foolish; there has been nothing documented concerning the doppelganger effect beyond Zherisia's bounds. As such, to feel the same way about my fellow men and women here could have an adverse effect upon my psyche and behaviour - it is akin to jumping at shadows. Still, given the existence of other creatures that seek to emulate the human experience, to be aware of one's own self is helpful. I do not mean that all perceived selves are the same, far from it, but to have an understanding of oneself (provided one has empathy) should provide a basis for measuring the characters of others.

To conclude, solipsism ought to be seen on a scale of relevance, with all aforementioned factors such as locales and populations also taken into account. Ultimately, the study of the self should not always be inward-looking, but considered in its wider context and significance. Society is a built up, at least in appearance, of self-actualised individuals, so to consider both the individual and their context is of no small importance.

[emptyanima]

The book I have been writing is at last complete, and I seek to have it published. It has been quite a learning exercise, one which I have both relished and found to be challenging. I hope it shall stimulate thought and encourage discussion.

I attended the Vardo Ball that was held, and found it a pleasant affair, if taken over by the constant need some have to spend coin. The music was particularly lovely. I mean to hold such an event in the coming weeks, and should set to planning it.

Mr Marceaux has continued to be pleasant company, as has Mr Byrne and Mr L'Ecuyer. Hopefully I shall see more of them in the coming days. I should be careful not to spread myself too thin, and ensure everything is balanced and correct.

[emptyanima]

[1]

It has been too long since I confided in ink, and there is much to recount. Juste (for we are now on first name terms, as I am with Jean-Theophile) sought my aid in fulfilling a promise to a friend. It is a terrible affair, rather too frightening for my liking, but I am not one to break promises. I suppose such a thing is to be expected, in a place where the face one shows and one's actual character can be polar opposites. There is a monster within all Mankind, and sometimes, it breaks free and takes over utterly, acting in a truly base and brutal fashion.

Such was the subject of the book I was able to at last promote at the Erudite Society's Hazlani Ball, which we held two days ago. It was a successful event, which we held at the centre of a maze (owned by a friend of Mr Beauchemin's, who granted us use of his gardens in his generosity). Some of the costumes were delightful. I went as a manticore, a lion-headed, winged creature found often in Hazlan's forests. Juste however took the prize with his Red Wizard imitation. Naturally, it would be exceedingly bad-mannered to win a contest in which one acts as an impartial judge. While, by the end, there was drunkenness and some disorderly behaviour, I like to believe it did not sour the evening too much.

Once I have rested and reflected, I mean to begin preparations for the expedition, as well as for the periodical, and further scholarly works. I hope to receive some submissions soon from two who have expressed an interest. But before then, I must ensure I am balanced and whole.

Everything in moderation, except improvement.

1.	abadsurdum

[emptyanima]

Again I have neglected to write for far too long, which is a habit I ought to break. I have been enjoying regular ventures with Rowan and Marcello, practicing my stance and approach and seeing visible improvement. We have delved together through the sewers of Port-a-Lucine, against smugglers and monstrous bugs. We have travelled the strange dark caverns in Barovia, filled with automatons and beings of flame. We've travelled several of Har'Akir's dunes and a ruined temple dedicated to Anubis. I also found a merchant there selling scrolls of Akiri legend which I purchased with no hesitation.

[A few sketches are added to the portfolio.]

Statue of Anubis


Statue of Anubis, II


The Judgement

_{Breeze, a wizard and a gentleman.}

[1]

The Veterans' Ball was a wonderful event, which showed due respect to those who served in the recent war against Falkovnia. As always, Miss Dulcimer performed beautifully, and the company was fine. Rowan accompanied me, ever the gentleman; he escorted me to the event once we had seen the procession pass. When the appropriate time came, we began to dance, and as the dear man struggled bravely, Breeze approached. I recalled him from former ventures with Rowan, and had seen him about Port-a-Lucine with increasing frequency. I have in mind to ask him to perhaps consider preparing a piece for the Society's perusal. He is a scholar of magic, accomplished in its practice.

He is utterly fascinating.

Rowan happily removed himself from the dance, at which point Marcello endeavoured to teach him (with mixed results). Breeze fared rather better, and as we danced, we spoke. Our conversation came quickly to a discussion of my book, with civilised arguments and counter-arguments being exchanged. We mused together upon definitions and other peculiarities, our minds perhaps more engaged than our feet. And with a mutual understanding of our positions having been reached, his words turned to those of the most complimentary kind. I confess it rather threw me off guard, though he certainly had not spoken out of turn; his words were neither crude nor ill-chosen. After a moment's floundering, I replied in kind, perhaps rather too boldly.

For when one looks upon Breeze's face, one is shown the two ultimate paths of Man. Upon one side, the deep black scar, the unseeing eye; marks left by those men who have given into the beast. Upon the other there is solemn resolve, healthy pride and self-worth in his bold cheekbones, while an acute understanding of many things dances upon his unblemished eye. And for this, his features are striking, unmistakable. He may not be a perfect specimen of Man in the aesthetic sense, but I find he lingers in my mind, a testament to the strength of Man's will, and that is more beautiful to me than perfection. He held me then as we danced a little more intimately, but we did not draw at all close to the perimeter of propriety.

Yesterday, we spoke again, and he divulged to me the history of the tactile tales written clear upon his flesh; how he came to be so scarred, half-blinded, and the meaning of the number at his neck. He has endured pains I would wish on no one, and his words vexed me to my very core. He seemed lost in his memories for a time, still understandably affected by his trials. I took his hand. I reminded him that we are the authors of our destiny, a sentiment with which he readily agreed. Our hands remained together until I withdrew my handkerchief, and offered it to him as a simple gift, a small thing of mine to hold while he is away on campaign with the Company of the Fox. I may have become swiftly attached to Breeze, arguably too quickly, but I consider him to be one of the bravest gentlemen I know. And given the caliber of gentlemen I am privileged to know, the fact that he lingers in my thoughts above all these is but another reason to treasure him.

For now, more planning is required for the upcoming expedition, and there is much more on which I mean to write and discuss. I cannot become too content with myself, for that breeds idleness and sluggishness of mind. Perhaps I should speak with Mr Moreau shortly. I mean to observe his own methods of training. Perhaps Rowan might have more success with his monastic strivings, now that Mr Moreau has taken residence for a time in the Port of Light?

1.

miho24

[emptyanima]

[Another sketch is added to the portfolio.]

_{"A loving eye is all the charm needed; to such you are handsome enough; or rather your sternness has a power beyond beauty." ~ ((Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte))}

[1]

Lately, I have been a creature of melancholy tendencies. Perhaps I ought to feel a measure of shame, that my temperament can be so easily changed by the appearance of a treasured face. In any case, Vicomte Marceaux (whom I did not know had been raised to such a station until it was swiftly thrust upon me during a public appearance, which led to untold embarrassment, especially as I nearly referred to him by his first name; what a faux pas that would have been, as the locals say!) had informed me of Company's safe return from their campaign in Mordent, but the germ of concern had taken root in my mind nonetheless, quite blind to reason. It was with calmness and ease that Breeze approached, though that may have been in part due to his weariness. War is the great destroyer of Man, the mind's captor, the vessel's torturer and spirit's executioner-- little else can render us quite so broken.

Yet his hands were gentle, his words soft and warm. I know the terrors Breeze has faced; he is the rare example of a man who has been steeled by misfortune, rather than subdued by it. He returned my handkerchief to me, sullied with blood and Mordentish mud, and creased by the grip of one seeking solace in troubled times. He is a brave man. I commented on this, and perhaps cheered by that, he embraced me. As we spoke further, he seemed emboldened, and this was reflected in his hold on me. I reached out to trace a gloved finger over the digits at his neck. I felt his pulse quicken and saw his features affected with resolve. He leant down and placed a kiss against my brow, gentle and brief, and I held him fast, fearing that he might, like a dream, or a gentle wind, sigh and depart. Instead, he kissed my brow again. He lingered. I felt his warmth and eased a little in his grip, like a statue given life and breath. And so enlivened, I felt the colour rise in my cheeks. But there was no shame. There was no call for shame, for still propriety held fast, even if its corsetry now provided a little more space to breathe. Had the whole world tried to remove me from his arms, I would have prevented them.

That night, I, Breeze, and Mr Galiadin (we are newly acquainted) trod the windless, arid sands of Har'Akir. Our quarry? The dead patrol the dusty sea, strong indeed. But seeing Breeze's power reminded me of the potential innate in all members of Mankind. The movements of his hands, the arcane utterances... the quiet confidence with which he conjured spheres of flame... I found myself quite mystified. It called to mind my own shortcomings, ones he was temporarily able to rectify. But then, with eldritch words, I was rendered like a statue once more-- not of stone, but flesh. I lost all command of my limbs, and inwardly I screamed as the assault continued. Mercifully, as soon as I feared that my end was upon me, Mr Galiadin swooped down like a seraph and restored me. Breeze did not take it well, I fear. He bemoaned that for all his power, he was unable to protect me. Yet without his aid, Mr Galiadin could not have aided me, for he veiled the latter from sight. We are our own most stringent critics.

His hand remained in mine the whole journey back. And while I strive to avoid all lasciviousness, I wonder now how it would feel to hold that hand without the barrier a glove presents. If Silas' spirit still moves over the face of the earth, watching me, I pray he does not regard me with scorn.

1.

Maseiya

[emptyanima]

I have learned my lesson.

I was much too quick to believe in the man that I thought I saw, and did not take the necessary time to learn more of him, to see all the facets of his character. I pinned my hopes upon the west wind, and was left behind when it wended east.

I had always been frank and honest with him, open with my feelings, ones he told me he shared (though I now find this very hard to believe). For how can a heart be changed in less than an hour? I did nothing to warrant this change, and yet he told me, in a public place (for he did not even show me enough decency to allow me the space for private emotion), that his love had waned for no reason he could name, and that it had simply, without explanation, occurred. Does he think me a perfect fool, to believe that? He seemed angered when I refused to accept it; I questioned him thrice on the same number of occasions, for who would simply accept so irregular an excuse? It transpires that he did not believe me to be worthy of the truth. Oh, how swift and awful a change! His was a most convincing mask, for it was twofold, both scarred and perfect, and his eye appeared doting and full of love. Such inconsistency of character is astounding-- even the creature which Silas became at least gave me the signs of a gradual change. He seems to me to be extremely fickle, and thus I cannot place much stock in anything he has said, however much that may pain me.

It seems he duped dear Rowan, for he was certain that such a match would be agreeable. I am tempted to write to him of it, but I do not wish to spoil the happiness he has found with my trials. Indeed, it is probably best for me to put the whole matter behind me, which is what I had elected to do before putting pen to page. This shall serve as a reminder, Edith, should there be another man who earns your affections-- "Remember him. Remember his betrayal. Do not give your heart so freely."

Magda, the Barovian with whom the Vicomte is utterly besotted (though despite whatever appearance she gives off, this depth of feeling is mutual), chastised me soundly, with both tongue and fist, for my perceived naiveté, though it was not a beating I took submissively. She warned me against trusting anyone at all, and against giving anyone the same power over me that I had given to that man. Magda, for all her anger, is a well-intentioned hypocrite. She does not want to see me used and cast aside. She called me an easy target, due to my bookishness and the solitary confinement I often impose upon myself for study and reflection. Magda is a more loving woman than she might care to admit. When she told me I could trust no one, I asked if she believed the Vicomte to be an exception. She told me he had already betrayed her, which of course invited a logical question-- why stay?

She said that his betrayal had not changed him, that the Vicomte is still the same man, which ensured the question had a clear, straightforward answer. It is why she wears the gown, even though she feels like she wears a sack. It is why she obeys him, keeping her mouth shut when he lifts his hand to cut her off. It is why she looks at him with the expression she wears in his company. She stays because she loves him, and love is loyal. It is why I endeavoured to seek the truth of the matter for my own love-- because I did not change as he did. And the lack of emotion in his steely, one-eyed gaze, the cruelty and coldness of his words, and his point-blank refusal to understand my pain all lead me to conclude that he never truly loved me at all, and that is something I simply have to accept.

It has not all been so dire and overwrought; in fact, there is much worth celebrating. Dear Rowan Byrne, a brother to me not in blood, but in spirit, has put aside his wanderings to enjoy the fruits of his bliss. The smile he wore is worth recording, alone, so hopeful and charming and filled with promise. I shall write to him often, and be sure to make regular visits. I promised I would read to Lucréce, and I shall not stop unless he asks me to do so.

There is also the Society, in which I am gaining more and more confidence by the day-- I believe we are at last nearing the time when the public shall be reminded of the virtues of discussion, self-reflection and learning. Even Magda, for all her coarseness, is so well-intentioned that I cannot help but name her among my friends, and the Vicomte too I must note here, for his kindness to me in my distress. I feel my vessel become more honed, I feel my mind become clearer, and my spirit ever longs to embrace the truth of everything. I draw nearer to total enlightenment, to an intimate understanding of the cosmos and all it contains, and I shall not waste any more ink, breath or thought upon those who would seek to break that desire.

[emptyanima]

[1]

Work continues upon gathering material for the periodical, but obstacles continue to present themselves. Oh, Jackie, what have you got yourself into? One can only hope that this is all a grave misunderstanding. I had lately considered us to be close friends. I am terribly worried for her, and for what may have happened. Might this be connected to that business with the Ambassador?

I must focus upon pleasantness. It was good to see Professor Locke again. Mr and Mrs Beauchemin had been so worried for him. He is a strange man, to be sure, who keeps vials of blood in his cigar case, and he has some strange ideas regarding good etiquette. Still, it is clear that he is possessed of a sharp mind. I look forward to his leading of the Hazlani expedition; I can only hope that our findings are worth the long delay.

I also attended a lecture held in the coffee shop and readery, which was a pleasant enough affair, even if some of those in attendance asked strange questions.

I must not let the Society's new found drive and direction go to waste. Thus, I shall keep this record brief, and return to my work.

[Another short entry is added later.]

There was no misunderstanding-- Juste has dispelled all of my doubts. He echoes the sentiments of his brusque Barovian lover. "Trust no one in this city," he tells me. Such seems sensible, given all I have seen in my time here. But what is a life without trust? Over one's mind hangs the constant cloud of doubt, and paranoid knots itself about one's stomach. A life without trust is to disbelieve all, to be a closed mind, and mine must remain open if I am to grow in wisdom. I must question all, but if I doubt all, where is the room for growth? I fear I shall become a stagnant well of cold, untrusting belief, its stale water tainting all my intercourse. It clouds the motivations of all in doubt. One looks upon a crowded room and finds oneself to be an islet of sanity.

Total moral solipsism makes one wholly unhappy. And yet, I am told it is the only way.

I fear it is a path to loneliness and madness that I now tread. Have I truly fled from one land of falseness to another?

1.	Kitty-grimm

[emptyanima]

The periodical was published, at last. Erudite Society matters have been keeping me busy, of late. I've been absorbed by planning and writing my next work. I shall note here a hopeful occurance-- I met a bright young woman with no small amount of potential named Miss Leafwood. I hope to receive her submission to join the Society soon enough.

Juste and Magda seem well. I am deeply concerned about the figure they described; I believe his name is Dumont. Juste believes him to be guilty of many horrid murders, for while he appears human, he has the strength of many men and the morals of none. I provided him with some information he believes may help. I shall have to tread carefully here.

There is much still to do-- I fear this expedition to Hazlan shall never get off the ground. In the meantime, I will work on my next text, and ensure that I keep my mind, body and soul in balance.

[Another entry is added later, in a very shaky hand.]

[1]

I cannot remain asleep, for I feel as though I intrude upon my own bed. I fear that he will breach my threshold and hurt me again.

Jacques Bertrand.

I cannot believe that I almost forgot the cruelty of this man. He does not make empty threats; he made good upon the promise he uttered, the torrid whisper into my ear, months ago. I scarcely believe that I live.

It began in the Blooming Rose, a quaint little cafe that I sometimes frequent in the Quartier Savant. As I broke bread with a new companion, Mr. Chastain, I saw a man enter out of the corner of my eye. I paid him little mind until I heard his voice, and when I looked and saw those colourless eyes... all the foul memories came flooding back. He could sense my fear, for he turned then and looked right through me, his gaze unshifting as I tried to ignore him. I lost all appetite soon enough, and rose to leave, when Mr. Bertrand cast magics upon us. I felt fear threaten to rise from the depths of my being, but summoned the strength of will to send it below. We departed then, but he followed us for a time.

Fearful, Mr. Chastain and I went straight to the gendarmerie to report his attempted mental assault (as well as the threats he made to me before), but it seems this monster of a man is more influential than I had dared to imagine-- he is a personal friend of the Lady-Governor herself. His father was a hero. As such, all claims against him were dismissed without thought, and a doctor was called to determine whether or not I was suffering from severe hysteria.

When he arrived, he began his examination. As he did so, he spoke to me, imploring me to leave the city as soon as possible. He then 'diagnosed' me, but I believe he meant only to buy me time. I hurried to my room, Mr. Chastain close behind me, and began to pack up my belongings, when there was a knock at the door. When pressed by Mr. Chastain, a voice came-- the man claimed to be the same doctor.

I wish I had not opened the door. For there stood Jacques Betrand. He loosed his fear-inducing magic at us both, and thus we were divided. I recall little of what followed until we neared the road of noble houses to the east of the city. While I regained control of my mind, Mr. Bertrand's grip upon me was vice-like. He pulled me down into what appeared to be a dungeon, of sorts. I peered into the gloom and found no method of escape. What he spoke next chilled me to my core; he told me had meant only to frighten me again, to remind me of the power he holds over me and all other men, but because I had defied him, I would suffer. And so would others, for he made a threat against the doctor's children. And as I have written... he does not make empty threats. I have never seen such a wicked visage.

Fear overwhelmed me, then, and I ran to the door, tugging at the handle in vain. I began to weep, as the full realisation of what was to come struck me. His wicked blade was driven into my chest. I do not think I have ever known so horrible and soul-wrenching a pain. I felt myself begin to slip away from wakefulness as my lungs filled with blood. I felt myself weaken and sink to my knees. The white wool of my dress was stained crimson red, and the sickly stench of my pain hit me fully. I remember screaming, but I felt as though I was not the one who gave it voice. And then... oh, that wicked man, he did not let me slump, but drew me upright by my hair, tore into me with his horrid, inhuman gaze... crushed his mouth against mine with the sort of sickening savagery that one expects only from ravenous beasts.

I know not how I summoned the strength to even attempt freeing myself from his depravity. I felt my bloodied clothing cling to me as I struggled for breath, trying to push him away. And while this freed my lips from his, it only encouraged him to bring the blade down again. The world began to bleed and merge around me, twisting as I sank onto the steps. He sheathed his blade, taking a moment to examine the wreck he had rendered me. I felt him force his way into my mind again, and recall blackness for a time, a cold darkness that seemed to me like spilled ink swirling across my subconscious. After some time (I know not how long) I could detect shapes and shadows again, and by force of will alone, I crawled to my freedom.

When I reached light, I also reached succour in the form of Mr. Chastain. The neutrality of his helmed face was of some comfort as he hoisted me from the cobbles. I drifted again into the murk for a time. When I came to, I was propped against a tree on the Sable Bay, my wounds tended. Mr. Chastain gave me water, and I drank deeply. I attempted to relay what I could remember, and he was overwhelmed by guilt; he swore to protect me in the time to come.

The bloodied dress shall not be mended-- another shall be made. Perhaps this torn gown of mine, stained with what could have easily been my sanguine legacy, will be the kind of evidence the gendarme will take seriously. For no man can be above the law-- that way lies anarchy.

Perhaps it is foolish of me to remain in this city, but I feel I must. For if I let that monster drive me away, his shall be the victory.

1.

loveisfr3

[emptyanima]

[1]

I saw the creature Dumont, the day he was put down in the midst of a violent rage. I do not think I have ever seen Magda so troubled. Does that woman loathe me? If so, why? I should not attempt to fool myself-- I know perfectly well why. I do not envy her and the Vicomte for all they have suffered, and despite what I am told, I feel there must be something in her character that she keeps concealed unless in the company of the Vicomte alone, the quality that draws him to her, though that is no business of mine.

I spent a week with dear Rowan in Edrigan, away from all the strain and stress placed upon me in my home, of late. He spoiled me utterly, the dear man he is, and for a time I was able to cast it all out of my mind. Grateful for that reprieve, I returned to Port-a-Lucine, took up lodging in another room (needing some distance from the memories of my former room), and have continued work on my next treatise, though it has not been without obstacle.

I've not seen a trace of Miss Leafwood for some time. I hope that all is well with her, and that she may simply be occupied, but the longer I reside in Dementlieu, the more I see just how cruel a place it can be. I hope that she was not scared away by this same realisation.

In the meantime, however, I have acquainted myself more fully with Mr. Rousseau of the Company of the Fox. He is a patriotic fellow with good intentions, and has been pleasant company on several occasions. He has something of an idealistic streak, which I cannot help but admire. He was a great comfort to me during a period of confusion over Mr. Chastain's intentions and whereabouts. Mercifully, it all seems to have been an honest misunderstanding, one which has been rectified. I am glad to be in his company and care once more.

What is it that makes Mankind what he is? Is it the shape of a man-- it cannot be, for Man can be of many shapes and sizes, so I postulate that the form of Man does not define him as what he is. Is it his behaviour? Perhaps, in part, but Man displays such a variety of behaviours, it would be possible to discern that those who are not of Man could be of Man, if they exhibit similar behaviours. Is it by birth? That only Man born of two who are also of Man can be considered as a member of Mankind? Yet I saw the Divinity of Mankind permit those with an Elven parent to join if they chose to embrace the element of Man within them. Is this a choice given to them alone? Or is it open to others of half-strain? A philosopher cannot work without firm belief in one's own definitions. Why do I question them now?

[An incomplete sketch is tucked into the portfolio here. It depicts Edith, dressed in a torn and bloodied gown, being carried by a large figure in armour. While Edith's own expression is complete, the eyes drawn shut and her lips contorted by the memory of pain, and framed by mussed hair that tumbles across her shoulders, the figure who carries her wears a featureless face.]

1.

Kaykenna

[emptyanima]

It was because I did not want to hurt anyone, that I lied, but I know now that this only causes more pain when the truth is later revealed. I did not lie to Mr. Rousseau, when I uttered those complimentary words at the ball-- I stand by them even now. Admittedly, I was overwhelmed by the depth of feeling his own words, voice and expression conveyed when he expressed those lovely sentiments, though he struggled like a fish out of water (somewhat humorous, given that we were garbed as merpeople) with his shyness.

When a few days later, I spoke with him frankly, I could sense without even looking the pain I had wrought him. For a time, he seemed to avoid me when I appeared, though I certainly cannot blame him for that. He seems comfortable enough to speak with me again now, which does ease my guilt, somewhat. He is, as I told him, an excellent man. But I am not meant for him. Though I was not brave enough to reveal them by name, and still lack this bravery to convey it even in my private writings (given an incident which I shall shortly explain). I know that the guessing has already begun-- such is the swift spread of gossip and fancy.

Yet I must write something-- I wrote at length concerning shadows and masks, and of the excellent Mr. Rousseau--, so it would be a disservice, an injustice even, to leave him out. He is a man of such tenderness and care, ever apologetic for the smallest mishap. Yet he is also confident, and does not shy away from voicing his concerns or giving advice. I feel so comfortable, so safe in his presence-- it is as though we have known each other for many years--, so to return to him is to let any trace of a mask or concealment (of self or feeling) fall away. I could write at length of his features; those kind eyes, ever observant, his firm but gentle hands, or that wonderful voice of his, only raised in battle.

How much more I could write were I not fearful that another might find this very collection of my innermost thoughts! A few days hence, I stood upon the terraces, watching the bay, when presently, I saw two flowers-- a yellow rose and a purple tulip-- crossed over each other on the cobbles behind me. I picked them up, but found no trace of the one who left them behind. There was no one else at all nearby, so I could be certain that they were intended for me. I hurried to my room, and set the flowers upon the coffee table by the fireplace, for later examination.

When I returned, some time later, the flowers had vanished. While it could simply be that the cleaning staff in the Hotel removed them, they have never cleared away any flowers from my lodging before now. All my belongings have remained untouched, and nothing else was amiss. I fear that the very person who left the flowers for me took them back from my private quarters. Do they mean to make me fearful, to be constantly checking, to be overwhelmed by paranoia? Perhaps they wish to drive me away from the city? That will not happen.

I shall control these fears, and not let them have mastery over me. I must continue to put pen to page, fist to foe, and mind to meditation. For surely, the more I resist whatever force seeks to drive me away, the more weary of their efforts they will grow? To live freely from such concerns would be a blessing indeed, though I fear such a goal is much too optimistic. To all the happiness I have been afforded, I shall cling. To do otherwise would be unforgivably ungrateful.

[emptyanima]

[1]

There are few aspects of existence that can be considered to be infinite, though in my estimation, I can consider at least two-- the places from which people may be pulled into this mist-bound world, and the pettiness of people, native or not.

For one in particular seems to have grown more overt in unsavoury, poor behaviour now that he has been granted a noble title, and while he is thinner than he once was, he bloats with lucre and lurid gossiping. With this increase in pride and station has come an increase in outward malice. He is like a fly, feeding upon gossip and rumour, before flitting about, resplendent, and regurgitating these rumours to numerous folk, so that they spread like a disease. He is an oath-breaker, for he once promised to respect me. I should have denied the assertion that he made the moment he made it, but if I presented myself as averse to the truth, I would be no better than him.

Thankfully, many of my fellows have been wholly unaffected by his campaign of mockery. Indeed, it has only been the rare remark of a self-important aristocrat which has troubled me. In fact, what troubles me more is their assertion that the provenance of an idea carries more weight than the idea itself. How swift they are to cast judgment! They regard me with the same contempt as a fallen woman. Perhaps to them I am no different.

I find myself remaining silent under these accusations, neither speaking to confirm or deny these words, not because I am ashamed of my love, but because I do not wish to condemn him. If I deny it, then I am being dishonest, and it suggests that I am ashamed of the truth. If I confirm it, then I fear how they might treat him, as a salacious seducer, when he is nothing of the sort. Indeed, a single digit of one of his hands is filled with more of man's potential for goodness than the whole bodies of other men. His adherence to propriety is noble, and his willingness to make me smile is a welcome trait.

Of late, we have been kept busy with our plans for the city, for we do indeed have plans. It is perhaps timely that I spoke with Juste on the matter right after the moving production called 'At the Barricades', which the Théatre de la Cathédrale so wonderfully performed, its dedication to the darker side of man unflinching. When the play called for the domineering, cruel taskmistress to die, I could almost feel Bertrand's blade in my chest once more as the knife was brought down. There was such destruction and loss, something that is indeed tangible in the more dangerous districts. Now that preparations have been made and sponsorship has been gained, it is our hope that our plans shall be permitted to flourish, irrespective of the opposition I am certain we shall face.

I hope that we can continue on this path without being forced to become political. Baron de Larose warned me about getting involved in such matters, and now the poor man is missing, presumed dead. To think that he sought me as the executor of his will so soon before his disappearance. It seems he knew exactly what destiny had in store for him.

Let us see if the destiny I am choosing to forge remains steadfast in this place of duplicity.

1.

Artist

[emptyanima]

As I feared, the spread of rumour (however true) has proved a stumblingblock to our plans. The Palais Dirigeant felt like a prison closing around me as the clerk spouted all his slurs and insults, and dared to use all these accusations to try and wrestle every solar he could from my desperate fingers.

But I would not-- while my name may have been sullied, I shall not concede my integrity. There shall be another path to take, even if the way is more difficult-- we shall have to ensure that we are shod with resilience to keep the sharp debris in our way from drawing blood. They called him an abomination. Their eyes are drawn to the few features which mark him out as different, the legacy of his blood, but they avoid his own gaze, human and warm.

Juste did all he could to try and bring the clerk to reason, and while he at least deigned to speak with him (which he would not do unless I left the building, so offensive was my presence), no change or apology was made. While the Baron apologised privately for his outburst, which I did appreciate, I have asked if he might try to clear my name, but I fear that it may be much too late. It has fallen into the mire, and in my silence, there it remains. But if it must remain in the mire for me to remain honest to my innermost feelings, that is how it must be, at least for now. One hopes that they shall find something of substance to discuss amongst themselves. Perhaps pigs might fly.

But there is much loveliness which captivates my thoughts. I know that the path we have chosen shall not ease, but I know in my innermost being that it is the right one. I do not have to wear a mask of pretence or of sanctimoniousness. Instead, there is a mutual comfort that is not slovenly or improper, a security that cannot be rivalled. While some of our plans have indeed been delayed by a rash tongue, others progress. This joy shall be hard-fought, I know it as surely as I know Man to be mortal. But when I am in his presence, delighting in the comfort and warmth it brings, all the fear and loathing melts away.

We shall go into this battle boldly, girded by the support of the other.

[1]

1.

Cyberaeon

[emptyanima]

We needed this, a time of quiet. Retreat from the oft-harsh public eye, to be free of scrutiny for a time— this is not surrender. Nay, I feel that that distance has afforded me a depth of clarity that I could not otherwise have grasped.

I am to divide my time between two callings; my former duty— that of instructing the young, and a duty that is new, yet I meet both with love and devotion. Come morning, I shall teach, taking great pains over the content of my instruction (for children are so very impressionable, and even the gentlest word leaves its mark upon them), and when at home, I shall learn, seeking always to be precisely what he needs, nay, what he deserves. Yet, without being proud, I shall say that I feel well-adjusted to the duties of a wife, for they come to me as easily as breathing.

For all that is required of me is love, and that is something I will always give to him freely. We are inextricably bound, sharing all that we have, and all that we are. There is such sweet sanctuary in his arms.

Yet we cannot always remain hidden away within that safe haven, for that is not the way of the world. Our plans have not fallen by the wayside, for a fall is not deliberate. They were simply set aside while we took respite. I feel so refreshed by it, so very alive! There is much for which I am grateful. Oh, were it not for him, I would have died long ago, a footnote in the awful annals of a monster, thinly-masked, who mercifully has not sought to harm me thereafter. Perhaps justice has since been meted out.

Soon, I shall return to my unfinished manuscripts. Soon, perhaps, we shall pursue again those plans from afore. Only time shall tell if the damage that was done is irrevocable.

I must be ironclad.

[emptyanima]

~Edith's handwriting is shakier, here, and the page is marred by the imprints of dried tears.~

I have been foolish and selfish in equal measure. I have so long tried to deny the marks left on me by the duplicitous ways of this place, so long suppressed a well of emotion deep within my spirit... oh, heaven! There is so much to record, and I feel now that I must, for to confide in these pages is to hurt no one but myself. Perhaps in setting it all down, I might find clarity.

I arrived late to the memorial of Miss Delaroux, much to my chagrin. It was a beautiful celebration of a life largely unknown to me. The respect and gentleness of the departed lady's friends visibly moved the Baron de Corbie. Afterwards, however, that air of gentleness was dispelled by an awful realisation, and with it came a wave of fear. I knew that he was a man of importance, but I had not guessed at his power, the true breadth of his influence. I heard of his acts of charity, and the praise lavished upon the Comte de Cantigny.

I knew him only as Jacques Bertrand.

I had to excuse myself, then. It did not go unnoticed. Juste followed, departing with me. He encouraged me to warn the Comte's partner in charity, a pleasant young woman named Miss Descoteaux. I have made her aware of that man's true nature. I can only hope that I was not too late. I still find myself looking over my shoulder, hesitant to remain in one place for long in the City of Lights. This fear has begun to wear me down, but it is not the only emotion that consumes me.

I placed far too much hope upon the charge that the Baron de Corbie gave me. I must note here how differently I feel about that man, now. The loss of Miss Delaroux has affected him deeply, and he does not squawk as he used to. I have endeavoured to be a friend to him where possible, for I know that to be alone while one grieves increases the burden of feeling twofold. He has long hoped that two children, that were brought to the city after one of the campaigns of the Company of the Fox, would be brought into his care, to become members of the House de Coursay. Luc and Marjorie are dear children, but they have suffered more than any so young should. I leapt at the chance to become their governess, believing that I could be a true help to them. Such work is a vocation, an occupation that gives me purpose and fulfilment. Of course, I had more selfish reasons. It is in the nature of people to desire that which we cannot have; being married to a man who cannot sire children (and having no desire to make a cuckold of him!), I hoped to find my maternal desires sated in their care.

The Baron, Mr. Worsley (now his retainer) and I met with the children's temporary guardians, Captain and Mrs. Cal'Raheal. The minutes of deliberation within the penthouse of the hotel felt like hours, but at last, the Judge declared that the children would live with the Baron de Corbie. I stepped forth to lead Luc and Marjorie to their new abode, when Captain Cal'Raheal stooped to such depths in his desperation to retain custody. I know that he acted out of a desire to help the children, but his methods broke my heart. He asked, bluntly, if I still kept the company of that 'large caliban', and if he would be permitted to be close to the children. Anger swelled within me, and I took a leaf of parchment from my waistcoat pocket, showing him the writ of protection that Juste bestowed him. Looking back, this was quite foolish. I had attempted to prove that my closeness to Mr. Chastain was innocent, but in so doing, I must have raised the question as to why I needed such protection. He did not voice this question, however, instead asking if he would be allowed to be close to them.

If only they knew him as I do. As I have written before, a single digit of one of his hands is filled with more of man's potential for goodness than the whole bodies of other men. I said that he we could come to an arrangement by which Mr. Chastain did not go near the children (as much as it pained me to say it). As the matter seemed resolved, I stepped forward to take charge, when the little girl cried out and clung to Mrs. Cal'Raheal's skirts. She is a warm and personable woman, and it was clear to me in the time I spent there that she doted upon the children. I could not blame Mrs. Cal'Raheal, or little Marjorie, for her attachment.

As I moved again to separate Mrs. Cal'Raheal from Marjorie (guilt tugging at me all the while), Marjorie fled into her room. Mrs Cal'Raheal and I followed, when the little girl shut her door behind her. I apologised, then, and embraced the woman. We both have the interests of the little ones at heart, and we know how impressionable they are. It is why we must be so careful around them.

The Baron, clearly pained by his words (and the wound wrought him by Mr. Cal'Raheal's comment), announced then that the children should remain with their temporary guardians. The situation only fragmented further, after that. It emerged that the Baron had bribed the judge (for which he deeply apologised-- I believe that he too acted out of a desperation born of loneliness). The judge stormed out, leaving poor Luc rather perplexed. As yet, their fate remains unresolved. Luc wishes to go with the Baron, while Marjorie wishes to stay with Mrs. Cal'Raheal. We promised that we would all discuss this again soon in a calm fashion. I hope that I will receive an apology from Mr. Cal'Raheal, but I do not hold my breath.

With this mental image painted, I do not doubt why I was so emotionally fragile when I spoke with my husband again, why I wept in his embrace, and why I catch a haggard, weary face in the looking glass opposite me as I write.

A final fear consumes me, overwhelming all the others. What decision have you made, my love? What price shall you pay?

I cannot lose you.

[emptyanima]

It is at this time that I cling more tightly to my blessings. Captain Cal’Raheal apologised to me for his conduct, which was a relief enough without the joy that followed; he and his wife have told me that they wish me to be their governess for Luc and Marjorie. Whatever is decided when the Cal’Raheals’ and the Baron have their discussion, it seems the outcome shall be favourable for me. I shall return to my vocation yet!

Other matters have kept me busy—I have begun to teach a woman named Cailey Arna of ladylike and proper behaviour. She has been an eager student, if somewhat brash, but I shall endeavour to temper that spirit as she allows. It has been some time since our last lesson— I hope she is well. I ought to try to contact her again soon. I also eagerly await Juste's response in the matter of his newest recruit to the gendarme, as it seems he has adopted a similar approach to mine, so I may be able to assist him in his training.

All these have proved welcome distractions. The Baron was attacked at his soiree, which direly soured the party for many. I am simply glad that the assailant did not succeed, though I am told there were... whispers about it being planned. As I have yet to determine the validity of these assertions, I shall not spread them about, especially not while Anselme is recovering. Miss Descoteaux said that she would leave Dementlieu for good, during the party. I hope that she shall write, once she is settled elsewhere.

I have been so filled with worry for so long; at times it has come close to overwhelming me. I must steel myself, trust in the friends that I have and refuse to give up my search.

You are missed dearly.

[emptyanima]

[Knelt beside the sleeping form of Franz Kubel, a worn Edith writes in her journal.]

The flames have spread.

It was inevitable that, however true and justified the Baron's complaints were, they have fanned the flames of anger and unrest among the Dementlieuse people, both rich and poor. Of course, once a flame has escaped its bounds, it is nigh-impossible to control. It was not channeled into constructive action-- how could it have been? The blood spilt by the Hawks in the Revolution is still too near, the wound much too fresh. In their minds, their actions are vindicated by their own loss. Blood for blood. An eye for an eye.

Their desire for vengeance has twisted them. They have come to regard all Falkovnians with scorn. Up went loud cries of violent intent, and soon after, a Falkovnian family was dragged before the throng at the Palais. I endeavored to peer across the thunderous crowd, realising too late that the father was being trampled to his end beneath Dementliese feet, both expensively and cheaply-shod. How awful, that these people have only found common ground in miserable bloodlust! The mother fled, pursued by a part of the angry mob. I made my decision, then, attention fixed upon the little boy that remained. A woman began to strike at the Falkovnian boy, while a gruff man called for him to be drowned in the Baie. Finally, I forced my way through the mob and ran to the boy's side, shielding him from foolish, bloody vengeance behind my skirts.

Then a rock was thrown, sailing past one of the gendarmes who had come to disperse the crowds. All sense evaporated. Steel was drawn and blood was shed.

I pulled the shocked and cowering little man away from the violence, as nobleman and commoner alike lurched against the gendarmes; blue and common blood mingled upon the cobbles. The crowd at last dispersed, but I know that the violence and vandalism did not cease. In the awful ensuing quiet beside the Palais, the heavens opened, washing the blood from the stones.

The little boy asked after his mother and father. I told him what I knew. Mr Godfort, who had been present to commemorate Anselme's speech in paint, offered the boy wordless comfort. At this point, Juste approached us, entreating us to go to the gendarmerie. The boy clung to my hand as though it was the only flesh and blood he knew. Protectively, I led him through the streets, until at last we reached the building.

Anselme stood there. The little boy watched him with hatred in his youthful face, but remained silent.  We discussed what should be done with the Falkovnian lad; Anselme suggested that I care for him. I looked down at the boy, awaiting his answer. His grip upon my hand remained tight. I nodded. Mr Godfort told me of a woman he knows who might help me in this; I assured him that such aid would not be turned away.

This decided, Juste guarded us on our journey to the Hotel; the establishment is better guarded than the Manor Retreat. As we entered the room, the little one studied the room with dull eyes. He uttered a soft complaint in his tongue-- Juste told him that his home was gone. The boy slowly approached the footstool at the foot of the bed, sat upon it, lowered his head and wept. Juste is deeply troubled by the whole affair, concerned that his commands fell on deaf ears and that all control was lost. I tried to console Juste and the boy wept more loudly, throwing his grief-stricken tiny form onto the double bed behind him. As I tried to make him more comfortable there, I asked Juste if he would teach me the Falkovnian tongue, that I might better care for the boy, as my charge. He agreed, though he seemed surprised.

I locked the door as he departed, then prepared a cup of chamomile tea for the boy (that his troubled spirit might have temporary succor) remaining beside him until he wept himself into a fitful sleep. I shall endeavor to bring some joy and comfort into his young, dark life. I have read of the terrors of Falkovnia. To think that he escaped one cruel fate, only to flee into another... from the frying pan into the fire, he leapt.

Juste has asked Magda to guard me when I am in public, for now, while all the violence dies down. Magda thinks it is a waste, and that those involved will not be swift to repeat the events of yesterday, but she agreed nonetheless. I agree with her, out of both hope and understanding. That primal moment has passed. I hope all its aftershocks die away soon.

There is only so much worry that I can bear alone.

Come back to me, Leandre.

[emptyanima]

[Bent over the page, pen in hand, Edith scrawls feverishly, candlelight playing upon her worn features.]

It is my chiefest fear that I shall be led into a trap that I have long tried to avoid, only this time, perhaps they would be right to take me.

What do I know to be real? I know that my student, Miss Arna, is a fine young woman, whose excellent qualities cannot be obscured by her rustic, earthy manner. I know that I sense in her a drive to improve, a call to purpose and an admiration of strength. I know that she is clever and wit comes easily to her. I know that I can trust her, and at present, this seems to bring me comfort.

I know that Juste is weary, as I am weary. I know that we are both afraid, but he bears his concerns with a more convincing mask of contentment than mine. I know that he endeavours to draw a smile from me, or laughter, when we meet. I know that I smile little, of late.

But oh, how I smiled when news of my husband came! I know that he is safe, and this too brings me comfort. That comfort begins to vanish, however, when I consider what I would say to him if I saw him now, how I would burden him with all my many worries. I close my eyes and try to anchor myself in further certainties, pleasant certainties. Now my eye is drawn to that Falkovnian boy, and my heart eases a little. Despite the rhetoric that echoes across each strata of this city, spilling from the lips of the rich upon the ears of the deprived, the boy is safe. My boy is safe.

Is he safe? He is with me, but I do not feel safe at all. Will this locked door be enough? No, now I am dwelling upon uncertainties again.

I cast my mind back to that rhetoric. The speeches. Those faces. The raucous cries for blood and vengeance, the tears of a little boy. The second speech is no better.

His face.

I have felt him watching me again. Those white eyes were on me at the speech. He tried to touch me. He mocked me. Later, I felt his gaze on me as we searched for the lawyer's office. I should have know then to turn away, to surrender, but I defied him again.

I am rarely the one to pay the price for my defiance. Two of the Gerrard family lie dead, and their blood is on my hands. My cowardice silenced me; I knew that he had made a threat against the doctor's life, and I knew that he does not make empty threats.

That monster made the doctor, advanced in years, run until his heart gave out. It was with his dying breaths that he spoke the truth of his findings, and the evil of Bertrand, to his son. When he examined me, he gave a false diagnosis to the gendarme (hysteria, namely). As he saw to me, he told me to run. I still hear that voice in my dreams. If only I had not answered the door, not believed the voice I thought I heard!

My silence tore a father from his sons. In begging the son, Jean-Maurice, to break his silence, I condemned him too. All he asked was for mastery over his own end. He knew it was coming; what we tried to dismiss as the paranoia of a grieving man turned out to be all too real. I placed the flintlock Miss Arna gave to me in his grip once he had spoken to me, that he might end his life on his own terms and protect his loved ones that remain. I cannot blame Juste and Breeze for what they did; the guilt that weighed upon me as I handed him the flintlock was like lead. Breeze cast a spell upon him to send him into a deep sleep. Taking back the flintlock, I searched Jean-Maurice's desk for what he claimed lay within, and found it. I have the true report of Doctor Gerrard's examination; its seal shall remain unbroken and its contents hidden until the time is right. I can only hope that the time is near.

We tried to keep him safe. Juste called upon two of his men to escort Jean-Maurice into custody (for his own safety). For a moment, I did not believe my own eyes when they did not turn the corner as I expected. They turned away from the gendarmerie, not towards it. I voiced this to Juste, and we hurried after them, trying to find the reason for this disobedience.

We found Jean-Maurice dead in an alleyway, his form riddled with stab wounds... (I cling to vain hope that he might have remained asleep when he was slain, so that he did not feel that pain). The Fox Company uniforms lay in a heap beside him. I know that Bertrand is behind this... I know that he is everywhere. I try to focus on the bravery of those men, in daring to believe me, to believe the evil of that man...

Was I worth it, Doctor Gerrard, for you to die for my sake?

Death has been burnt into my eyes. I see the Gerrards when I close them. I see Franz' mother and father, bleeding upon the cobbles.

Earlier, I saw the bodies of women strewn across the Quartier Publique. A moment later, they vanished from my sight, and I saw the living return. This phantasmagoria... this dream-like image, a distorted shadow of reality... are these the machinations of a worn, troubled mind? Or does Bertrand still toy with me, even from a distance?

I cannot decide which is more terrifying. If my grip loosens upon my faculties, I will be more vulnerable, and so too will Franz and Miss Arna, and all I hold dear...

That is why I cannot stand against him until we have more evidence. If I can be dismissed as a madwoman, it shall be done.

That is why I keep this record of recent events, lest the time come when I no longer know what is true, or what is phantasmagoria.

[emptyanima]

_{Edith, with Luc and Marjorie.}
[1]

My days are full, of late.

Largely, they are filled with troubling matters; fear, doubt and worry. I do my best to keep myself from dwelling upon these things, but I know that I must do so, from time to time, that I might one day hope to stand against them.

I must be brave.

For the sake of the dear children I teach, I had to speak frankly with Tabitha. I hope that I have not caused her to fear as I fear, ever-looking over my shoulder. She was as kind as ever, and although she spoke words of admonishment, it was clear that they came from a place of concern. Still, to have spoken of these things to her has lifted a burden from my shoulders. She has told me that she will be most discreet in keeping all that I have told her. I trust her to do as she says.

Cailey has remained as firm a support as ever, even while she learns more and more of the flaws of this place. Yet, despite these flaws, she remains. I have already fled my home once. I had no desire to do so again. For then he would be victorious! Where would I go? Where would I take Franz, bring Cailey? Who would teach Luc and Marjorie? I have too much here to depart. My duties and delights have intertwined, and many of them are here.

I have seen my dear husband again. I have told him of all he might have missed, all which our friend did not relay. To hear his voice, to feel his broad arms around me, to savour the sweetness of an embrace; their effect was as restorative to my spirit as good medicine is to an invalid. He is safe, and while we cannot always be together in person, we are sure in the knowledge that I am ever in his thoughts, and he in mine; I reflect upon him in my daily meditations, and he brings me before his god in prayer. How fortunate that I am, to be able to press my lips to that which I adore! This is not something I can allow myself to forget.

I need to tell him of my new plan. Perhaps it is foolish, but no course seems to be wholly wise, especially doing nothing at all. We have seen for ourselves the way of the Dementlieuse justice system. How twisted was Anselme’s path? I believed that he had improved, mellowed from his former swings of temperament and anger. Oh, how I pitied his loneliness! I have been reminded that even men under the sway of their darker halves can suffer, for I do not doubt the sincerity of his former woe. How cruel would I be to disbelieve his grief?

The trial was a sham in all respects. It was brief and vague, and had no time for interruption or objection. The most serious charges were omitted. The judge and the accused had prior dealings, in which bribes were passed, that I witnessed for myself. If Anselme’s trial was like this, how much more dangerous will be to bring any charge against him?

I felt his presence behind me at the trial. Perhaps I imagined his gaze heavy against me. Perhaps I did not. Yet while my faith in justice is shaken, and while I fear what might happen to me if a trial failed, I know an even worse fate would await those who rose against him in violence. How many more of the gendarmes have been turned by him? How many might be use as informants? I know that he sees all, hears all…

He may already know of my plan, but if so… what betrayal that would require! I have spoken it only to those I trust with all, even with my life. I hope fervently that his connections are not the kind which has been suggested, for two men lacking compunction, working in unholy union, are even more dangerous than when they are alone, their depraved thoughts swelling with yet more cunning intelligence.

I consider the fragments of this plan very closely. To deal with a cunning foe, one must also be cunning. I confess that I am afraid; how close to the boundaries of my convictions must I tread? Yet I remind myself that it is only the depravity of my foe that might lead to its success—it is his own lasciviousness that will condemn him, not mine. But if it fails?
Perhaps I should assure that my affairs are in order. A troubling thought, but I must remain pragmatic. If I give into panic, as he wants for me, my plan, or any plan, is doomed to failure. I must draw from that well of inner strength. I must reflect upon the kind words spoken softly by dear friends.

May I prevail yet! May I break the chains bound about me by my tormentor before they tighten, condemning me to a life of paranoia, madness, and a swift death.

I shall be brave.

[A sketch is added to the portfolio, entitled 'Franz'.]

[2]

1.	Credit: Selenada
2.	Credit: Kotocca

[emptyanima]

It has been quieter, of late, and while I cannot say that I miss the dramatic air to proceedings, it has also done little to allay my concerns.

I cannot turn Cailey away, but given her report of that dangerous mistake, I am wary that she, Franz and I may be in greater danger for it. As I look upon Franz now, my heart wells which such a flood of feeling; he is as dear to me as my own flesh, and I treat him as such; I wish to adopt him formally as my own. He is a strong boy who has faced far too much for one so little. While I too was made an orphan in youth, I had more time with my own parents than Franz did, neither did I lose them in such a sudden, bloody moment. When my mother and father grew ill, I had time to come to terms with what would follow. There was space for farewells and final embraces. Not so with poor Franz. That he has borne it so well inspires great hope in me; I desire nothing more for him to grow into a fine young man, well-educated and content, to forge his own path. And while I cannot ever replace the mother that he has lost, I would do that I can for him. I was denied my own children a long time ago, when my husband (then unknown to me) was mutilated. It is perhaps why I take to caring for Franz with such relish, though it is not a far step from my vocation as a governess. I wish that we did not have to rise early for him to play outside in safety-- one day, I swear it, Franz, you shall be able to enjoy your youth as a little boy should.

Cailey has grown much since her coming to Port-a-Lucine; I sense in her a depth of maturity that either she did not have or concealed from me at our first meeting. I am confident that she shall continue to progress well. I am proud of her, though I hope that she has bridled her tongue when it comes to confidential matters. It was a hard lesson that she learned, but I believe she has learned it well.

Upon a happier note, Juste and Magda asked me to lead their wedding ceremony. It was an honour and a privilege, and I am pleased to report that it was well-received. The Marceaux estate gardens were utterly charming, and the aisle, flanked with blossoming trees, provided a striking entrance for Magda. She was radiant in her gown (though its cut was a little less traditional than I would have chosen). The couple regarded each other with such devotion, I almost shed a tear. The ceremony passed without incident, aside from Magda's confusion over the fireworks that were set of at its conclusion (I am not surprised that she was concealing a blade in her wedding dress). She and Juste had prepared vows; it was curious to hear Magda speak at some length of her affection, when she is usually so dour and difficult to impress. Such is the power of love, I would wager. They are both stubborn creatures, but I know that as they are bound together into one unit, they shall be even stronger.

I wished them a happy marriage and a blissful honeymoon, though I shall await their return, especially the Vicomte's, with bated breath.