Memoirs of Divine Mandate

[Mereyn]

Preface

You have not observed beauty, the likes of which comparable to nothing else,
until you have seen the insignificance of your life delivered unto you by a blade piercing your chest.
Only to be revivified and find your true purpose.

I rarely pray these days. In fact, I had ceased not long after I became an ordained Anchorite.
Not out of hubris, the belief that my supposed ascension to Her Grace would elevate me above others,
but that now I would not ask Her... not beg of Her unless necessary. Once I passed the veil of mists,
knowledge poured over me like rain. To follow in Our Guardian's steps means to become the pillar that all must be balanced on.
You are to be Her Hand where it must be. You are to defy the nature of these cursed lands with every breath and beyond.
You are to sacrifice no one but yourself to fulfill the path that you walk in the Grand Scheme. Such is our lot, and so it must be.

These are the few words I have chosen for the preface of my records on all my travels and experiences in the Core,
ranging from my servitude in Vallaki, to various affiliations around Barovia and beyond.
If any eyes but mine and those close to me are to read this, I wish for it to impart some wisdom.
Particularly to Acolytes and young Anchorites, whose faith cannot be based on dogma alone,
but also must show a profound care for the ideals that our path in the Grand Scheme entails.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Fabio Almanico, Anchorite of the Home Faith
Warden of Ezra

[Mereyn]

Chapter I, Record I

All events are preceded by the Grand Scheme, fate's grace being dealt by a coin toss.
One side hopes for the coin to land head up, while the other wishes for the reverse.
However, neither of the apparent sides will result in the necessary balance.
But suppose you throw a coin enough times... suppose one day, it lands on its edge.

It was years ago that two Borcan Acolytes arrived in Barovia from the west. Both of them found shelter in the night near the gates of Vallaki.
One of these Acolytes was of the Pure Hearts, the other much more common for Borca -- of the Home Faith. Just as the Grand Scheme would have it,
these two Acolytes, only wearing the white robes that were given to them, were greeted by a resident Anchorite within the inn.
The following dawn they were led to the Refuge of the Fifth Light, the largest congregation of Barovia.
Lucilla Giuccardini dy Levkarest and Fabio Almanico dy Lechberg were accepted and recorded into training in Vallaki by Leonar Arndon,
a Warden of Her Home Faith. They both then received arms and armor, as well as the necessary equipment for their lessons.

Our training began the same day in an excercise of humility. Like many others before us we were given a mop, a broom and a bucket of water,
to clean the Refuge of the Fifth Light. Afterwards Arndon held the first lesson on theology, after which we were free to become acquainted with our surroundings.
But Barovia is as harsh a teacher as its Master is to His servants. Where Acolytes in Borca or Mordent would enjoy a much less dangerous environment to test the waters,
Barovia made exceptions to teach us the most important part of our duties -- but also the frail nature of the relationship between the Sects.
Not long after our arrival we were greeted then by a resident of Von Zeklos Keep's chapel, Raduta. Among the profanities this Toret shouted, were claims of the worst kind.
That we, the Acolytes, had been poisoned by false teachings. A remnant of bad blood that would later spill over in the War of the Copper Knives.

As our training continued we collected donations for the mausoleum of Vallaki, excercised our skills in proselytizing and patience, and strengthened our resolve for our trials.
Before we would be ordained, however, we would face heretics -- another curiosity of Barovia's circumstance.
Hardly any Anchorite would allow Acolytes to delve too deeply into the falsehoods and darkness that emanated from the trickery of the Mists of Death,
but we withstood them all the same. An iron will can tip the scales that decide over one's soul, which is the most precious currency in this grim skirmish.
And also the most dismissed...

[Mereyn]

Chapter I, Record II

There he stood, unsung bastard heir to the disgraced and fallen. His visage was one of iron serenity, affixed to his skull with bolts.
Though his expressions were shielded from mortal eyes, his acts of devotion showed an unrivaled understanding of his role.
In his past lie many mysteries, as the future remains unclear, but in the present he set his unending goal.
Redemption.

The trials an Acolyte is faced with are only a drop in the ocean that they must face, should they be found worthy.
Yet in their task they are often granted some of Her Grace, a symbol of Her trust -- but also a lesson in loyalty as well as discipline.
Without the Shield, they are more vulnerable to the all too mortal folly. Believing that power is theirs to do with as they please.
But there are also those of Our Guardian's Church who bear the same weight and receive no such blessings from Her directly.

In our training we have met such a man, a native to Lechberg as I. Templar de'Scusa was our mentor in all martial matters,
but his talents far exceeded that field alone. After he had pulled us through a rigorous training the studious bibliophiles in Levkarest were strangers to,
we understood that above all, we are meant to endure. Any man can kill with a blade, or his hands if he must,
yet much less common are those who would extend their own limb to save another. Slaying the creatures of the Mists of Death is no joy, and no goal.
Death in the Hollow begets a mockery of life. In salvation, as the Pure Hearts teach, the Hollow is filled. All Anchorites regardless of Sect must realize,
our foremost ideal is balance. And so we endure not merely the torment of violence -- we endure knowing that we may never save all.

Templar de'Scusa taught this lesson as it must be taught, by example. Not many will choose our path, if they cannot find our backs infront of them,
so that they know we walk with them.

[Mereyn]

Chapter I, Record III

His crown a hat without feather, only adorned by a plume, resting atop a fatherly wise head.
A man from far beyond even to those estranged many within the Mists, brought on Her path by choice.
A Pure Heart visible through the veil of sorrow and pursuit sat within the heart of darkness.
His hand never failed, as his wisdom gave comfort and his mercy was without equal.

Perseverance is a vital thing. We learned this through all small acts we were taught to do. Be it colllecting donations for a charity,
or being a guide to those who needed us. An Anchorite's duty is as much emulating Her steps as it is finding one's own path,
to boldly pierce the dark and step through it. Far be it from us mortals to comprehend all that Her Mercy entails, but we are Her tool of deliverance.
Toret Byrne, who had the burden of watching over the Refuge of the Fifth Light as well as the Shrine of Dutiful Mercy, had shown himself to be that.

His path to the faith is an inspiring and curious one. Hailing from a distant land beyond the Mists, he learned the suffering a plague could bestow on people firsthand.
As he arrived within Barovia, he became witness to another plague that was wreaking havoc across the land. Without having been baptized,
he worked toward helping a cure being made, at the possible cost of his own life. Not long after he was initiated and mastered the trials of the Acolyte.
Despite suffering losses that only few can relate to, he made his choice with resolve and persevered. Of all the Anchorites we met in our training, he was the most stable pillar.

To be tossed into the devouring abyssal depths and emerge with only marks of epiphany and resolve, is what seperates laity from clergy.
One is expected to succeed, the other must.

[Mereyn]

Chapter I, Record IV

A sister in faith, youthful but with her own wealth of compassion beyond her years.
Pure was her heart even with the loss of her mother, but raised seeing those who knew no family of their own.
Against the grain of her homeland, she chose her role in the Grand Scheme, rather than bowing to decree.
It is not what the vessel appears as what matters, but how much it can hold. She had yet to burst.

An end came to our lessons, the time had come where we would experience our ascension. Or our downfall.
As with all things in life, one never truly ceases to learn, but now our teacher was as much the world as it was ourselves.
To prove our capacity to be that which is direly needed in the Hollow was our next step. The Ordination.
We were taught from the beginning that a fate much worse than death awaits those who fail.
The Ordination of an Acolyte to becoming an Anchorite is no formal ceremony. As an analogue to Her ascension,
we must walk the Mists as She did, and be judged.

No ordination is ever the same -- just as no man is quite the same. Whatever occurs within the Mists puts the Acolyte to a test,
one that has much to do with the ideals they must represent as an Anchorite, but also one of their character.
It takes only a small step for one's doom to be spelled. The Grand Scheme's grim play has many stages in store, our part is the crushing crescendo of the finale.

The first of us to be put to this trial was Lucilla Giuccardini, with whom I arrived. Toret Byrne supervised the opening of her mistway, as she was of the Second Sect.
Little else can and must be done for the Acolyte. Interference is neither possible, nor wise if it was. She entered the dreaded fog after we had spent a night in prayer.
Within she encountered many figures that tested her judgement. From her recounting of the experience insistence as well as mercy,
and a refusal to deny the choice of redemption, were the corners of her ordination. She hadn't just emerged as Lucilla Giuccardini, but as an Anchorite.

Our duty is not to walk the path. It is to be the path.

[Mereyn]

Chapter I, Record V

Catharsis. The cleansing feeling I had first discovered when my blood ran red and hot onto the cobble.
There was a reason for all that happened, and all which had yet to be,
just as the consequence that led to this moment was clear to me. That moment fear shed from me,
as Fabio Almanico the delinquent laid there dying, I could not help but laugh out loud in my realization.
I rose on the fifth day from my death-like slumber, dealt from Her hand, as the Acolyte.

To elaborate on the reason of this scripture's writing, I must elaborate on myself as well.
Some are led to service in Her name for influence, naive conviction, or from being forced for political gain.
My way had been different -- for good reason -- that I know for sure. Why it was I who was chosen escapes my understanding even now,
the only certainty lies in knowing that it is how it must be. Life passed by me as I drifted through it, wasting my family's gifts,
ignoring my intended purpose for them. The Grand Scheme led me to an inescapable consequence for a great misdeed, wrought by my hands.

It was to be tricked while I would, for the first time, offer my life for that of another. Only to be struck by the same who I'd sacrificed myself for.
And yet, when that moment came to be, I laughed. It was not her hand that held the dagger piercing my chest, but me.
Before I felt life's grasp loosening on me, I understood that like grains of sand, we could be swept away by the lightest gust.
With resolve I vowed that if not in this life, then in the next, I would act and not be an unmoving piece on the board, unsure of its purpose.
And so the Grand Scheme worked its way, putting my foot one step further on the road I was born to walk. I awoke a changed man.

As the serpent sheds its skin to be born anew, so did I shed the mantle of man to become the Shepherd.

[Mereyn]

Chapter 1, Record VI

In a time before, long past, a woman named Ezra walked the land.
She walked all roads in Her life stretching far and wide, caring for Her people.
But Her paths were finite and drew to an end, until She found the path no other walked.
Ad fortiter eundum quo nemo ante iit hominem

The closing for the first chapter of these records is a recollection of my own ordination.
It shall serve as a reminder for all those who read it, that even the untied threads of our lives' tapestry,
for which we may feel regret, are those which inevitably make us who we are. Beginning with a night of prayer, I knelt there in contemplation.
What would my trial be? Will I be one of the doomed? The only comfort was knowing that I received the best preparation one could hope to have.
The dawn's light barely crossed the walls of Vallaki as I walked towards the Refuge of the Fifth Light. Both my mentor Leonar Arndon,
and Sentire Costinus had created an entrance into the Mists for me, wherein the judgement and verdict awaited.

With nothing but the white robes that I wore upon my arrival I entered. At first there was only the fog's shroud concealing the path.
A sense of terrible mortal danger overcame me, it felt familiar as if I retraced steps of a dreaded memory.
All was silent like midnight, the only movement were tendrils of the Mist forming and retracting at the edges, I continued on.
It was not long before I came to a crossroads where two peculiar figures sat at a table, another vacant chair stood there.

For me.

Before I settled on the chair in this most macabre of places, I noticed the shapes of the figures becoming more defined.
One had a striking resemblance to myself. Clad in finery and a breastplate, his eyes were alight with a lively spark,
and he wore an easy, knowing smile. The other figure was obscured under a long tattered shroud, superstitious minds would think of it as death itself.
They both spoke to me in turn. My mirror image spoke of great things, promising liberty and a wealth unimaginable, beyond the material.
The shrouded one made no promises, it spoke only thus: "All things come to an end, good or ill. There is no choice in the inescapable but what you make of it.
Follow, if that is your way."
I sat, considering their words after they made clear that I had to follow one. The glorious figure was an image of what I yearned, a healing of scars both deep and old,
while the other's message echoed in my mind like a cruel dirge. An epiphany came to me before I made my final decision...
"There is no choice in the inescapable but what you make of it."

I took the shrouded figure's hand and followed quietly. The path behind us became shrouded, there was no turning back.
A scene all too familiar to me unraveled before us. I knew what I had to do, something I had done before but still found regret in.
Without a word I broke into the scenic fight -- a memory of the failed assassination on me. Despite knowing that her blade would strike me again,
I attacked the common thugs who feigned the mugging to rouse my attention. This time it was different, however. She faded from view, dissipating into fog.
Then my shrouded companion moved closer, lowering his hood and revealing, at last, another image of myself. It gently tapped my shoulder with a whisper:
"It is time. You know what follows.", and so cold steel pierced my chest. The Mists were beginning to fill me, suffocate me, but as I looked down I laughed out loud.

The trial never ends.

[Mereyn]

Chapter 2, Record I

Shades and terror are the bars of our cage, deceit and hatred abound. Neither the claw that rends,
the hand that steals breath nor the mouth which feasts on life are the true weapons of the enemy.
It is our own will. A life was given so long ago to consume the woe and beget hope.
Suffering is our supper and we dine on anguish, as a mirror to the dark forces. In our wake hope will be left.
For when the time comes, their ranks shall be empty.

Time is said to heal all wounds eventually, but that is not so with this world. Infact I doubt that it can be true in any other,
no matter how much better they are supposed to be. Only a continued effort may allow us to outpace the past and find the future that we seek.
Such is the case with all heresies that span across the Core -- many of which are insignificant mockeries. From pointless debates as to Our Guardian's sex,
to the belief that there may be living descendants of Her. But Barovia has spawned a legacy of its own to deserve a record. Of all the heresies,
the one born in the accursed Von Zeklos Keep; the Wurtbeich heresy is the most notorious for its vile exploits and deranged degeneracy.
Despite their supposed defeat, having been purged by the Count himself, the rats managed to scatter regardless and so their legacy continued.

By the time that I had come to Barovia they were more of a bad memory at first sight, than an actual threat. This assessment was soon to be proven wrong,
as the War of the Copper Knives came to its peak and the infamous former inhabitants of Raduta -- Zealots under Heinrych Frauenlob's command,
possessed the audacity to enter the war as vassals not to Her, but to a boyar. The present divide and conflict between congregations opened up ample opportunity.
While it is uncertain whether the influence of the curse has taken over the Anchorites of the congregation at the time, it makes little difference in the end as all have left.
The Fourth's vigil ended in a massacre, as I am sure Bastion Raines would be pleased to hear, for such gruesome displays only help to further his message.

All remaining Templars of the Fourth had been slaughtered by the keep's undead inhabitants after misleading an inquisitorial investigation and disobeying orders.
For ones so keen on keeping a stern watch over the piety of those within our ranks, it is only truth that the day these men were posted on these walls was a loss.
However the blame lies not with the men themselves entirely, it was the arrogance to believe that such a festering wound could be left to the care of few.
Or one.
Deathly silence clung like a shroud to the keep after the investigation Inquisitor Martel led, in which we meet a remaining vampire of the Zeklos line.
In our wait for reinforcements from Levkarest it was left to me to watch over the desolate ruin. No mad vision or whisper of seduction has visited me in the week that I had been there.
The quiet itself was a sign that this had just been the beginning. I had left the chapel by daylight for brief patrols on the wall inbetween prayer and contemplation.
It was here that I came to accept the inevitable. Or perhaps the chance of it overcoming me there. The Erudites say that both the Legion and we are sides of a coin,
which after thorough consideration is more astute than some think. Our predestined fates are a mystery, wherein even an Anchorite could lose all that is holy to them.
With this grim epiphany I steeled my mind against whatever dared to invade it. Yet nothing did, I was left unscathed by this trial to continue to the next, after I was relieved.

Our place in the world does not lie where we have been, or where we will be, but where we are in the present.

[Mereyn]

Chapter 2, Record II

Pride is the epitome of a monster's weakness, indeed it is the only trait they all share.
It is no coincidence then that pride is something we share with them as well.
Through the taint we know suffering, through discipline and humility we overcome.
And through fortitude and courage we persevere.

There are many sayings in all of the Core's more civilized lands imploring caution. Most who are born to these grow to live by them,
though hardly understanding the reasons of their origin in truth. However there is also a recklessness to those from within the Mists,
just as those coming from the fabled outside worlds. Both are extremes that people easily follow, people who lack understanding of the world,
and the wisdom to step beyond their ignorance. What some consider bravery and valor is often the mere product of views that can,
or perhaps will, be twisted. The punishment is usually physical, a maiming of the body, an irrevocable trauma through acts of depravity.
I had once encountered a makeshift army of so-called adventurers hunting a peculiar lycanthrope of Barovia.

They set out at night, with the intent to slay the beast. None of them came prepared for even a fight against its minions.
In their number they felt sure of their plan, drunk with hubris that would cost them dearly, though not as much as it may have,
had I not intervened. By some inexplicable machination of the Grand Scheme I found them in the middle of the slaughter.
Large wolves of fur like snow who breathed ice tore the most vulnerable to pieces, as the lycanthrope, 'Ghosthowl' announced itself.
With its gargantuan claw the creature ripped apart even more as they hopelessly fought against it. By Her Grace I was able to direct its attention to me.
I had scarce blessings to protect myself, but I held my shield up, taking a stance to relax as best as I could while it wailed on me.

Even while I only sought to buy time I had managed to wound the werewolf greatly, directing its blows to leave an opening.
After hours of battle the blood-drenched field was cast in the early rays of dawn, and with them came the wounded beast's escape.
It was then that I turned to deal with the casualties, there was no reason for pursuit, to save a life is more valuable than to end one.
Though some admitted to their mistake having witnessed my exhausting battle against the creature, the one who led the initial attack remained in her ways.

A sign of true courage is not to stand against impossible odds wherever they are, it is to willingly and knowingly give yourself for something that extends beyond your own life.
Be it fighting so that others may not have to, or swearing to aid and heal all regardless of their past. Sacrifice is not a loss of one's self, it is the greatest act to express it.
It is why She gave Her very essence to provide us with the means to find the day after this long night, why Anchorites must be ready to follow suit.

Duty remains in this life and the next, an ideal never dies.