E morte vita ∞ Proserpine Viator

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Name: Proserpine Viator
Meaning: To emerge; Traveler
Age: 20 Yrs.
Race: Human

Student of Sentience, Essence and Scatebrae
Origin: Maykle - The Vale of Tears, Darkon (Ravenloft Native)

"Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides."

Test Drive - John Powell

1.	Image by http://mindlesslyred.tumblr.com/post/157591701033/some-magical-nerd

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[At the beginning of this well-loved, well-kept tome, a a transcription has been carefully written.]

In the beginning, the world was dead, a Grey Realm devoid of color or passion. Time was meaningless; progress unimaginable. Pale, flittering spirits of the dead – of the never born – populated the Gray Realm. These shades wandered aimlessly through a meaningless existence while watched over by the myriad faces of death: a grim reaper for every slip of the mortal coil, a veritable pantheon of doom. In a sense, these reapers were all extensions of a single entity: Death itself, the very embodiment of entropy, the end of all things. Death ruled over the Gray Realms with its three most terrible companions, the Horsemen: Sickness, Starvation, and Strife, the three woes of humankind.

Darkonese words have very precise definitions, but the word arcana means both “supernatural” and “secret.” This is, obviously, the origin of the “arcane” tradition of magic. Secrets and power are firmly united in the Darkonian mind.

What gave Death its power over the Gray Realms was the secret it held. Death alone possessed the knowledge of its antithesis, life. Eons passed unnoticed while Death gloated over its little secret. Eventually, and entirely by chance, a flittering spirit called Darkonos happened to steal a glimpse at Death’s captive. A mere moment passed before Death hid its toy away, but that brief glimpse of the silvery light flowing on Death’s ebony clutches tainted Darkonos with the alien sensations of curiosity, identity, and purpose. Darkonos was not alive, but he was no longer truly dead.

The enlightened Darkonos longed to claim the spark of life. With newly opened eyes, he learned the secrets of the Gray Realms. Through him, the world saw magic before it saw life. Darkonos could not unlock the mystery of life, but he discovered a pale imitation: the crude animating force imbued within golems.

Eventually, Death learned of the unusual spirit and had Darkonos dragged before its throne. Darkonos proudly proclaimed that he had stolen the secret of life.

“You lie. pale thing,” hissed Death, and it defied Darkonos to prove his claim. Darkonos gladly revealed his creation: a tiny manikin constructed from bits of bone and tendon. He set the crude doll on the floor and bid it to dance. And it danced.

“I have given these bones the secret of life,” boasted Darkonos. “How could I not possess it?”
“You lie,” raged Death, “for life is still within my grasp!” With that, Death revealed the spark of life. Darkonos immediately leapt forward and seized the spark, placing it within himself. He became the first living thing, and life’s power expanded within his beating heart.

Death ordered the mage stopped. As one, the Horseman struck Darkonos down before he could take a single step. Yet the life escaped through his mortal wounds, pulsing in a torrent across the Gray Realm. As it washed over the flittering spirits, they too were imbued with life. The land itself awoke, and the sun rose for the first time. Some spirits touched only a few drops of life and were merely tainted with hunger and ambition. They became the undead.

The flood ended with the final beat of Darkonos’ heart. Unable to bear the dawning of life, Death and the truly dead retreated beyond the borders of the living world. The land of Darkon, stolen from the dead, was carved from the Gray Realm.

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1.	((OOC - The Creation of Darkon, Ravenloft Gazetteer Volume II))

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[Turning the page, the back of it is blank. The next page, however, is filled with an elegant script.]

Death from the Machine: An Account of Annihilation Averted
(or as it might be more colloquially called),
The Second Requiem and How it Was Stopped
by
Proserpine Viator
Student of Sentience, Essence and Scatebrae

[Over the next page, written in bold lettering are the words 'NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR'.]

The account I relay to you now is a true one. I make this clear from the outset because I shall have to take liberties with its telling, but not with the truth itself. The reason I am unashamed to reveal; it is not my intention to compose an instruction manual for those who may seek, for whatever reason, to see that most terrible moment of Darkon's history repeated. One may hope to study sentience and essence as I do without the inexorable danger of Requiem's pursuit. My wish was never to see it repeated, but to understand its effects and the undead menace our country suffers.

As such, names will be altered. There will be some who will be able to piece the truth of our identities together, but I doubt that they shall ever have sight of these words.

I write this account not only to tell you that there are those who will attempt to bring about Requiem, and the fact that they can be stopped, but I also write it in dedication.

I dedicate this work to the pupils of my former school in Nartok.  I have not forgotten your words of mockery and cruelty. I have not forgotten how many pairs of my spectacles you broke (twenty five) because it was an amusing game. I have not forgotten how you told me that I, the Maykleman, would never amount to anything.

I hope that this shall prove to be a suitably eloquent rebuttal.

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I

772, Barovian Calendar.

The year was drawing to a close when I made the decision to leave the Vallis Lacrimarum and make for Barovia, to continue my studies in my chosen field. For while Darkon is known for its troubles with the undead, parts of Barovia were rumoured to rival it, and these murmurs filled me with excitement when they reached my willing ears.

With trepidation, I recall approaching Darkon's borders. There is an abiding fear that we do not often discuss. A Darkonian is always wary that, should the time ever come for him to leave the land he calls home, he may not be himself ever again. As I crossed, I considered everything that makes me who I am, and knew it to be real and true. It was history, not a dream.

It was a bittersweet revelation. To know that I am truly real and all the memories and impressions that make me who I am are real is very good. I, unlike some of my fellow Mayklemen, do not suffer a crisis of self. It was with some bitterness, however, that I was forced to acknowledge the certainty of my birth as a Maykleman anew, for which cause I have been roundly mocked on many occasions.

The journey was largely uneventful, and I spent so much of it with my head in my books that I could tell you very little of anything that transpired. When, many days later, my last caravan arrived just outside Vallaki, it was almost dark. I found shelter for the night in a quaint establishment called The Lady's Rest (though quaint as this inn may be, she served as the stage for many of the events I have yet to relay). As I passed between the tables to buy a meal to sate myself after my journey, I overheard the conversation of a few huddled around one of the tables. There was a small congregation of Ezrites among the crowd, discussing a missing woman and the presence of a wight. The two reports appeared to be linked. I hovered close by in hopes of listening (not for the only time in this account). A woman in broken, rusted armour approached me. For the sake of this account, and her safety, I shall call her Miss Gladia. We exchanged introductions before continuing to discuss with the Ezrites about the missing woman and the wight.

The night passed quickly, and come morning, we agreed to go in search of the woman. We did not need to look for long. For the purpose of my account, I shall give her the name Miss Ecclesia. She looked unharmed, and told us that she had gone west in search of the wight herself, and she had never been in danger at all. A large search party had clustered together throughout the evening, that quickly split off into smaller groups once it was apparent no grand search was required. A small number of us together, including myself, Miss Ecclesia, Miss Gladia, and a handful of others, set off for a nearby geographical landmark known as the Sullen Woods. One of our number had heard it took its name from the large number of shadow beings that called it home. Being among reasonably trustworthy company, I revealed my talents as a field wizard and offered aid in this impromptu investigation.

Our investigation concluded for the time being, we returned to the town proper, and came upon a curious sight. A smalled, winged imp was lingering close to the Old Svalich Road, causing a stir among local and outlander alike. Miss Gladia, who seemed to have taken a liking to me during the course of our investigation, followed me as I drew closer to examine in, speaking words of warning. I tried to get the imp's attention. Ultimately, I found its most apparent shortcoming was its total lack of manners. It was not the last I was to see of the imp, however, but more on that creature later.

Upon leaving the matter to lie, I came across I man that I largely dismissed. I judged him to be provincial (though I noted his good taste in cheese) and greedy. It is not until the end of this account that you will see quite how wrong I was.

I hope, reader, you can forgive me for all this scene-setting. I feel I must give you an impression of what came before I became aware of the plot to bring about the Second Requiem for you to fully appreciate its telling.

That evening, I, Miss Eccelsia, Miss Gladia, a half-sized sorceress and an eccentric hermit returned to the Sullen Woods to continue our studies. Our focus was one of the caves we had spotted within. Entering these cave, we found lesser undead (though when I say lesser, I do not mean to say they did not present any threat, far from it!). As we lay them low, I described in brief their psychology. In brief, all undead experience jealousy. The lesser ilk, these wrinkled ghasts, are hungry things, who seek to take us for their own nourishment. It envies our flesh and muscles and blood, for all these it once had, at one time. It loathes us because we live; the undead were once living, just as the living, long ago, were once dead. The undead knows what it means to live fully, and it knows the shadow of life it now possesses, and it knows it has the drawn the existential short straw.

We found ourselves overwhelmed by this zealous hunger, and were forced to retreat. As we regrouped at the mouth of the cave, there was a change in the air. There was a presence nearby, vengeful. A figure, carrying a large axe over his shoulder, began to speak to us, chiefly of generosity. Miss Ecclesia, being the pious Ezrite she is, took charge of conversing with the strange figure. As it spoke, mist began to swirl about our feet. Soon, it posed a challenge. It asked the bravest of us to step forward, for it required them. Miss Ecclesia gave us the order to retreat.

The group was scattered throughout the Sullen Woods. I found myself entering a disagreement with a pack of roving wolves, and swiftly losing. I tried to lie still as they gnashed at me, in hopes that pretending to be dead might deter them. I spent what seemed like hours staring through my dirty spectacles at the earth below, noting every maggot and creeping thing nearby. I became very well-acquainted with this particular piece of terra firma, until eventually I was found by my fellows.

Emerging from the Sullen Woods, we encountered a woman in traveller's attire, face concealed in shadow. The Shadow - she will bear a full description in due time. She warned us against lingering in the Barovian night, and in one piece, we returned to Vallaki.

While I did not reckon it at the time, I know now the presence of that figure was a sign, and his challenge was one soon to be laid down in full.

∞

Somewhat subdued by our defeat and subsequent encounter with the Sign, we paused our investigations for the time being and instead took a caravan of goods up to the mountain village of Krofburg to make some coin and learn a little more of the land itself.

It was on this journey that I met the inimitable and virile Mister Mischief of Levkarest. More on this charming fellow later.

It was dark by the time we reached the village, and as we settled down for the night in the Wandering Billy, and a little warmth could be coaxed into my bones, I felt myself overwhelmed with a sudden sickness. I could scarcely bear my own weight. The aforementioned eccentric hermit, who had an apparent interest with unorthodox medicinal practice, helped me to a room. I sat down with some effort onto the bed. The hermit pressed his hand against my face and felt about my throat and jaw. He muttered something about swelling, then made me expectorate into a vial.

Afterwards, he draped a talisman of feathers, beads and talons about my neck, a fetish of some sort, which he ordered me to wear through the night as I slept. I am sorry to report that while I felt a little better, the heaviness remained until I went to receive aid from the local priest in the village.

Little of note happened until Miss Ecclesia was called upon to purify the remains of the imp we had seen previously. I stood by while she performed the ritual over the fire, with the halfling sorceress watching and a fellow Ezrite assisting. Later that evening, the halfling approached me, seeking a private chat. Once we were alone, I detected that she was trying to use influencing magic over me, and I was not affected by it. She revealed, worried now, that the imp was in fact bound to her. I recalled an earlier conversation with Miss Ecclesia, when she spoke of the Ezrite view of magicians and they pact supposedly made with devils for power. It seemed in this halfling's case, such was true.

With thoughts of devils and undead beings turning over in my head, I was confronted with another sign of growing trouble. I found Miss Gladia, covered head to toe in her armour and helmet, slumped wearily in her seat in the hall of the Lady's Rest. As I helped her upstairs, I could detect the scent of blood on her. Removing her helmet, it became all too clear. The pallid complexion. The deep marks at the nape of her neck and the blood that still surrounded them. I helped Miss Gladia to lie down, then ran to fetch Miss Ecclesia.

It was no lesser undead we dealt with now. For a long time, we did not speak the word.

Our encounters with the dead, however, had only just begun.