Travelling Logs Of A Nameless Man

[Pav]

7.2.773

Arrived in Levkarest. Purchasing supplies.

13.2.773

Arrived in Lechberg. Meeting old contact, then resuming path into Richemulot.



My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drank,
Or emptied some dull opiates into the drains
         One minute past, and toward despair I had sank
'Tis not through envy of your happy lot
         But being too happy in your own happiness,
                That you, light-winged spirit of the trees
                        In some melodious plot
         Of beeches green, and shadows numberless,
                Singing of summer in full-throated ease...

[Pav]

15.2.773

Got what I needed. Blonde to fit in. Wispy moustache. Departing Lechberg to Mortigny, in Richemulot.

19.2.773

Arrived in Mortigny. Going to rifle through the local guild's archives, see what is what.

22.2.773

Barely escaped the townwatch. Someone recognized me. Good thing it was not by a name I use frequently. Found that my old place of employment was finally subsumed by another. Departing Mortigny toward Sainte Ronges.




Oh, for a draught of vintage, that has been
         Cooled for a while in the deep cold earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
         Dance, and Mordentish song, and sunburnt mirth
Oh, for a beaker full of the warm South,
         Full of the true, the blushful muse,
                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
                        And a purple-stained mouth;
         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
                And with you, fade away into the forest dim...

[Pav]

25.2.773

Arrived in Ste. Ronges. Going to look into something, resupply, and leave.

27.2.773

Quick search resulted inconclusively. Departing Ste. Ronges toward the Falkovnian border.

2.3.773

Seems to be more activity than the last two times I went through. Cutting through Dementlieu instead.

6.3.773

They made it an easier time to travel through, as ever. Civil war or not, inhuman speed and the veil of illusion made my days surprisingly calm.

Arrived in Ludendorf.


Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
         What you among the leaves have never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
                        And leaden-eyed despairs,
         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
                Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow...

[Pav]

7.3.773

Mother passed.

8.3.773

I do not recognize many faces. It has been too long. Luckily, no one recognizes me, either. A few suspicious looks through the moustache and spectacles, but the blonde does a good job covering.

Her store went out of business. No one was at her bedside. Seems even her helper vanished. What was her name?

9.3.773

Watch are still passively after me for what happened to Eustace.

10.3.773

Staying in this hole numbs the voices, for some reason, but their pull is stronger. It does not feel like home, anymore. I must move.

11.3.773

Giving up is too much like me. I need to see this through, though the question is how? I framed myself. My people would not believe what happened, and even if they did, the fault would remain on me.

16.3.773

I could piece together new evidence. I could go find extraneous circumstance. Eustace was a traveller. Surely, he would have contacts where he spoke of visiting. An excuse to leave. Again.

Making preparations to ditch this abyss of ignorance. Departing to Nartok, in Darkon, on the morrow.



Away, away, For I will fly to thee,
         Not charioted by servants and their horses,
But on the viewless wings of poetry,
         Though the dull brain perplexes,
Already with thee, tender is the night,
         And haply the Queen is on her throne,
                Clustered around by all her starry maids;
                        But here there is no light,
         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways...

[Pav]

[A note in a sealed envelope, delivered by courier through winding, frozen paths, into a mountain hamlet manse...]

Mockingbird,

My journey is taking longer than I first thought, through both my own design and that of circumstance. I fear our promises might come to pass with time, or they might have already. That is fine. I write to you, perhaps, because you are one of the only souls to understand what pains me, and because I believe it to bring relief. My nerves also tell me that it might be best to remind you that I am still out there! Idiot Lamordian, right?

My mother passed, during the time I was away. Even if her attitude was seldom pleasant, no, just venomous, I find myself full of grief and guilt, thinking I should have been there for her, at least in some way. That I should not have lived the way I had. Though at the same time, cold reason leads me to think that I should not feel beholden to someone like her. Either way, once I settle again I will shed away those old habits, the same ones that brought us together. Ironic.

I am at a rest stop in Darkon, right now, following up on a lead. My time here will be spent relatively quickly, but I see myself then going through Nova Vaasa, and once that is done, back to Barovia. Sending letters back, if you fancy, might be a tad difficult, though I should be in the Cedarsplint Inn in Nartok, for the next week and some after this reaches you. Your nonsense is missed.

Live free and well.

[Pav]

17.3.773

Left Ludendorf and Lamordia behind. Entered Darkon.

18.3.773

I keep forgetting how eerie some of these forests are, and how cursed they are. I mustn't dwell on my thoughts here, nor try to find the voices. It will make it all the harder to traverse.

19.3.773

Noted a few scenes of carnage, bestial and human. In some sense, this land is savage. I feel their reach in the midnight hours, but they would have a hard time of enveloping me.

22.3.773

Finally arrived to safety, in Nartok. A quiet few days, relatively. I should begin asking around after my idea.

26.3.773

Lost some of my props at dice. No progress.

30.3.773

Nartok is probably a no-go, with how abnormally long I have been digging at it. None of Eustace's old contacts remain, and those that remember him, well, remember him under a different name. Nevuchar Springs was my next destination, but someone let slip of him having traces down south.

I suppose that is where I will go next. They will carry me through Falkovnia and the warzones with haste and guile. A blank week or two in these logs bothers no one but my nerves. Departing Nartok and Darkon on the morrow, to Port-à-Lucine.



I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
         Where with the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
         White hawthorn, and the pastoral sweetbriar;
                Fast fading violets covered up in leaves;
                        And mid-May's eldest child,
         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves...

[Pav]

8.4.773

Arrived in Port-à-Lucine. Managed to have a wash and witness a brief skit at a Theatre, and run into an old friend. Perhaps I will see her again during my search.

9.4.773

The very cobbles of the city glower against every step I take. Near every soul I see in the streets seems overtaken by fear, others denying its presence through frills and shows of confidence that are as see-through as the clear waters of the baie. I fear for this city's future, and its people, though that should not deter me from my task.

I will have to be stalking Ouvrier this coming evening. Perhaps the Muse holds my answers.



Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
         I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
         To take into the air my quiet breath;
                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
                While your art pours forth your soul abroad
                        In such an ecstasy,
         Still would you sing, and I have ears in vain—
                   To your high requiem become a sod.

[Pav]

10.4.773

Funny where you run into people you never thought to see again.

11.4.773

It is as I suspected, and the way forward is further south. A few days to resupply.

14.4.773

Departing Port-à-Lucine, on the way to Mordentshire.


You were not born for death, immortal bird!
         No hungry generations tread you down,
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
         In ancient days by king and clown,
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
         Through the sad heart of hers, when, sick for home,
                She stood in tears amid the foreign fields;
                        The same that often times has
         Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
                Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn...

[Pav]

22.10.773

Has it really been six months? I cannot fathom the passage of time. Running and running and running, I have lost myself in the chase. I do not think I would ever resolve it. My ambitions and my desires are more important than the past — it is a thing of my dreams and nightmares. Maybe he was right, when he spoke of the Whisper, but I do not think it is what he thinks it is. I find it more liable to be the madness of the working mind, the small screws that the intelligent lose over hours and days and weeks and months and years of repetitive, creative thought.

I crave for my mind and heart to lose themselves in the Arts, all those of which I fancy, and soon, I would perhaps have my outlet.

Perhaps she will find it commendable.


Forlorn! the very word is like a bell,
         To toll me back from you to my sole self,
Adieu, the fancy cannot cheat so well
         As she is famed to do, deceiving dame,
Adieu, adieu, Your plaintive anthem fades,
         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
                Up the hill-side, and now 'tis buried deep ,
                        In the next valley-glades,
         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
                Fled is that music — Do I wake or sleep?