The History and Journal of Jackson Clay

[yhposolihP]

The crisp wind stung his wet eyes as he shambled forward.

Owls and crickets became distant sounds behind him as he left the path behind. Condensation clung to the leaves and fir in a developing frost that could only be seen faintly in the rays of moonlight visible in the forest’s fog. It was midnight or some time past it, he could not be sure. Was not keeping track, in truth, wandering so aimlessly off of the beaten, travelled path of the woods, sticks and twigs cracking under his weight, a dampness from the wild soil invading a small crack in a worn, leather boot. An ache in his bare knuckles, a warning chill ebbing through his leather jerkin, his greying beard solid where moisture from his nose and eyes fell, all reminding him of the coming of winter. Thoughts were the only company chasing him in his aimlessness, but that aside, he was alone.

Come morning, they would notice he was gone. Protocol demanded a search party to form in the event of a missing man; capture or abandonment were often the reasons these days. He had left most of his belongings behind, giving evidence to the first, and no doubt had left tracks in the wet ground as he walked. As far as he had wandered, it would take them the entire morning to find him in the fog and mist - and find him they would, he knew. They were good at what they did. Still, his destination meant it did not matter if they found him. He had built a lot of courage to decide to be a coward. They will not be surprised, I don’t think. Not after what happened. There was comfort in that. His comrades would put it out of their minds and move on. This was war. They had a job to do, families to return to. It was something that pushed them all forward, something he once had in common with those boys and men. They have seen this before, anyway, and they were hardened and trained. There was a way to put it out of your mind. There were steps. Steps. Steps.

His first steps.

A pain in his eyes was blinked away.

The rope that was neatly coiled and hanging around his arm shifted down his elbow as he moved to rub his hands together. It was colder this far into the forest. Darker. The rays of moonlight only barely illuminated the thick fog around him now. Yet the sounds of the night’s wildlife were nowhere to be heard, not even distantly behind him. How far had he walked? It was hard to be sure. Turning around, the fog was so thick he could no longer see the thicket of trees behind him from where he had been moving. Nor were the tops of the trees visible, nor the branches. As he stopped to get hold of his position, the misty fog seemed to bleed and swallow the forest. It was coming in dense through the trees around him, and he realized he could see the fog despite the lack of moonlight. It was all he could see, as if the mist itself combated the dark of the night, defying it. He swallowed hard as his heart began to beat faster. Something is wrong. Looking all around him, it was the same everywhere, and it steadily crept closer. Surrounding him, a wall of mist and fog, thick and oppressive. Predatory. It was as if he was suddenly being circled by wolves that were steadily closing in on him.

He ran.

Visibility became nearly impossible as he dashed into the mists, panic setting in. Somewhere, the rope that was once around his arm fell onto the soil, forgotten and never to be seen again, swallowed by the mists. For some reason, he believed it could only take him if he were not moving, fear completely overtaking his rationale. The trees could only be seen when inches away from him now, the white thickness of the mists forcing him to bob and weave and duck, now overtaking what felt like the entire forest. But there had to be an end. Find the clearing. Forward. Forward. Faster. Faster. Faster, damn you. A tree bashed into his shoulder with a sudden crack, enough force enough to dislocate his shoulder were it not for the hardened leather he wore. Enough force to slow him, unexpected enough to make him stumble. The forest continued to betray him with the gnarled root that tripped him before he met the ground hard enough to push the air from his lungs. He did not see the dirt until he was on it. Rasping desperately for a breath, he scratched and clawed at the soil to pull himself up and keep moving; the mist was like a weight on his back. But he did not stand. He lay on his belly, neck craning to hold his head forward, his eyes white orbs opened in shock and disbelief at what was before him.

Darkness had cut through the mists to form a figure, the shadows of the trees around it clear and prominent, connecting to it like many jagged tethers. Humanoid, standing barely three feet in front of him and slouched to look down at him. They met eye to eye, he and the figure, the eyes of the shadow-like shape piercing white spheres that stood out against its black features. Familiar features. It looked at him and it looked like him, but not enough to be him. It was a face he knew. A face that was no more, was only a memory.

My son.

A name formed on his lips and tried to escape his throat, but no sound came out. He tried again to speak it, to shout it, call out to it, but the mists denied him, invaded his mouth and throat to make him cough and retch. The figure reached out to him, a shadowed hand reaching down. Feebly, he tried to reach back, to let his hand meet the figure’s, but his hand shook and stopped short. His head became light and his vision began to swim, an electrical tingle coursing through his nerves as nausea set in. He blinked once, forcing himself to consciousness. He blinked twice, losing it. The last thing he felt was the cold soil on his cheek.

He woke to a dull, gray morning on the forest floor, vision coming into focus from a blur. The aches in his shoulder and chest reminded him of the night before, how he had run from the strange, imposing mist, how he had fell, and how he had seen the impossible. Seen the dead. His mind came back to him suddenly and, pushing through the pain with a groan, came to his feet, brushing mud and dirt from his face and chest from where he had collapsed. A moment to measure his surroundings told him that he was certainly lost; he had been off the path before he started running, dead of night and without a torch, but now the camp he had left behind was completely lost. They would still be looking for him at this point, and no matter how far off of the path he was, they would find him soon and welcome him with an execution for his troubles. This thought was what made his legs move. He could not be stopped here, not after what he had seen - who he had seen that night. He can’t be far. I need to move. If I can find where he went, then… Then what? If he even saw what he thought he saw. It was impossible, he knew. Nothing could change that day. The memory and image carved into his mind. It was why he left. He would not be in the middle of this forest, lost as he was, had that day not occurred, had the paladins made the choice they did, if that prisoner had not escaped. None of it made any sense at all. But I know what I saw.

The whinny of a horse broke his concentration and snapped him to attention. Instinctively, he slide himself behind a tree, crouching low. It could only be them. But how did they get out in front of him like that? Was he so turned around that he had been running toward the camp? Steadily, he leaned his head out to see. Through the trees, he could see a far-off clearing. A caravan of some kind made camp, barely visible in the distance and through the woods. Multiple wagons were parked in place as brightly-clothed figures wandered to and fro. Not the search party, not the enemy. He relaxed and stood up, moving out from behind the tree, walking toward them. It was the only landmark around, and certainly the only break in the forest that he could see. Perhaps they had answers.

He hailed them with a raised hand as he approached.

[yhposolihP]

Entry 1

If you read nothing else from this, know that all I did was out of the love for my son.

I do not know how people keep track of time in this place aside from the sight day or night. I have not thought to ask if there is a calendar system in this Barovia. Won't, likely. This way of marking my entries works well enough. Those dark-skinned folk did not see my son, so they claimed. Not even their Madame Keja could give me the answers I wanted. She read my fortune from a card reading that day. Riddle-speak and vagueness were all it was. Types like that are best to be avoided, brings about nothing but misfortune if dwelled on. No luck finding him in town, either, but it was there I learned that the place, at its core, is dangerous. Vampires and werewolves own the night, forcing people indoors to hide away.
What manner of place did these mists take me to?

Traveled with some strangers to make some coin. Honest work. Deliveries. A woman called Vil, a halfling lass called Merem, and a sodding paladin named... what was his name? He did not speak much, seemed to have a tenuous grasp on language. Strong as an ox, though. The work paid well enough. I will not be dying from starvation in this place should this stay reliable.

Saw the horrors firsthand on our way back. The paladin stayed behind, left us to fend for ourselves as they certainly would. They lock the gates at night, trapping us inside, and another way out through the sewers saw us in the forests. Wolves the size of bears roam the forests, and a small pack of them gave chase on our way back toward the church. Closing in on the church was when I saw those... things. Not quite man or beast, standing on their hind legs and snarling like some godless jackals. I know how to keep out of sight well enough, but Vil was not so fortunate. Knocked her out cold mere inches away from the church. I managed to avoid the claws and jaws of the beasts as I went inside and asked for help. There was only one large wolf outside waiting for us, the other beasts gone. Had they remained, they would have feasted on her, I do not doubt. It still took our combined efforts to fell the wolf, not before it seized my arm in its jaws. Nothing terrible, a quick bandage job fixed me fine. Vil is alive thanks to the fates and our efforts. I am thankful for her survival - she is a goodly woman, does not deserve harm. But why did the monsters leave her there? If not for food, do they kill for the sport of it?

A sickly, stuttering woman told me of something she calls the "Dark Powers." I know not much else of them other than how she said they could possibly be connected to my son. As she has told me, I will not be returning to my realm in any near or far future. Good riddance to that.

There is comfort in the shadow where I now lay. In this cursed realm, I will take any that I can find.

[yhposolihP]

Entry 2

I have spent just over a tenday in this place and now know this is where I must be.

There are things that roam the forest, stalking unprepared wanderers unseen until they arrive in number to prey on them. Shadows, I have heard them called. Creatures that are the vengeful spirits of those who had died in some unjust way or another, taking their torment out on the living. A scrape from them seemed to pull the very essence of strength from my body. Frightful things. Frightful more is the thought that I now know my son is one.

It cannot be mistaken. At a glance, I knew. Though their faces were indiscernible, they were the very manner of the image of my son that I saw the night the mists took me. My son, who reached his dark hand out to me. Dark, nearly transparent, with glowing white eyes. An appropriate name. They look as if a shadow truly had stood itself upright and began walking. As curious as I am, it is foolish to attempt to examine these, they who behave as the night itself and slay the living in consequence. No. My son is somewhere, but not there. I know not. I think not. I hope not.

A mountain filled with dwarves is in this place. It came as more of a surprise to me than the discovery of the elven land. Dwarves! Secluded people, taking more to their work than the troubles of petty socialization. Respectable. My travels in this mountain with some companions had us beset by more trouble. Were they people that came out to attack us? Creatures? Hard to say in this place. I saw it, though. A kind of human-shape in dark garb that emerged from the shadows. No, truly emerged. As if the shadows themselves were some pool that they were sitting in wait for, only emerging when the time was to ambush. Their physical form was nowhere to be seen. Where were they? Did they truly step into the shadows themselves, or is it some trick of the eye? I doubt the latter. Truly supernatural.

As I write this, I wonder. Are they connected to those shadows from the forest in some way? Those "Shadow Dancers," as a companion called them. I feel a rush in me now. If there is a way to step into the shadows, if it was not just some trick of the eye, if this is where my son is... Ridiculous, I am telling myself, and yet this place has no care for the realities of what I once knew. I find comfort in the shadows as I lay here and write this, candlelight letting them dance freely in this small room as they connect to the bed and table. I revel in their presence, and I cannot tell you why. Words of a fool, but I feel him here. My son. This is a feeling only a father can know. I will not be told otherwise. Perhaps this was no accident. Perhaps fate itself brought me to see those Shadow creatures to know what my son had become, brought me to see those Shadow Dancers so that I may find him. He emerged from the shadows of those trees, piercing through the mist, in much the same way. I must know. There is no other path.

I am a believer in fate. Yes, I have heard it all before from the skeptics in the past, so nothing you are thinking is a new judgement passed onto me. Understand that you are reading from someone that does not believe in what you do and let it rest. Or throw this book away, I cannot care. If you are reading this journal, it's either been misplaced or I am dead, so it will not be missed in any case.