Radkov - The Devil's Shadow

[Legion XXI]

On this night, sleep did not come easily.

Radkov had fought witches before, he was no stranger to the sights that came with it.  He'd stood shoulder to shoulder with his Wachter brothers many times while the flames and demons of Iadul came at them.  He had heard the screams of poor Saguna as he was dragged away by a beast from below the dirt and it's witch master - merely feet from where Radkov helplessly watched. 

Yes, the guardsmen of Wachter were no strangers to hardship.  To the horrors of the night, and witchery, and war. 

But last night was different for one among their number, who lay awake long after the victory.  Who found his hands trembling long after his blade had left them.  Nerves that refused to calm after many cups of strong wine.  Visions that lit up his eyes, even when they were shut.  In his mind, he saw the scene unfold time and time again.  The men had watched a fey who was at death's door transform himself into a great horned beast with wings of flame - a true monument to the horrors of Iadul.  They fought for their lives, every tooth and nail, every underhanded trick they could manage.   The beast roared and spoke to them in a disdainful tone, their blades hardly scratching the surface of it's armored skin.  In the presence of such a beast, most men would cower and break rank.  Perhaps it was courage that kept the men engaged with the thing.  Bravery, earned through harsh experiences in the fires of combat.  But then again, perhaps it was fear.  The fear of what would happen if they were to turn their backs on the foul thing.  Of what would happen if it were to escape, free and hidden among the lands to plot it's dark revenge.

At the end of the day, it mattered not.  The monster had escaped.  But they had survived.  Driven it back, even.  Radkov and his brothers had stood nose to nose with a beast from the darkest corner of the deepest shadow, and on that day they had prevailed.  But for how long? 

The return to the estate was a grim affair.  Empty-handed and worn to near exhaustion, the men made for the safety of the walls.  There was no cheering or jesting, no laughter or congratulations.  Despite the victory in the face of certain defeat, the men silently trudged back to the estate like a line of prisoners headed for the hangman's noose.  Each with their own thoughts, and nothing more.  Not a word was said.

For Radkov, the rest of the day was but a blur.  The Corporal filled out the official report, and the men were given the night off.  Time to recover.  Time to clean their equipment, restock on supplies, and deal with the day's horror in their own ways.  Fresh casks of wine were brought in and commendations were voiced all around.  Radkov ducked out early to walk the countryside, as he often did.  The crowded indoor rooms often made him uncomfortable, and on this cold night he felt more at home tucked into a grassy corner of the courtyard.   Within the safety of the walls yet still alone and under the stars.

As his eyes grew heavy and his cup emptied itself yet again, the world slowly began to blur and darken.  Yet - sleep was still not to be found.  Flashes of the beast they had faced danced across his eyes.  Whispers of the monster's parting promise played at his ears, carried like leaves on the wind. 

"I'll kill you all."

As the hours passed and slowly he began to slip away, he finally found peace enough to steady his hands and calm his mind.  Curled up in hiding as he was, he was overcome at last with a feeling of relief. Though as sleep finally took him away, one final, fleeting thought remained. 

Did he stay because it was his duty?
Or because in the chaos of the moment that they engaged the towering spawn of Iadul - he realized that he had never felt more alive...

[Legion XXI]

This kid is good, I'll give him that much.

A search of the local caves and caverns where we most often lose Recruits has turned up fruitless.  Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything.  He didn't tell anyone, just up and vanished.  The talk around the outpost is that he's sold his way across the river.  Normally, I wouldn't care.  Normally we would just let him go, like Saguna and the others.

But you're not like the others, my fleet-footed friend.

The Lance says he's still got something real important to us, and so we can't just have him running to Vallaki with it.  I took a light pack and have been moving quickly ever since.  I tried to remain optimistic - perhaps he was simply slain on patrol, or got lost in the forests.  It wouldn't be the first time I'd dragged one of my brothers back to safety.

But no, the searches turned up nothing.  I'd have found him if he was there to find.  So I took my work across the river, to the land of the meek and strange.  I must admit, it has been quite the hunt.  A new name, maybe?  New friends?  You've liberated yourself from your old militia gear?  Ah, but you still have something that belongs to my brothers, and I will know you by it.  So your cleverness has purchased you some time, but your actions in the days to come will decide how much time exactly.  If this game of ours shall end in blood, then I am prepared to spill it.  But how hollow is a victory when your opponent does not live to tell of his defeat? 

I only wish that the Devil Zharkovsky could see what his protege has become.  Perhaps he'd be proud.

[Legion XXI]

As the dust settled, it all finally sank in.  They had won.  The Citadel had fallen.

Radkov swelled with pride as Sergeant Svetozar addressed the men.  It was in that moment that he truly realized, men like Svetozar and Valentin - they were more than just officers.  They were leaders.  They were men who inspired courage in the meek, strength in the feeble, and loyalty in the coward.  They had taken a rag-tag group of bastard sons and turned them into the Militiamen that he now served with today.   It had not been easy, it had not been quick, and it had certainly not been painless, but in the end they had produced a fighting force that even rivaled the power of the outlander 'adventurer' hordes. 

For Radkov, this victory marked a milestone in a very long road.  When he left Krezk so many months ago, he was not sure what he would find.  Upon his arrival in Vallaki, the streets were full of the starving, and famine overtook the land.  Krasimir and his Militia had extended an invitation to all who were willing to serve the Lord Wachter - food and pay aplenty, in exchange for service.  At the time, it had been a convenient way to get himself a place to call his own.  To show his 'family' back home that he could make something of himself without them. 

But before long, it became so much more than that.  The training was tough, and the men were forced to band together in order to survive.  Bonds of brotherhood formed among Radkov and the other Militiamen, and soon he came to regard them as the only true family he ever had.  Krasimir and Gavril weren't just leaders to him, they were as fathers.  And like the bastard son he was, Radkov strove to gain their favor.  To show that he could become more than the sheltered child he was when he arrived first on their lands.  He threw himself into his training with 'The Devil' Zharkovsky, learning all that he could in the ways of the Scout.  He tinkered with strange devices and traps, preparing mock ambushes and hunts.  And at the darkest of times, after Saguna was taken by a witch of a dark god from a far land, he gambled with his very soul to do whatever it took to see his Wachter Brother back to safety. 

The sacrifices they had made, the hardships they had endured -   it had changed them all.  But for Radkov, no price was too high.  He would give whatever he had to give to ensure no more of his Brothers were lost to the darkness.  He stockpiled strange things from far lands.  Charms and the like - said to break the dark vraja of the witches that caused the Militia so much grief.  Would these strange trinkets be the end of him?  Would he too vanish into the unknown, as Zharkovsky had, never to be seen again?  Would his experiments transform him into some manner of warped caliban?  He could not know for sure, but it was a burden he was willing to shoulder.  For the authority and security of Lord Wachter's lands.  But more importantly, for the safety of his Brothers.

And so now, as Radkov stands high on the Citadel, peering out to the town below as dawn breaks over their city of Vallaki, he enjoys a moment of peace.   It had all been worth it.  To look into the faces of each of his comrades, and to see the joy, the relief, the glow of victory among the men...

It made him proud to count himself among them.  He felt as if he had truly earned a place here; made something of his life that he would have never thought possible.

On this day, Radkov stood tall.  Shoulder to shoulder with his fellow Militiamen, he would help bring order to this city.  He knew not what the future would bring, but for the first time in a long time, it did not worry him.  For a brief moment as the dust settled to the ground and the last of the fires died out, there was peace.

And he was happy.

[Legion XXI]

For a single day, they had brought order to the lawless.



For a single day, they had delivered justice upon the wicked.



But they could never have anticipated the wrath they awakened in doing so.  Nothing could have prepared them for what they would bear witness to, that darkest night.

   

But the death of our Lord was only the beginning.



The screams of his dying brothers.  Good men put to the sword, while he stood helpless.  It would haunt him forever.



The 'Devil' Strahd - He earned his name in full that night.



The men of Wachter retreated across the border.  Brothers present in blood and spirit.



They buried the dead.  Though the dawn had risen, their world was darkness.  Those men had deserved better.





Those that couldn't bear to remain said their farewells.  No matter where their travels took them, they would always be men of Wachter.  One last time, he departed the place he had called home for so long.  Left behind the only true family he ever had.

[Legion XXI]

Time passes more quickly, on this side of the Luna. 

Cycles of dawn and dusk all pass me over on swift wings, and I watch.  But that's all I really ever did, I suppose.  I just watched.  Watched as the outlanders came into our land, with their glowing trinkets and flaming blades.  Watched as the wicked priestess and her caliban servants took Saguna, screaming, into the darkness to die.  Watched as my Brothers were put to the sword for their loyalties to a Lord who had been pushed beyond reason.

So for the first time in a long time, I acted.  When the Toret who had so faithfully stood beside the men of Wachter against witch and Iadul-spawn alike came under attack, I sought to divert their attention from her.  When the caliban beast cut through the lines of Garda, I laid in wait for him.  And when it came time to fade back into the shadows, I did not hesitate to strike my own name from the register. 

If there is one thing I have learned in this land, it is that your family are the only ones you can trust to not wish you harm.  There are vast hordes of witches, and caliban, and Lords, all set to cut free your coinpurse and slit your throat.  And for what?  Because their hands only know destruction.  Because their minds can find no peace without war.

So I take to my new family, and urge them to look out for themselves.  Urge them to drink from the cup of this life until there is no more to drink, for every drop you leave for another is a drop they will use against you to take what is yours.  Even if you do not covet the world, those that do will strike you down in pursuit of it.  And for me, that's enough.  For me, I need nothing more to know the truth - That every since I crossed the Luna, it has been every man for himself.  My old life is gone, and even I am surprised at times by this new person who has filled the role of the old one.

A part of me wonders if I'll ever see him again.  Another part of me hopes that I don't.

[Legion XXI]

Even the Devil Zharkovsky had someone to speak his secrets to, in Svetozar.  An ear to listen to his whispers, an eye to witness his shadows.

But for me, such luxuries have fled far, and are not likely to return.  I find that my communications come in written words, I have scarcely heard my own voice in days.  I spend so much time in the shadow that the light blinds my eyes.  The days pass, and I can scarcely count them as time slips my grasp.  Hours crawl by, and beneath the ground as I am quite often, there is no sun to mark the passing.  Has it been another day, or mere minutes?  How much longer will I remain in this place?

I am the warden to my own prison, in this place.  But should I walk away, what would I have to return to?  My new family is not the same as the old one, not that I mind.  There is something appealing about having time to myself.  Time to watch.  Time to listen.

I have come to know those I follow almost better than they know themselves.  I spend long hours, an arm's reach from them and they never know.  How sometimes I long to reach out and touch them.  To lay low the tree while it is still budding, before the bark becomes thick and spined.  I can see it on the horizon, a whole forest of the things if not kept in check.

But I wouldn't dare.  At least not unless my hand is forced.  For if I cut silent their voices, who would I listen to with my long hours?  Surely not myself.  I am hardly as interesting as these I watch.  These I see, and hear, and smell.  I hope my new family appreciates what I do for them.  I hope they understand the artistry behind my work.  The oil and the canvas.  The ink and the pages.

We are going to become close, they and I.  I will do what it takes to prove my place in this new family of mine. 

[Legion XXI]

I don't quite enjoy the executions as much as I used to.   But I suppose that's fair, all things considered...     

It all just seems so very impersonal.  Such a shame to kill a man in that manner, before you have the chance to know him. 

Did he deserve the end he met?  Was this indeed the Justice I hear so much about?  Perhaps.  I am not one to weigh such things on my own.  I pick my battle rather with the manner of death.  A swift blade to the neck, and it's all over.  How long was he imprisoned for, before he met his end?  Who spoke to him, questioned him, learned everything he had to teach?  Who was this man - who was he REALLY?  Why did he carry out his crimes?

Was it for Honor?  Country?  Faith?  I suppose I'll never know which of these lies filled his head as he carried out his actions.  And it is here that the problem lies.  They must look at it as a thief would.  To take a man's possessions is to steal his things.  To end a man's life is to steal so much more.  You steal possibility, from him and from the world.  Every act of ill or good he would have done.  Every friend and foe he would have risen.  Every word he'd have spoken, all gone.  How are we to judge weather this theft was proper if we don't first take the time to know the man?  But then again, how well can you learn from a man who is already in your grasp?  It is here that I sympathize with their plight, and I understand the problem. 

But people like me are not held so fast with such restrictions, thankfully.  I have weighed the life I watch.  I have spent long days seeing, hearing, and knowing everything it has touched.  I empathize with it's desire, and ambition, and fear.  When it recoils in pain, I see the look of a wounded animal on it's face.  When it counts the coins it has lied and cheated to earn, I see the lust and satisfaction in it's soul.  The drive that pushes us all onward.  The desire.  That never ending hunger for more.  And more.  To drink from a never-ending cup until there is no more left to drink.  Until the weight of your consumption has bound you to the chair in which you sit.  Forever a prisoner of your own locks and traps.  Blinded by the light that you have used to banish the shadows who stalk you in your mind.  An enemy in the eyes of every friend, a dagger in the palm of every offered hand.  Yes, it is a two bladed sword you wield.  Surround yourself with the strong, and be safe but fearful of betrayal. . .     Or surround yourself with the meek, who cower before your mighty command until they are swept aside by enemies from afar who seek your throne.  What a choice you have been given, to be killed by friends or foes.  The illusion of freedom, yet in the end, it's all the same.  In the end, they'll just move to take your place and repeat your mistakes.


But don't worry.  When you have died and the whole world has moved on, I will remember you.  When your bones are long buried and your name is forgotten, I will remember you.  For you and I were very close, once.  You and I spent more time together than you could ever know.  As I made myself familiar with your moods, and your wishes.  Your friends and your foes.  Your routine, fraught with chaos as it was.  I looked into your mind and saw a person, much like myself.  And then, only then, when I was the closest to that person that I could possibly be - I carried out my designs.  I placed my hand over your mouth, that you could breathe no more.  I cut open your stomach, that all you had drank will flow onto the ground to be lapped up by those who hollowly swore life and blade to you.  And together we watched.  We watched as the light died from your eyes, and your gates fell to the wolves who lurked just beyond.  We watched as they worked to remove your name from every order, your blood from every stone.

Why, you ask?  How could I lay low someone who I have become so close to?  Because it is as I said before - you must see the world as a thief.  For what thief would steal something away without knowing what it was?  I too, have measured what I was to steal.  The long days, the whispered words.  From the very first second we spent with one another, it could only have ended one way.

In that, I have no regrets.  It is a loss no greater than the ones I've already felt.  At least the one who laid you low knew exactly what he was taking from this world.

And when the whole world has forgotten you lived, I will still remember every breath I saw you take. 

Did you deserve this?  Well, I'm still nobody to ask.  I did not do it to fulfill my own desires.  I did not take from you because of my own greed.  No, what I did was done for a much more simple reason.  What I did was done simply because there was another, who possessed a desire that was much stronger than yours.  Someone who was willing to go further, and dig deeper, and fight harder.  Someone who was willing to strike lower, and do battle in a manner not bound by such trivial things as Honor.

In the end, I cast my hand in with this simply because there was no other way.  You were dead long before I ever knew my role in it all.  I was just chosen to carry out what was already done.  After all, who am I to decide whether or not this was Justice?  I'm just the messenger for a hand more powerful than either of ours.

[Legion XXI]

What makes a man?

Is it as simple as a name - an identity to call him by?  Is it his secret longings, that which he'd give everything he has for?  Is a man to be made by those he allies with?  Perhaps a man is defined by his actions, the hidden blade never far from his hand.

When I watch other people, I look for all of these things.  I dig into the very spirit of the object of my attention.  To seek, to know, to observe this world through another's eyes - this is part of my work.  But what would another see, I wonder, if they were to look into me the way I look into them?  If they were to stare into my eyes and see into my mind.  Into my heart.  What would they see?  What would make this man, I am?

I'm not even sure I know anymore.  When I left Krezk I was just a boy, lost and dumb enough not to care.  I was lucky enough to fall into the company of good men.  Svetozar, Valentin, and the others.  They are the best kind of people.  It was a home.  A family.  But it was not meant to be.

Perhaps that's why I haven't returned.  I'm afraid they'll look at me and know what I've done.  That they'll see into my heart, and know what it's become.  They're the only people I ever truly knew.  Who knew me.  A strange thought - that I may live the rest of my life in solitude.  I always enjoyed my time alone.  I would set my pack and spend days in the wilderness, only myself for company.  But now things are different.  It's not the same when you don't have a choice.  When your world only exists as far as your arms can reach.

I find myself asking why.  Why do I do it?  It's not for gold.  I could pave the road from here to Levkarest with the coin I've picked from the blood running along the ground.  It's not for 'Family', I hear the way my Brothers and Sisters speak the word.  It would be a one-sided sentiment, one that would end in cold regret.  It's not for power.  I've seen it myself - there's no power that can't be taken away.  Isn't that right, Ivan?

Maybe I do it because I enjoy it.  The satisfaction of a job well done, the intoxicating rush of the flight back home.  There is nothing quite like it.  Maybe I do it because I don't know anything else.  Perhaps some men are led to deception, subversion, infiltration.  For some, it's the natural state of being.  Like sorrow or joy.  Hope or despair.  We can't help but hide one hand while offering the other.  To distract with a kind smile while the eyes search for the weakest armor.  A latch left undone, a belt not strapped tight enough.  Your last mistake, friend.  You could never know how much it almost cost you.

Men like me have spent so long in darkness that we forgot how to see in the light.  So long in the cold, we keep our cloak wrapped tight around ourselves for protection - even in the life-bringing warmth of spring. 

A part of me plays with the idea of finding others.  Someone to pass on the curse I've spent a lifetime learning.  What they do with it matters little to me.  Perhaps they'll be the one to catch me a step too slow.  Or perhaps I'll finally have a Brother or Sister who understands what it is to bear this burden.  A part of me just wants something to remain behind when I'm finally cast out of this place.  Something other than the pile of gold, the crates of stolen trinkets that will be scavenged before my blood turns cold and my limbs grow stiff.  Something other than the corpses, spirited away far beyond the reach of any normal man.  Then again, maybe that's the point.  Maybe the truth is that nothing we do will ever leave a true mark behind.  Everyone you know, everyone you will ever know, will die.  By the blade or the crumbling curse of time, no man is king forever. 

By the time it's all over, it won't matter who I am.  All that will matter is who they thought I was.

I'll either live to become a legend among the nameless, or dig a pauper's grave in trying.  Either way, I doubt anyone will know who I truly was.  That's the blessing.  That's the curse.  It's not something I regret.

It could be no other way.

[Legion XXI]

They tell me that war never changes.  That in every land, every nation, every world, it is the same.  But after the last few days, I have been awakened to the truth.  We've been lied to, my brothers. 

There are powers beyond our borders that we can not begin to comprehend.  There is a method of war that would obliterate our own.  It's harsh, relentless advance - we could never hope to defend ourselves.  The superstition and fear so common to my countrymen are enemies to our people, I see that now.  I was called to aid a Brother in a far away land, and I will never forget what I saw that day.  I thought the war between Wachter and Ionelus had hardened me to the battlefield, but the blood of that conflict was but a drop in the river that this 'revolution' has brought.



Steel and Discipline only hold true for so far.  What is a man to do, when he faces a God with only his blade and courage?


Can they truly be contained?  Would there be any warning if they lost control of themselves?  Would be we able to stop them?


Even a God can bleed, but how many do they take with them into the void?  What is the price we would pay for each inch, each step into the unknown?


It took a relentless enemy.  A fearless enemy.  One by one, the defenders fell.  The tide of steel poured ever onward, the screams of the dying filled the air.  The street was paved with he blood of the loyal soldier that day.  The cost was great.



When pressed to a wall, a man's true colors show without fail.  How far are you willing to sink in order to win?  What are you willing to give?  This has decided more lives than any other question on the battlefield.  You can die with honor, or you can live a bastard.  Have your Brothers respect your memory, or have your enemy curse your name.


But it was not all unfamiliar.  A different land, a different cause, but the same old allies.  The same enemies.  I suppose we're all really here for the same reason, in the end.  We're not so different.
   

And no matter the war, no matter the method, it always ends the same way.







Some of the survivors spoke of returning home, to a land far from here.  They said that war wasn't for everyone, that only some could stand the horror of the battlefield.  But that's where I disagree.  The truth is - war isn't for anyone.  No man is immune to it's whisper, late at night after the fires have long turned to ash.  A week, month, a year after the last drop of blood falls, you will fade into a land of dreams to find yourself back on the field of battle.  No man can escape the horrors he must inflict to win the day.  Perhaps in the next life, we'll pay for what we've done.  Some will pay in this one.  But my place here is done, so all that is left is to return home.  I bring back more than a pocket full of gold on my way back to Vallaki.  I've seen what the lands beyond our own hold, and it's something I won't soon forget. 

We've been asleep for far too long, my brothers.  Another ploy to keep us subdued.

[Legion XXI]

I have come to accept the realization that it will never end.

The deafening silence among the shadows.  The careful way in which each word must be said.  A river has been opened and I am powerless to stop it.  But even if I could, would I want to?  The gold and blood dripping from my fingertips.  The rush of cold wind as I climb higher up the mountain that is this city of mine.  They are sensations not easily relinquished.  There is always more, and more is what we want.  What I want.

And so in the pursuit of this, I have sacrificed all that I once believed in.  I have felt each life extinguished as if it were my own.  In that final moment, when the end comes, it comes to us both.  In a way, I die with each of them, at their side.  In a way, I feel the dirt weigh down on top of me as they are buried.  But I am not dead, yet.  And every night when I close my eyes, I see the city.  Vallaki, beautiful as she is.  She will forgive me in time for what I have done, for I am a patient suitor. 

But until that day, I work to stay a step ahead of the blade's edge.  One small slip, one mistake, and the walls of this city will come crashing down upon me.  I know that the path I now take is a lonely one filled with ruin.  That it may be the very path that leads me to my end.  But a life not tread upon this path is one not worth living.  I see many each day who live long lives, empty of worth.  And so I will take the good with the bad.  The death with the life.  And I will build upon this ground a city.  And that city will be Vallaki.

[Legion XXI]

Spoiler: show

[youtube=425,350]watch?v=wg9rfip3Kds[/youtube]

I dreamed a different dream last night.  I walked through Wachter's lands again, in a time long past.  I looked upon the fathers, mothers, and sons of Wachter and I saw a shadowy memory of another man's life.  Before my eyes danced images of guardians in gold and red and black.  Men who were more than brave, stronger than steel.  As each one passed by, the vanished into wisps of smoke and faded away.  One by one they passed from this world, until there was but one left.  Smaller, quieter, weaker than the rest, I almost didn't notice him.  His low movements carried a strange familiarity to me.  I followed him through the trees, past the bandits and the beasts.  We came to a clearing in the heart of the forest and he turned to face me.  Beneath his hood, there was no face.  His skin was smeared with ash and soot.  His hands a cold grey, trembling slightly as if cold.  He spoke to me in Balok, his voice just a boy's.

"I would say it doesn't have to be this way, but we both know that's a lie."

He looked right at me, standing tall and confident, but there was a fear in his heart.  Something about the way he spoke, the tensing of his muscles - he knew something I didn't.  I didn't know what to say.  I just looked on in silence, a stranger in this world.

"I know why you are here, even if you want to pretend you don't.  Did you really think I would just let you come into the Boyar's lands and do as you do, Tigan?!" 

He spat the last word out, his voice shaking in fear, but his tone bearing a passion and conviction I had not heard in a long time.  He advanced a few steps, meeting me in the center of the clearing.  We were close now, only ten paces apart.  More than close enough to kill a man before his back hit the dirt. 

"Have you nothing to say for yourself?!  [His voice wavers]  I'll kill you, phantom!  I'll do it!"

The fear in his tone grew, and gave way to a reckless anger.  His ornate rapier was freed from it's scabbard and pointed directly at me in a deathly challenge.

"By order of the Boyar's Militia, drop your blade and stand down!  I-  I'm not afraid of you!  I've taken worse to The Pit!"

My blade?  I looked down to my hand, to see it grasping a wicked looking blade.  How long had I been holding it?  Where did it come from?  It was certainly no weapon of mine.  I looked back to the young militiaman.  He was afraid, but there was something about him I still couldn't place.  That passion, that fire.  What a loyal little soldier.  Surely he knows he's outmatched.  Why does he threaten me so?  What conviction is so strong that he would throw his own life away for it?  I tried to release the blade from my grip, but found that I couldn't.  It was holding onto me as much as I was holding onto it. Part of me wondered if I even wanted to drop it.  Why should I?  It's mine, now.  I tightened my grip on it and spoke to my challenger.

"Put down your weapon, boy.  I'm not here to hurt you."

But instead, he took my moment of distraction to strike.  I looked back up to him to see him raising the rapier high in one hand and taking a step toward me.  Each second became an eternity as my mind raced.  The way he raised his piercing blade so high, it wasn't right.  Someone with his training would never strike like that.  I tore my gaze from the tip of the blade and found his other hand pulling a pouch from his belt.  Clever.  I took a step to the side just as the pouch of powder flew past my face - a hair's length from having blinded me.  In one swift motion, I drew a bottle of shadows from my belt and smashed it against the leather armor on my chest.  Darkness raced out, enveloping us both.  I closed my eyes and my body jumped into motion out of habit.  I felt the cloth of his uniform in my free hand and I knew I had him.

As the darkness lifted from the clearing, I heard his rapier make a soft clatter against the ground.  The young man was still held fast in my grip, my blade plunged thoroughly through him.  He feebly reached his shaking hands out toward me, his body threatening to fail him at any moment.  Tears welled in his eyes and blood ran from the corners of his mouth.  He spoke his final words softly, taking all the effort he had still within him.

". . .Home . . . forevermore. . ." 

A moment more, and he slipped through my fingers to fall to the ground.  The blade slipped from my hand and went with him, still impaled in his chest as he laid there on his back.  His eyes stared lifelessly into the sky, and despite his violent end, he looked at peace.  In that moment, I saw him for who he truly was.  I looked upon the body of a young Barovian Militiamen in service to Lord Wachter.  A man in the Scout's attire, bearing the wear of many long days and nights in the forest alone.  A boy who was willing to die for his cause as readily as the man he would one day grow into would be willing to kill for his.  I saw myself on the ground before me, and a strange sense of calm settled over me.

A part of me wanted to be horrified.  A part of me wanted to run back the way I'd came.  But mostly, I was relieved.  It was finally over.  I knew then why I avoided this place so long after the Decimation.  It wasn't for fear of seeing my old Brothers.  I was because I knew my past self was lurking somewhere within the trees.  The part of me that wished I had stayed behind.  The part of me that felt he should have died that night with the others.  For the first time since that black night, my mind felt clear. 

I pressed on.  Through the trees, through the forest.  The clearing faded away at my back and eventually I came to a door.  I knew that within, there was an old man and the granddaughter he had given everything to protect.  I placed a hand to the door, and a small black mark was left burned into the wood.  As I turned to walk away from the house, the entire world went grey.  I bled into the shadows, leaving the world I knew behind.

[Legion XXI]

Oh how differently this world of grey looks to me, now that my eyes can see it.  In my younger arrogance, I never paid much mind to what others were capable of.  Only what I could do with my own hands, and a cunning plan.  But passing through the dark and dusty halls of my home among the dead, I can no longer ignore that I am not alone.  Not even close.

I wonder how many of us there are in Vallaki.  Beyond, even.  Grigorie and his small girl were just two, and now I another.  Though now when I walk the streets of this grey city, I cannot help but wonder what eyes are following along.  The man baking bread, the server of drinks, the smith hammering away at the anvil - in the blink of an eye they could all turn into a wraith with arms spread wide.  His soundless lips calling the names of the damned.

I wonder how many of my own brothers may walk the same path.  Marcello, with his growing mastery of the Tigan's arts?  He works in a fashion I have seen to be interestingly similar to my own.  Perhaps a wolf more hesitant to go for the throat, but one with sharp teeth and a gentle smile nonetheless.  What of Jacqueline?  With her silver tongue and small stature, many fail to see the talons that rest just behind her back.  A small reach of the hand and a quiet step, and her honeyed words are the last thing many would hear.  And of Eilralei?  She has played the watcher among the sheep many times, and each time with growing skill.  Is this not exactly the kind of mask worn by the workers of Death itself?

One day, one of them will replace me.  I will be cast aside and forgotten, sent to join all of those I've wronged.  Send to answer for my life as a footman of the Shadow.  Of the Night.  Of the Knife.  I'll pass from this world and they will never know who I truly was.  Perhaps they'll sit atop my throne as I did the man before me.  Perhaps I'll be labelled a traitor, a coward, a bastard.  My life and service to this Family and others will be defined not by what I leave behind at my passing, but what I took with me.  The lives of those who hated me, and the souls of those who trusted me most.


I have been as close to dead as a man can be for a long time now.  I only wish that when this all reaches its end, I am allowed to rest.  A final theft as I leave this life.  If there is truly a just and fair Ezra out in those mists, she'll know I don't deserve it.

[Legion XXI]

And here as I stand, my boots sinking into the mud, I cannot help but wonder.  Was this the way?

All of the lives that I have taken, a river could not contain the blood.  But was this the way?

Countless cloaked in brown, a city of Barovians who we ground under heel in the name of Ivan Wachter.  Had we only known, my brothers.  Had we only been strong enough to stop the Devil from taking from us.  How did you choose, Krasamir?  Were it in my hands, we'd have all died that day.  I was still just a boy, about to lose his home again.

These lives were followed by the liars and thieves of my kind.  A family bound in Red and Black, put to the sword and used to build the foundation of my home here in this grey city.  Every one who spoke.  Every one who ran.  All of them were hunted across the lands, into the sky and sea and wherever else they might take refuge.  It was a cold winter, but was there another path?  What else could I have done?  They made me do it.  Jackie and Burliegh were different, though.  A heartless ordeal from the city of riches.  They were valuable to me.  They would have never acted against ME as they did the others.  They were mine, and I was forced to give them away.  I was stolen from that night.  And I think about it far too often.

The Caliban and their Underboss, struck down in their maze of stone.  Forced to scatter and hide.  A leader captured and returned, only to be taken from them again.  How do you speak with such beings?  Can they even be reasoned with?  It was bloody, and yet still one soul remains from that time.  Wandering the far lands, staying away from the watchful eye.  I could spare her, but will I?  Do I consider my past to be a mistake?  Do I long for peace after all, or can I only take from people?

And you, Marcello.  You were different.  Still I carry you with me, not far from my hand.  My betrayal was unforgivable, brother.  I shall suffer long for what I have done.  I still recall our last embrace before I cast you from the bridge, and into the unending void below.  You deserved better, but in your death I was assured.  As your life ebbed away, I was born anew.  Thrust into this world a second time, covered in blood and eyes burning red.  The pain forced me onward.  A daily reminder of the life I chose.  Of the power I now hold.  My blood stopped flowing just as yours did, that day.  I am sorry, but there was no other choice.  I had to fulfill my destiny.  I needed this, brother.  You could never understand.

Having had what feels like a lifetime to consider, my answer remains the same.  I had no other path.  If I had not become this wraith, this thing hiding behind a cloth of red and black, the darker mask that hides who I really am, someone else would have.  And in my travels, I have found others.  I see the way they look at me, as I teach them my art.  I know they wonder what they are capable of. 

Go ahead, my children.  Spread your wings and walk the lands.  Make friends, and be merry with them.  We are the closest to a family that any of us will ever know, but just as you have a plan to kill me, I keep a fresh coat of poison on my blade.  And together we walk, hand tied to hand, and like shackles they dig into us and make us bleed.  We could not escape each other even if we wanted to.  When one of us dies, the rest of us will drag on the weight of the bodies onward.  Until we all succumb to those greater than us,  or until we reach world's end and stare off into the void below.

I am sure we will meet again.  My brothers, my sisters.  My wronged and my wicked.  But to hope that it would be a peaceful meeting is too much.  We were insatiable beasts in this life, and we'll be the same in the next one.  Men like us are not capable of the things others are.  But then again, there lies the chance to achieve so much more...

In this pain, we find strength.  Covered in this blood, we are cleansed.  One step follows another, brothers.  Sleep not where it's safe, rest not when you're weary.  Onward and onward, until there is no more.

[Legion XXI]

When the Borcans put HER on her knees in front of me and told me to cut her throat, I didn't ask questions.

When Dulcimer and Burleigh had to be sacrificed in the name of Family, I stayed true to my oath.

When the shadows themselves came to me and told me to kill a fellow bastard son of Ivan Wachter, a brother, a wolf of Svalich road, a survivor of the Decimation and wrath of the Devil himself, I told them it would be done.


We are thieves by trade, brothers and sisters.  But when you steal a life and deliver it to another, it never truly leaves you.  The weight of what you stole will never leave your back.  And what is weight, in a world where the slow can neither chase prey not escape the hunters?  Everything, my Tigans.  It is everything.  But for every day we carry the weight, we grow stronger.  For every step we take that our backs ache and our hands bleed through blisters and hanging flesh, we are further along the path.

Walk past the others who stand by the road, my Tigans.  Look at each of them, and know them.  Stare into their eyes and steal secrets from their souls, but do not stop and speak to them for too long.  To stop walking, to place your pack on the ground and rest, is to become weak like them.  To sleep is to invite the beasts that know no sleep into your home.

If you must lie, then lie.  If you must steal, then steal.  If you must poison and kill, then do so without hesitation and do not stop walking.  But never sleep, hopeful Tigans.  Never stop to rest your wary feet.  Never lay by the river to drink.  The hunters are not far behind you on the road, and when they catch you just know that you deserve no mercy for your sins. 

You wanted to know who I was, and how I wanted to tell you.  But how could I possibly explain so much in such a short time?  To see such a thing through another's eyes would be wrong.  And to those who seek to follow me down this path, you will have your chance.  You bloodied fools.  I only hope this is truly what you wanted, because if you are here with me now, it is already too late for you to turn back. 

At least we, all of us, have each other.  That is the truth of why we killers and Tigans call each other family.  Because we don't have a choice.  And that is the only reason. 

Gather your things and come with me, those lost enough to try it.  We have a long way to go, and the wolves are never far behind.

[Legion XXI]

...I DO SWEAR...

Oh, if only you could see me now.
A Devil just like you, Zharkovsky.
And how many others, I wonder?

...I SHALL FOLLOW...

Maybe you're how they found me after all.
And to think for so long I thought it was the Caliban.

...NEVER SHALL I...

If you've been watching all along, why not show yourself?
Perhaps you are done, moved on to prey on some other naive soul.

...UNTIL I BREATHE NO MORE...



He stood on a narrow bridge of stone, overlooking the still, quiet water.  He hadn't visited this place since he'd killed Marcello.  Killed him.  It sounded strange in his mind, for a long time.  So strange, in fact, that he'd tried to make excuse after excuse as to how it wasn't true, or why he'd done it.  The truth is, they both died that day.  Two brothers, tangled corpses, plunging beneath the heartless surface of the water at the same time.  The only difference is that his spirit passed into the afterlife, and Radkov's stayed behind.  Perhaps there just wasn't anyone on the other side who wanted to take him.  Or perhaps there was none who cared to come back and try.

He did it for himself, it was undeniable.  And for every Frothy who tried to slay him.  For every Borbag Fenken who tried to immolate his home.  For every Underboss who tried to bleed dry his hold on the city.  For every Khafka who told him to pay what was owed.

..."I cried too, when I did my first one"....

FOR EVERY MARCELLO WHO REMINDED HIM HE WAS LOVED BY HIS BROTHERS.  FOR EVERY GAVRIL WHO APPEALED TO HIS HUMANITY.  FOR EVERY KRASAMIR WHO PROTECTED HIM LIKE A SON.


For the first time since he departed the late Ivan Wachter's ranks, he knew who he was.  A Devil, like Zharkovsky.  A Bloodied Knife.  A soulless Skull.  An dawnless Night.  Once he finally let go of his old self, he felt more alive than ever before.  Alive - a strange word for someone who spent so much time cloaked in silence.  So much time watching others live their lives instead of living his own.  So many mornings washing the thick blood of death from his hands.  A strange feeling for someone who felt little joy or pain.  No triumph or loss.  Or perhaps not that strange after all.  For who understands the true value life better than those who steal it away?  Who hear a dying man's last words, and know that before them lies a spirit who was not ready.  A soul snuffed out before its time and banished forcefully from this land.

Ah, the freedom that comes with being able to cast off the shackles of a normal man.  To swim to the surface of the world and break through the icy cold water into the warm moonlight.  To enjoy the way people looked at him.  To take his rightful place at the tip of the blade.  He had been right all along, of course.  His actions were far from noble, but they had led him to a place that he longed for far more than any title.  He was but a stone in a road that stretched on as far as time itself, but it was a road that only a few ever managed to walk on.  Sparse, broken stones, cobbled together by a common mortar.  Drenched in blood.

Smear upon yourself the ashes of your Brother's execution.  Simeun, you pathetic child.  Feel no sorrow for the dead.  We all join them soon enough.

[Legion XXI]

And just like that, he could feel it.  He was dying.

Pain surged quickly through his body like lightning.  Wave by wave, it crashed over him, each new surge more intense than the last.  He wasn't sure how much longer he had left.  This was it.  There was no way out this time.  He would answer for everything he'd done.  He would face the brothers he'd betrayed.  He would see the friends, the family, the world that had been taken from him.  He wanted to scream, he wanted to run, he wanted to cry.  His mind raced a hundred thoughts a second.  From his place kneeling in the darkness, he thought he could almost see scenes of his life being acted out by the shadows that surrounded him.

The blood-soaked dagger in his hand fell to the stone floor with a clatter, its wicked flesh-wrapped handle just out of his reach.  He sank to his knees, the strength to stand fleeing his body.  The shadows began to take shape before his eyes.  They gained color, detail, sound.  Suddenly he was in the courtyard of the Wachter Estate, Gavril stood before him.  His brothers stood at his sides.

"Whatever you were before, you are now men of Wachter!"

As their voices rose in a shouted response, he was deafened by the volume.  His head pounded.

"Never again conquered!"
"Home forevermore!"

Vomit spilled from his lips.  He didn't even notice it make a sound as it spread across the stone floor in front of him.  His body began to shake, desperately fighting to hold him upright against the unseen force trying to pull him to the ground.  Regret weighed heavy on his soul.  For the first time in a very long time, he was afraid.  The voice of the Devil Strahd boomed out from his memories...

"This is MY land!  You serve ME!"

He screwed his teary eyes shut, as if to hide from the angry voice.  When he looked back up, the shadows again shifted to show him Tomescu's face.  He wanted to speak, but he couldn't.  He wanted to embrace him and beg for forgiveness.  He longed to call out to Ezra or anyone else who would hear his plea-  anyone who would grant him one final request.  But Simeun had no one left to hear his voice.  He was in a place that the world had forgotten, full of the souls of the damned and forsaken.  Beings that were once men and women, fathers and sons, brothers and lovers.  But no more.  Only the dead walked the ground he now stood on, and his time was coming soon.

He was only vaguely aware of his chest crashing to the stone floor.  Everything was blurry and numb.  The shadows danced and jeered from the corners of his vision.  The roof gave way to an endless void that stretched eternally into the starless night sky.  With the last of the strength he could summon, he crawled a few inches forward.  He took the skull laying on the ground into his hands, and brought it close.  He placed his trembling, bloody lips to the forehead of the skull, kissing it.  If what Svetozar said was true, and it truly represented Compassion and Forgiveness for one's enemy, then perhaps something would hear his final wordless plea for salvation.  Perhaps his soul would be allowed to find rest, though it did not deserve it.

At last his body gave way, and he fell limp.  The life drained from his open eyes and he grew still.  In that final fleeting moment of life, deep within the confines of his failing mind, he saw the image of a young barovian boy garbed in the colors of the Wachter Militia.  The boy seemed nervous and afraid, but then he was joined by others wearing similar uniforms.  At first they were a few, but soon their numbers swelled to many.  Though he could no longer see the boy's face in the crowd of men and women cheerfully carrying on and moving about, he could feel him as if they were connected.  He felt safe. 

He felt happy.

And then, down in a pit that the world had forgotten, Simeun Radkov died.

Spoiler: show