♞ The Casebook of Detective Sheridan Eliana [Complete] ♞

[emptyanima]

I have spent half a month now in deep thought, hoping to shift the burden that my mind still carries. Even now, after all the help I have been given, and love I have been shown, there are still many nights when sleep does not come, and there are moments when I am slow to wake and fear that I am once again blind, and there are times when I wish, against rationality, that those who are dead may once again be given life.

If Benedict is successful, there will be much to occupy us in the near future. To keep busy is perhaps the best course of action, for it affords me little time to dwell upon regret and painful memory.

I have been changed by this place, sometimes for good, and sometimes for worse. I am a more tender soul, more open and warm, and I believe this was a change for the better. But I am also more fearful, and there is more that can be used against me.

Much demands my attention, and in my absence, there is much of note that has come to pass. Time does not wait for me.

Time to play catchup.

[emptyanima]

I remembered my sister, Madeline, today, and the occupation she imagined I would have. She thought me an artist. During my leave of absence, from the depths of my thoughts, inspiration came. Quinn did want to see the arcane-powered airships of my home, so he will certainly have an interest in one of them. The second... it was far more personal. His face has not left my memory, and he has not left my heart.

[emptyanima]

To note; be wary of any Vistana during the phase of the full moon.

-

I have spent much time travelling , to make up for my period of stagnation, sometimes alone and at other time accompanied. My most frequent travelling partner has been Quinn Mazefell. I thanked him for his gift, telling him that it saved me, but not from what fate. At any rate, I was able to provide him with information that eased his worry, as he feared for the safety of Millicent Blackburn, one of his troupe.

While with Millicent, we saw a man garbed in a turquoise robe, from the Society of Helping Hands. Further inquiry leads us to assume the truth is far more sinister. Liaise with her shortly.

_{Clipping from L'Observateur}

Quinn has been most pleasant company. We have searched places I had yet to visit - a palace upon the peak of Mt. Baratak, sculpted ice, riddled with twisted creations with that same substance. Many bodies were frozen solid. While we explored, we spoke of heroism and good, and mourned the fact that those who are pure of heart are the first to be snatched from us. We both recalled Eric, then. Quinn seems to wrestle with several problems, his health and his work chiefly. I will keep an eye on him.

-

The Long Bite - Continued

Clan - Von Khorvich

Time: The early hours, difficult to tell exactly due to being within a tomb.
Location: The Mausoleum, Barovia village.

Report:

I was within the mausoleum, giving the corrupted creatures their second death, when the creature appeared, fitting the description I have been given of him;

- Dark, short hair.
- Pale of complexion, with pale eyes.
- A thick Barovian accent.

He referred to the ghouls, his guardians, as his family, and asked if I wished for him to slaughter his family as I had done his. I did not answer his question, not wishing to give him cause to seek my brother. He determined from my scent that I am an outlander, and thus he will likely assume that all family I may have are beyond his reach. He then spoke of how long it has been since he tasted a woman, and how fortunate it was that I had trespassed upon his territory. He posed to me two choices; the first that I would submit to his embrace and live, or resist and die, and be made like him. This is the same choice that Makhiel Ulciscor posed to me when my investigation first began. I told him he would do neither. He seemed amused by this, as he believed (and he stated) that I did not know whom I was addressing, and was foolish to make such statements.

This is when I referred to him by name, and he told me I had nerve to address him so in that place, confirming my suspicions. As he drew closer, I held up a mirror (knowing it would have no effect on him for his strength) at which he scoffed. I adopted an expression of confusion, putting it away, and taking a stake and mallet (knowing also that I would never be able to use them effectively in that situation), at which point he scoffed again, continuing to draw closer. My breath was laboured, and my eyes darted, and my shoulders slumped submissively. I referred to my part (with some exaggeration) in slaying Laurent with such tools, and bemoaned how much stronger Von Khorvich is than he.

It was then that he told me to know my place, and embrace him, and live. I stepped slowly closer, my expression one of fear and loathing, and he beckoned me nearer and nearer. I tucked away my mallet and stake, and (without his seeing) concealed a flask of holy water in my gloved hand, bringing my arms about him in an embrace. He tugged back my hood, commenting upon how my appearance makes me look similar to him. I shuddered inwardly, keeping my eyes on his. I know the risk I was taking. I know their speed. He told me I was beautiful, to which I replied that beauty is dangerous. I emptied the flask over his head.

His shrieks echoed through the mausoleum, and I fled as he writhed. Emerging from the crypt, unscathed, his voice rang out over the graveyard. The last I heard as I reached the gate was;

“I WILL DESTROY YOU!”

-

N.B: Mend the rift.

_{"Very beautiful... your eyes are almost as cold and pale as mine." ~ Von Khorvich}

[emptyanima]

The Hoppy wedding was a beautiful event, and I regret that I surrendered to my mind's images and phantasms, which dragged me away before the reception. I have been left in a reflective state. I regard the black gown spread over my bedcovers, and I ponder the times I have worn it.

Renée looked beautiful, but to note such is no change from the usual. To be sure, she dresses very well, takes care over her appearance, but her beauty lies in her strength, as it does with many I have met. Each smile of hers is an act of defiance to her past, a two-fingered salute to those who brought her low. I should not underestimate the spirt of halfings. In fact, I am certain I can perceive a correlation between their diminutive statures and their depth of courage, but as one should always remember, correlation is not causation. I wish the two of them every happiness.

But even as I write those words, for those I call dear friends, I taste bitterness. To see love displayed and vowed was a sweet delight at first, but the aftertaste is something sourer. The green demon perches on my shoulder and nestles himself comfortably there. And thoughts, illogical and foolish, form within my head. I revile them the instant they appear, but still they linger.

Why her, and not me?

Renée and I are sisters in experience. We both know the stumblingblock of disability, and the evil's stain has soaked the fabric of our lives.

Why her, and not me?

We both know the grip of the wight bitch, and the terror of the vampire's bite.

Why her, and not me?

She has the warmth of companionship, the love of which bards so often sing. Her's is the ballad and mine is the dirge. Mine is the cold empty breath of the grave.

I look again at that dress. It bore witness to Renée and Leander's happiness, was present as they shared laughter in the kitchen at the Lodge, their eyes filled with the same, deeper expression. It bore witness to their union, beneath leaf and bough.

It bore witness to my tears as we remembered Eric, and collected dust from the vampire's crypt as Benedict drove in the stake I held. And now the wight has also gone, surely I should consider Eric to be at peace? If he is, the green monster eyes him too, for it is something I am denied.

Jealousy at my shoulder, fear inside my head, disquiet in my heart - this triumvirate drives my pen.

Oh, but I loathe this. My mind is overrun and my eyes are dry with weariness. They say that time heals all wounds, but I am doubting this adage. Perhaps I am impatient, to expect release so soon. But here I am, numb and cold, with ghosts to comfort me. Benedict already has his remedy, his warmth. I know he too struggles. The woman I was to call sister-in-law... she drew a dagger on him, months ago now. His melancholy only shifts when he is drunk.

His gin flask will be in his pocket, unless he has moved it. Benedict tells me that gin tastes like the scent of the Yule tree. Perhaps it will grant me some of that festive warmth, and cleanse the bitterness from my mouth in its baptismal fire.

[emptyanima]

[Notes and descriptions are crammed into the margin in a shaky hand - tables are drawn up and lists scrawled. On a fresh page of her casebook, its exterior worn and broken in places, much like its author, she puts quill to parchment, reflective.]

I take it all back, every word. I envied them, and now they are lost. Renée became that which she despised, a vampire like Laurent, but has since met the fate of all such creatures. In a way, I am glad the last I saw her was at the wedding. I didn't have to see her features altered and mocked by undeath, and for that, I am grateful. It is another tragedy that Leander too is one of them now... when I saw him yesterday, so changed, it tore at me.

I am thankful that I found some rest in Mordent, with Benedict's help. A few nights of good sleep, here and there. Distance from those who know us. But I couldn't remain there forever. Guilt tugged at me and dragged me back, as did the need to act again. My mind was wasting away, unfed, but in the short days since my return, it has gorged itself to sickness. My head aches, and I am filled with worry.

The Kinship is changed now, that much is certain. Anastacia... I can still not quite believe it, the lengths to which she went, becoming in those moments the very same she fought against. No doubt she is remorseful, but it is a heavy burden nonetheless. I need to find her, and speak to her myself.

A few faces that I recognise remain, some more vividly than others. Some of their words have seemed harsh, but given all they have endured... I suppose I cannot place all the blame on their shoulders. Indeed, there have been some poor choices of words on my part. But if I am to be effective in my work, to throw back the mantle that the truth might be seen, to protect, and to aid, then I cannot do so alone. But rumours have become intertwined with truth, and a meeting has been arranged to unravel it. I hope that will be enough.

Their losses have been great, and so recent. An elven woman, Rue. I had been told to seek her out. Too late. But the names I heard murmured in relation to her murder... one name scratches and gnaws at me, and each moment I think on it my stomach turns. I hope fervently for it to be a lie, but then I remember uncertainty, doubt. We ventured to the ruins together once, and I fell. My memory hazes, but I recall how closed he became after I was restored, as though he barely kept something from spilling out. I hope it is a mistake, an honest mistake, that his name is among them. This place has robbed both of us of a great deal, and with similar strokes. If the darkness has claimed him too...

[The ink pools, the sentence unfinished, as though Sheridan could not bear to continue this train of thought.]

I have attempted to reach out to others, to forge new bonds of friendship, make new allies. More practice of my swordplay, that I might defend those who cannot defend themselves, and preserve my own life, that my brother might not despair.

I am already tired. I have shed tears upon the shoulder of an almost stranger. Poor Abihue, he is new to these lands, from Darkon originally. I hope that I can continue to see his optimism, his hopefulness, but I fear he shall be stripped of it. I offer all the aid that I can, that this might not be the case.

I cannot continue like this. I must remember to find time for myself, to rest, to shed private tears, that I do not burden those around me, or cause any avoidable pain. If I must suffer further for my work, forsake my happiness that others might have theirs... then I must be ready. Ready to push back the denizens of the dark, that others might enjoy the sun.

[emptyanima]

I honestly believed it would help. Perhaps if it had all been handled sooner.... I should not deal in maybes.  His words to me were harsh, but I cannot blame him. I've heard it said that twins share a soul. As more of me has been worn away, so too has Benedict been corroded, and in the space made, a thick, black mass of hatred has taken residence, its presence numbed by all his wretched drinking.

I cannot return to neutrality now. I'm changed. He has changed. Zivon is right; I cannot leave this behind, go and be as other people are, and do as they do. There is no normal life for me, or for him. And the ideals to which I cling... if I let them go, I will wither and fade, for little else of me remains.

But I cannot lose him. He has already threatened it. If I do not step down from the fight, he will leave me. He says he will not watch me die, but by leaving, he would kill me. He is my brother, with whom I shared the womb, and so too I share his pain. There are differences, however. He finds comfort in shadows, a numbness, where I see only nightmares and memories barely suppressed.

There is no easy choice. I consider my path anew, as Ana does... I did not think to see her so soon. She hides now, cast out and with a bounty upon her head. But she admits to having been arrogant, and to no longer feeling worthy to be the wielder of justice's blade. But I learnt from my own egregious sin, in condemning Antonio Vezzoni to death, that it is another sin to turn one's back from the path when we stumble. Perhaps she can continue to help in other ways, no longer a figurehead, but quietly. For her, the shadows can be a boon... perhaps for Benedict, it could be the same?

This cannot continue... I must make a choice.

[She flicks through her casebook as she closes it, but reaching the last page, she freezes. Fear grips her by the heart. For on the very last page of her casebook, four words (in familiar handwriting)... an all too familiar sigil follows.]

I AM ALWAYS WATCHING.

 

[emptyanima]

I find myself back in Port-a-Lucine. I find I have fallen back into certain rituals. Taking breakfast at the Blooming Rose or in the outdoor cafe, purchasing purple flowers from the flower girl across the way, bringing them to the St. Mere de Larmes, to leave by the western altar. I speak with Eric, knowing he will not answer.

I have lost another friend - I came across dear Quinn's spectre in the theatre. He seemed to know me. I had never had the chance to show him the picture I had painted for him, and of course, in death, he did not recognise my intent. I followed him as he seemed dragged away, a sound like shackles echoing. I followed him all the way to the gendarmerie, where he stopped, and then I knew. Oh, dear Quinn. What did you do, quiet hero? Perhaps someone will know - I'll need to make enquiries.

--

I saw Lafranchi in the cafe a few days ago, and he enquired after Alanik Ray. It was strange to see Detective Ray so soon afterwards. Zephyr was there also, for we had work to do. A missing woman to find. By the end of our trip, the woman was still not yet found. But we had staked and slain vampires, discovered her true location. One moment rings out most clearly in my mind.

There were many steps carved into the floor, creating a pit. In the centre, a woman was shackled, pendulums bearing axeheads swinging above her, lowering steadily and surely. Zephyr and I ran down to her, her appearance being that of the lady we sought. One of the pendulums sliced open Zephyr's back, but we managed to free her. Her leg was severed by the blade... but it regrew. Taking her out of the way, her behaviour changed. She went to Zephyr with a lusty gaze. I had to be certain of what I feared. I threw holy water over her, and she hissed, turing. A stigmata sprouted from her forehead, and she was changed. Her hair was revealed to be black, and her nature darker still. This was not the dear Lady at all, but a vampire.

None of our blades could pierce her tough skin, and her arcane fire was strong. Her spells nearly destroyed the both of us. There was only one route we could take, and together we wrestled to try and force her into the pendulum blades, the only thing we had seen make a mark on her. At times, we both narrowly avoided being forced into the blades ourselves. If we had been either of us alone, we would have been lost, but together, we just managed to muster enough force and willpower to push her down. The blades ripped through her, and she became mist, retreating to her coffin to reconstitute her body. We did not give her the chance. I took a hammer and stake, Zephyr his blade. He tore off the coffin lid, and I staked the creature. Zephyr beheaded her.

It almost painful to write, but at this moment, I knew that I was doing what my very skin and flesh and bone was formed to do. I was purposeful, frightened and bloody, but I felt myself flowing, as though I did not exist at all. Oh, Benedict. I know the path I must take...

Will you not stand beside me? To lose you would be far greater a pain than to be torn asunder by swinging blades. I remember when you were the one to drive down the mallet. To do such without you... there was an emptiness.

I will find you, wherever you may go. You came through the mist to find me, and so will I for you, if I must.

[emptyanima]

Har'Akir, Barovia, Dementlieu. These places have taken up my time. I met for a second time a halfling called Meriana, from whom I purchased several scrolls on Akiri legends, many months ago. I went with her to Har'Akir, to explore and study, that we might use our reading to learn more of it. We came across places neither of us had ever found, scattered about that sandy sea. Tapestries and temples, statues and scrolls... it was marvellous. I look forward to travelling with her again.

I saw another old friend, and learnt the truth behind poor Quinn's demise. I must consider my own path carefully. We spoke at length on many subjects, and I more clarity for it. I only wish that Benedict had been there to listen. I imagine him strewn in a gutter somewhere, lost to drunkenness, and I shudder. But no matter how far I have travelled, I've not seen him again. I grow ever more worried for him.

I must be vigilant. I have had many strange and terrifying events reported to me, and I have passed them on, in turn, to those I trust. I hope I can help Monsieur Janvier and his friends. His drive is cloaked in melancholy and doubt, but when uncovered, it reminds me of someone so dear. But I should put such thoughts out of mind and focus on what must be done next.

And then of course, there is the paper I mean to write. I need to hold interviews and gather more accounts. I have to devise a way of doing so that does not attract unwanted attention. I have to be careful - I've made many enemies here in following my path. Even if it does not unlock the door I stand before now, I will be glad to write it.

I often forget how much purpose I find in putting pen to page, though I do it so often. I recently met a woman called Christine Harlow, who is currently working on a travelogue of Barovia, and then Dementlieu. But her true wish is to write fiction, though she doubts her publishers will give in on that front. I only hope that she follows her heart, for both fact and fiction hold valuable information and lessons on our lives, our very beings, the fears that we face and the conflicts which arise between us.

It is when fiction becomes fact that it is most fearful, however. And there is a fear among us, that exactly that has taken place. A name meant to remain unspoken. Perhaps, when it is breathed, it is a breath of life? I need to study further, and await Monsieur Janvier's return to me with his report.

I am sick with worry, and it threatens to cloud my mind. Dear brother, let me help you fight your demons, and cast aside that wretched bottle for good.

[emptyanima]

I worry for Henri, and his companions. I have spoken to him on several occasions regarding his experiences with the Face-stealer, and most recently, a creature called Hypnos, Lord of the Court of Nightmares. Oh, but his face is one I know well, for it's one I've worn many times - the visage of weariness. Mercifully, his friends seem most loyal to him. As long as he keeps away from heroics, and among friends and loved ones, he will do well. I noted a wedding ring on his finger - perhaps his wife can give comfort to him in these hard times.

Comfort. A simple thing, that can be granted in a mere look, an embrace, words of appreciation. I have been grateful to receive such things lately. Words still echo in my mind. The words of Rudolph van Richten. It was a meeting under hard circumstances, that I had with his spirit. He is still bound to his home, a curse on him for the actions he was driven to take... acts of vengeance. I know such a desire wells in me. I know that if I see Father Scar again, I will seek his blood. But I know the cost of revenge is often high. And all the Van Richtens have paid it. They are together in phantasmal undeath.

It broke my heart to see little Erasmus. He told me of how much guilt his father feels, for giving him the mercy of his death when Baron Metus turned him, made the poor sweet child a drinker of blood. I suppose it is a small mercy again, that they have been able to stay together as they are. But it is not an existence I would wish for anyone. With their aid, good was done that day. They were gracious and spoke kindly of the comfort it brought, to see that there are still some left who continue this work.

Of course, there is now work to be done. I must be watchful, for colours often carry symbols and clues. And while I feel spurred on by the words of a hero, deceased, there is doubt in me.

“You’ll kill your brother, domna, by your own hand. Your song’s crescendo.”

These words have sought to overwhelm the comforting ones... I am so afraid. Benedict, where are you? If anything has happened to you, it is my fault, by my hand... and these words will have rung true.

My work can only keep me from tears for so long.

[emptyanima]

It seems I can never have all aspects of my life to be settled and happy at once. I would wager that this is the experience of many, and I know that I have brought it upon myself, for I know many, and many lives have touched mine. I spread myself thin.
I found Benedict once more, reeking of drink, but at last I think the first step has been made to help him. Namely, he will let me try. I'll not let him throw himself away, not when I can help him.

But there are more I cannot help. It is simply not within my power. My companions and I are deeply troubled, for there is no wholly good decision to make. Do we lose all their progress, set aside the long-fought fight and see our fears realised, or do we fight on, knowing we have left another to a lonely doom? There must be a way to compromise the two. There has to be - surely no place can be so wholly unfair?

Then again... from all my observations... my notes, my conversations... this is not something beyond the realms of possibility. The good to which we cling, more often than not, is a response to adversity, a way to shut it out. We find happiness in spite of what surrounds us, not because of it. They are temporary, cool embraces, keeping us sane as we cross a plain of fire.

No one should be left alone, not when what has befallen them becomes known, for forced solitude is as much torture as the use of whips, knives, scythes, gouging... and these are pains I would not wish on my greatest foe, for I would grant the mercy of a quick death, should they be judged as deserving such. How much more unbearable is the thought that those who are good and true are suffering? The cry of the innocent is more painful to hear, for it comes about without any wrongdoing on their part, borne instead of an external, insidious, darker malice.

I have seen, have known, such malice. Not myself, for I am not the innocent of which I speak. I have made mistakes. I have been selfish, jealous, cruel, distant, misleading, cold, and I was many of these things before I came to this place, and as such, it cannot be blamed for this. I still see his face sometimes  - Vezzoni's -  in my thoughts. When I put my signature to that parchment... forget the gun against my head and the threats levelled against me... I signed his death warrant, pure and simple. Wachter has retreated. Vezzoni has been dead for many months, but that guilt has yet to shift wholly. And there is more guilt still that I bear.

Benedict always asks the most piercing, heart-wrenching questions, always leading. I'd tell him off for straying from his so-called 'neutrality' in such a method, but I cannot deny his effectiveness.

But what better atonement, then to keep fighting? To dismiss the guilt of selfishness, I must prove to myself, to others, that this is not my nature. But I must be careful in this approach also, for to simply do these things to ease my own soul, is more selfish a reason than many. I must remember why I do all these things.

We shall not ever surmount the evil here, I have been here long enough, seen its many faces, to know that such is idealistic and unrealistic, as sorrowful a truth to accept as it is. But we can hold the tide. I see now the sacrifices have been made, for we would not experience so much loss, where we not fighting. If we retreated inwards and cared only for ourselves, we would not shed so many tears, or feel such wrenching pain. But I cannot live like this.

My eyes remain watchful, my ears attentive. I shall not shy from asking assistance, or wallow further into self-pity.

I am Sheridan Eliana, seeker of truth. I was once blinded by evil, but now, with new eyes, I search once more.

[emptyanima]

It has been a day like no other, and I struggle to take in all of its implications. Before I ever set foot in the Core, five months short of two years ago, even two years prior to that, when I committed myself wholly to the path of truth, I always appealed to the jurisdiction of others. It was never my role to weigh the life of another, for I am neither judge, nor guard, nor soldier. My domain has always been the reporting of facts to those who bear such a responsibility. I have only deviated from this pattern in my dealings with blood-drinkers and thugs, for the former are no longer human, no matter the face they wear, while the latter surrender this when they attack to kill, though more often than not I try to soften my blows to render them unconscious rather than dead.

That I have written so much of this before I come to the events of today is of no small importance. I have my justification. But to whom do I justify my actions? A greater power? That is not the case. My companions? I shall come to them soon enough. To myself? This... seems the most logical answer. I do not regret my decision, nor the act that proceeded it, but in noting this now...

There is value in every life. No one is chattel, or simply the parts of which they are composed. This was not an act committed lightly.

I knew the truth of him long before I drew steel. From my own experience, the words of trusted friends, the reports of those who sought my aid, the portrait of the man was painted for me in my mind's eye. He committed acts of depravity and unspeakable, unquestionable evil. There is little in this land that is black and white - the lives and actions of most are grey. No one here can cling to their innocence, though it pains me to write such. My own being is tarnished, and that was before I came here. For I have been selfish and cruel, particularly to those I love.

I sought to give him the mercy of a quick death. There was no torture, or taunting, only truth. How easy it would have been, to leap from the shadows and end it in an instant. But I know how time can change a person. We spoke at length. I wanted to ensure that the painting of the man I held in my mind was a true likeness. And in truth, he spoke of doing what he did for those he cared for. If he had spoken such to me while my eyes were still closed, I may have spared him. But I've seen enough of evil here to know it twists and mutates something pure into a monstrous shadow. Even the Cultists of Nerull spoke of being a unit, a family, united by their faith. They are Brother and Sister to each other. But at their core is darkness, a harshness that they readily accept to be truth. The truth is, more often than not, unpleasant, but that does not mean that all unpleasantness is true. Were that the case, gossip would be lauded for unveiling the malice of people, when more often than not it stems from lies and half-truths, or is borne out of ulterior motives.

Before I struck the final blow, the death mask of his face wore an eerie smile. His blood was black. A reflection of his heart? Perhaps.

He acknowledged 'old' crimes, deeds committed long ago. I know that there was more, much more recent, but then the scapegoats and shift of blame came. He claimed he had to be monstrous, that by doing so he protected others. I know from those words that he cannot be blamed wholly for his state of being, for no one in their right mind would say such things. But still, the blame was passed to forbidden knowledge, powers of darkness, all things apart from himself... for only once we accept our wrongdoings can we set them right. I witnessed in him no desire to change, only to blame.

I hope he is at rest.

--

This was not the sum of the day's events, however. When people speak of judgment, they usually speak of the power to kill. But what of the power to give life? I do not speak of myself directly, in that sense - I am no priest. But without my actions, this also would not have taken place. And while this may seem strange, I find I am more torn over the act of bringing to life than I am about the act of killing, in this case.

I shall elaborate.

At home, such arts were rare. The dead stayed dead, for the most part. Not so here.

Oh, the guilt that tore at me the moment the life of a dear friend was restored. His abject confusion, the whimpers of suffering... I crumbled. For in the same day that I gave rest to the wicked, I took it from one for whom I care. But was it rest? His spectre has haunted me, suffering in his ghostly eyes. He was not at peace. No, he was not at peace...

And now he has the chance to be whole. To try again to finish what he began. I will be with him each step that I can.

He saved my life, not for any gain of his own, but for that self-sacrificial selflessness of which I have seen so little. There is a quiet heroism visible in him. And if we can bring but a little of it to bear, comfort and ease his suffering, then the good he can do...

I hope, one day, he considers the debt I owe him to be repaid.

--

There is but one more thing of which I shall write this time. Dementlieu's lacquered mask has slipped. When I first arrived there, I was under the misapprehension that it was a 'better' place that Barovia, to say nothing over other locales in the Core. I would argue now that it is worse. While the sheer evil present in Barovia cannot be denied, its people are, by and large, ignorant. They do not make the same high claims of learnedness and greatness as those of Dementlieu do. There has always been a sickness in it, a thin gold film spread over bottomless filth, that takes only a little searching to find.

The dead line the streets. Looting and other criminality is rife. A guillotine stands proudly outside the Palais Dirgeant. I confess that I used this chaos to my advantage this day. But there is a sickening fear that has gripped me tightly.

Where is he? I know his capabilities. It would have been easy for him to twist and shape others to suit his needs, for I have seen him do this first hand. He has used this power to condemn. He has used this power to torture and maim. He robs people of their agency. And now he has slipped through the cracks. I did my best to lie low, when his status was high, but at least one was always painfully aware of where he was. Of course, that is to say nothing of the agents I am certain he has.

It is like the housekeeper who loses sight of the rat she discovers in the pantry, and the uncertainty of its whereabouts is worse than meeting his beady eyes. She is forced to accept that the rat now has the ability to spread his ilk, and any disease they carry.

And the disease of a kind that he carries...

Something must be done.

[emptyanima]

I do not know how long we have been here, but I am fearful, and filled with regret. I should have spoken with Benedict before I left. I know he would have been angry, had I told him I was going into danger, but... if the last I had seen of him was him walking away... no, I do not wish to consider it. Our last meeting was pleasant enough.

The wild magic of the silver mine wracked at my mind like a plaything. It seems no matter what precautions I take, something can take hold at whim. I do not recall from where I received the scars that cover my body. I ache with hunger, and do not recall my last meal. One of my tonics is missing, though I am not strong enough of mind to recall which one. This whole place, the Shadow Rift, it toys with us. Things grow too large, and feel so real. What is real? I am uncertain. The light has played tricks here. Truth is blurred, and my mind is hazy.

Benedict, I wish you knew. Should these be the last words I write, and by some providence, my book is recovered, know that I love you dearly, brother, and I regret all the bad blood that has ever existed between us.

I wonder how often Mother and Father think of us. I have been gone for almost two years. Have they given up? Do they keep searching? I curse the sadness the loss of both Benedict and I must have wrought upon them. I hope that Madeline is well, successful, happy. Above all, happy.

I look over all I have written here, and a thought gnaws at me, wriggling like a leech that has not quite gorged itself on its prey. Have I done enough? There is much unfinished. The paper unwritten. My dear friend unaided, seeking redemption...

There's been no sign of Alanik for some time. That is troubling. I recall the scuffle at the Cosmopolis Club in Martira Bay... I wonder if the two are connected? It is likely I shall not find out.

What have I accomplished, truly? I feel small before the evils I have faced. I have slain vampires, rescued those in need. I've uncovered criminals, discovered the truly horrid powers that some in this land hold. I have endured. Pain, loss, all of these. I hope, when the end comes, I can look back and say... this was enough.

I still miss Eric, though it has been so long. It has been too long since I went and spoke with him. I've not given much thought, to existence beyond the end. Perhaps, if a fragment of us remains, they will reunite, and navigate whatever makes the up our world together.

Curses. Have I always been such a romantic?

I have run out of time for more words. Now the time comes for action. The last? Who can say. Not even the best detective can predict the future. And I, Sheridan Eliana, am, or was, not the best detective. But I'll be damned if I didn't try.

~~

The way to the Obsidian Gate was treacherous, with a huge spider, sheer cliffs, rivers of molten lava and torrential, unending rain among the obstacles they faced. Higher they went, the Gate ever closer. The night sky blackened further, and the world was wracked with tremors. For Gwydion the Sorcerer-Fiend, was on the brink of being freed from his curse, a freedom which would allow him to act beyond the confines of the Gate. It would allow him to enslave the world. Faustine Durrance, bedecked in much of the Regalia of Arak, acted as Gwidyon's champion. The fight against her was long and bloody, the danger ever-increasing. Desperate, Sheridan threw herself at Faustine, knocking her from the bridge on which they fought, and she followed. The quick actions of her companions kept her from falling, but their efforts could not keep Sheridan from Gwidyon's wrath. As Faustine fell, an eldritch tentacle wrapped itself about the detective, already wounded from the fight with Faustine, and squeezed tightly. Bones were crushed, some breaking. But as Faustine expired, Gwidiyon's entrapment was sealed. The tentacle loosened, and Sheridan fell to the ground. The others moved quickly, grabbing potions, while one prayed. Zephyr took Sheridan's broken, bleeding body into his arms as she murmured:

"We... we did it. It was... enough."

With this whispered, painful utterance, the detective looked up at the dark skies. She considered all that she had done, all that she was, and all she had met. Her heart ached as she thought of her brother, her twin, and the grief he would feel. She recalled those she had lost. Renee, Leander, Clydessa, and more besides. And then she thought of Eric, the man she loved, and had lost so swiftly. She tried vainly to keep her thoughts of warm, good things, but her body, which had endured so much, could not hold. Surrounded by good men and women - Zephyr Kontos, Arianwen Liadonel, Siobhan MacGillivray and Eleora Tealeaf, Sheridan exhaled a shaky breath.

Her last.

~~

The End

[emptyanima]

((Bump for safeguard.))