Foxes and Wolves - Vician Valcroix

[Valcroix]

27 Decembre, 779

I have recently become subject to dreams of an unusual nature. Until recently I had believed I could simply ignore them, yet as the contents grow increasingly disturbing, I become more certain that they are some side effects of the ritual that the journal Selviane and I recently translated failed to disclose. 'Failed to disclose'-- or did this simply never happen to him?

The enduring sin of arcana is the air of hokum and mystery that its practitioners actively seek to cultivate- taking what might otherwise be easily understood with careful methodology and seeding into it vagaries and superstition. My predecessor in this particular fork of the arcane was one of these; his journal written more to amaze and self-congratulate than to instruct. As such, it is difficult for me to guess whether my symptoms are something inherent to the process, or the result of some mistake introduced to the formula on my part. I had initially wondered at why Selviane had chosen not to conduct a version of the ritual for herself after all of the work she had placed into making it possible for me. In retrospect, it now appears that she had been wiser than I.

In the interests of approaching the problem in an orderly fashion, I have elected to follow the advice of Dr. Heinrich Schillinger in Die Analyse des Traumzustands and begin a dream journal. While my case is not likely to be a direct correspondence to those studied in the mundane branches of alienism, I have always believed that there is more overlap between arcana and the sciences than we have yet discovered. I have some confidence that Dr. Schillinger's work will provide tools (or weapons, as the case may be) in this arena that other practitioners have overlooked. To that end, here is my recounting of the dream that occurred some few days ago, which first persuaded me that a response was necessary:

Having fallen asleep in the relative comfort of Vallaki's Blue Water Inn, I found myself transported to an area I recognized as the town's northern environs, where the resident Burgomaster maintains a private reserve of hunting lands. The entity that I have come to call 'the Other' was present, as is the norm of these dreams, and I felt it become aware of me through the bond forged between us. (I will note, by the way, that I now know that the Other does possess a name in its own tongue, but it continues to withhold the information as another chip in its incessant game of posturing).

The Other, as it often does, proceeded to ignore my arrival as if I were beneath its notice. Through our link I can feel that it is meant as an act of deliberate disrespect, designed to nettle me, so I respond in kind by ignoring its ignoring of me. Petulance is a game for two. Unfortunately, I am only a passenger in these dreams, where the Other is the one 'steering the carriage' so to speak, and so it is afforded the greater dignity in our little standoff as it chooses to saunter on its way, dragging me along helplessly in its wake.

We pass shortly into the orchards that supply the plums needed for the brandy every Barovian drinks in order to help dull the pain of being Barovian, and I am forced to marvel once again at the way my senses expand during these dreams. My tactile sense remains roughly the same, but my vision is able to penetrate the thick darkness of the Barovian night with an acuity absolutely unmatched by my waking eyes. My hearing is strengthened to the point of being able to pick up even incredibly soft sounds at great distances- but it is the transformation of my sense of smell that I truly struggle to describe. The natural sciences now understand that light exists as a spectrum of colors that can be split and made visible by means of a prism, but which are naturally blended into the pure white light that we ignore constantly. This is the best way to describe smell in the dreams- the ability to parse an incredibly complex blend of to which I am utterly blind in my waking hours. The orchards of Barovia are truly nothing special- yet if I could somehow bottle the fragrance of them as experienced in the dream and carry it over to the real world, I would be able to reduce House Ambroiseux to paupers by its sale.

I would have been quite content to pass away the night there, even in the less than amiable company of the Other, but Barovian nights are seldom so calm as to allow for such relaxation. Before long, crashing sounds announce the presence of intruders moving through the orchards, and the Other chooses to investigate. The unwelcome sounds belong to a gangly and long-limbed figure that resembles a cross between a wolf and an ape, which I have learned the locals call "Loup-Garou." It was through these dreams that I first encountered the creatures, and I had initially written them off as figments of my imagination- the result of Barovian tall-tales seeping into my subconscious. I have since learned that these monsters are in fact real, in defiance of everything I learned in the schools of La République. I still bear some marks from my attempt to dismiss them as a hallucination the first time I saw one in the waking world.

Learning this was nearly enough to make one want to pay attention to tales of "The Legion" during Fifth Day service, save that I have elected to boycott them for the near future after the Warden chided my attire- despite that I was the ONLY gentleman present who made any effort to incorporate white into my ensem- My apologies, Lady Ezra. I will of course continue to attend Fifth Day service, choosing to see the obnoxiousness of your priests as the test of faith that it is.

Regardless, the monstrous embodiment of the Mists of Death, or the power of Old Night, or whatever your local brand of superstition calls them, was busying itself furthering the cause of darkness by chasing a squirrel. As I said, these beasts are quite evil. Fortunately, the squirrel managed to reach the edge of the orchard where taller yew trees grew, and scarpered up to safety, scoring a victory for the forces of justice while the Loup-Garou threw a somewhat comical tantrum down below.

It is worth noting here that the monsters seem to share something of an understanding with the Other, and so we have never been assaulted by them during the dreams. Still, when the beast looked our way after regaining its composure, some unspoken communication seemed to occur, and the Other surrendered the orchard and its apparently succulent squirrels to the monster.

The Other exits the orchards into the eastern farmlands, initially intending to skirt the town's walls to the south, but something on the wind makes it change course. (While we both possess highly acute senses in the dream, the Other is far more skilled than I at 'reading' the medley, and so I initially missed what drew its attention). This was revealed in short order to be an Outlander woman, bearing the marks of several recent injuries and heavily laden beneath a sack of spoils taken from one of Barovia's seemingly endless supply of crypts or ruins. She was dressed in the all-black garb that I assume some Barovian law I have not yet seen posted requires all Outlanders to wear, for there is no other explanation for the ubiquity of it. I did note however that she wore a particularly smart set of boots with a prominent ovaloid buckle over the instep, which matched the inlay around the mouth in a fashion I thought would mesh well with one of my day suits. I memorized the design and resolved to make a sketch for my cobbler come the morning. Fashion never sleeps- not even when I myself am asleep and trapped in a cursed dream/vision/trance.

Something about this line of thought seemed to annoy the Other, prompting the entity to physically roll its eyes at me in a gesture more distinctly 'human' than any I have ever seen it make. My amusement at this, paired with the distraction offered by the Outlander's boots, nearly caused me to miss the fact that we had prowled to the flank of the injured adventurer, and it was only belatedly that I detected the Other's hungry intentions for her through our link.

"You cannot do that!" I protested to the Other. Now I understand that to the reader of this log, this may not sound like the most eloquent or robust protestation that I might have offered to murder being plotted, but I will defend myself by noting that it was not without a plan. The Other was to have replied 'Why not?', thereby affording me a proper springboard from which to blindside it with an explanation of Montreau's Three Theorems of Rationalist Ethics. Thus would I have cleverly imposed an inescapable moral framework upon the inhuman monster I share my dreams with. Unfortunately, the Other responded with the even more cunning strategy of simply ignoring me again.

It wasn't that the Other was too stupid to argue with. I knew from past experience in these dreams that it could reason. The problem that I have found in dealing with this creature is that the style of debate to which I am accustomed in the salons of Port-à-Lucine is built around the notion that all participants fundamentally want to be rational. This is not the case with the Other. The Other can understand logic; it simply refuses to be constrained by it.

So, I tried a different tactic. In his The Discerning Merchant, Borcan trader Nicolae Vasilescu asserts that the key to all successful sales comes through an appeal to the self-interest of the buyer. "Look at this one," I said to the Other, my mental voice taking on a lilting Borcan accent that my subconscious apparently associates with greasy salesmanship, "barely any meat on her. Must be elven blood. I saw some deer further north- a larger meal for you, and probably more of a satisfying challenge for a hunter of your stature!"

Here is where I discovered the flaw in Vasilescu's proposition, which served as further evidence- as if any were needed- that Borcans are full of shite. Not only did this line of persuasion not appeal to the Other, it seemed to deepen its resolve to kill the Outlander. Diplomatic options become severely limited when the other party's chief motive seems to be to annoy you in particular.

We had by this time come up just behind the woman, and she seemed to have become alerted to her peril by some foreboding intuition, for she had gone wide-eyed and was sweeping her head back and forth as she limped with greater urgency toward the town gates. I did not think she actually spotted us, for the Other is quite adept at concealing itself in the banks of mist that clung to the road, but the mind is capable of strange and impressive feats when danger beckons.

The Other tensed and readied to rush the woman, and it was at this point something curious happened. I would describe myself as a fundamentally reserved individual- it is not considered fit for a nobleman of Dementlieu to wear his emotions visibly- and so I am slow to anger, as is proper for a man of my station. In that moment, however, after an evening of tolerating the Other's cold shoulder and now about to be forced to watch helplessly as it murdered an innocent, my temper flared. With this came an unusual sense of what I can best describe as connection to the Other that former dreams had lacked. Previously, our bond had allowed for communication. Now, in this moment of anger, I felt rather like we had locked horns, reminiscent of some rams I had witnessed fighting during an appointment with the Bellegarde in Krofburg. Moreover, the strength of our headbutting seemed tied to the weight of our respective passions in that moment- my profound anger at the Other sitting across the scale from its general apathy and casual cruelty.

I felt the Other's will bend backward upon itself under the unexpected assault, and a sudden 'deepening' of the dream heralded to my intuition that I was no longer a passenger to events! Not fully understanding what I had done but more than happy to take advantage of it, I began to move us away from the injured woman- and for the first time in one of these dreams, it worked. I was in control, and the Other had been reduced to my former role as a passenger.

Our bond remained, and I could feel the Other's disbelief quickly giving way to a boiling, indignant rage. The entity is one of intense, inhuman passions, and since I feared that I would be unable to muster anything quite so powerful to prevail in contest should it challenge me again for control, I hastened from the farmlands as fast as I could, which was at a considerable clip, for we are quick-footed in these dreams.

The expected contest did not arrive, however, and the Other's rage broke against me like waves against a rocky shore. It seemed that a contest of passions was a way for me to take control, but by whatever obscure laws governed the nature of our bond, the same was not true for the Other to regain it. I will confess just then that I allowed a certain sense of smug pleasure to seep into our bond- the mental equivalent of putting my thumb to my nose and waggling my fingers at the Other. That may seem childish to the reader of this log, but I can assure you that it is a perfectly appropriate and genteel response when one has just prevented a monster from doing murder by dint of sheer righteous anger. Such is sure to be printed as a footnote in the next edition of The Complete Gentleman's Etiquette Primer.

As I have mentioned, I have never had control of these dreams until this night, so I had no plans pre-formulated for the contingency. I wasted considerable time merely ambling about the woods before it occurred to me that I could spend the time productively; namely, that if I were to pick a direction from Vallaki where I had not previously traveled and make note of any unusual landmarks, I could revisit the path during my waking hours and see if they matched. Doing so would allow me to determine whether these dreams were merely vivid hallucinations or if something far more esoteric were afoot.

It was pursuant to this thought that I followed the road around the town and out toward the west, which was where I encountered the final complication of the evening in the form of six dark clad men, armed and laden with sacks, making their way down the same road. The lead man looked familiar to me, for reasons I could not place.

"Brigands," identified a rough voice in my mind that took me an embarrassingly long few seconds to place. I had known the Other could speak, but it rarely did so. Its mental voice carried a gravelly quality to it, yet it spoke with diction and intelligence. "They are returning from looting one of these farmsteads, doubtless after preying upon some of your beloved innocents. See the man at the head of the pack? There is a price upon his head. You have seen his poster in the town."

As the Other said it, I realized that it was true, though I privately wondered at how it could possibly have known. The Other continued: "We could make them prey, avenge your farmers, and claim the booty they have stolen as well as the bounty upon that man."

It was admittedly a tempting and well-played proposition. My family are hunters, and I have taken life for profit before- just never human life. I have no qualm with the idea of bounty hunting in theory; most ethical philosophies agree that the State possesses the moral right in declaring death for criminals. Society would break down otherwise. I have simply never wanted to be the one to do it. But the Other was right to focus upon the profit of the thing, for my grandfather had been decidedly less than generous with my allowance of late, apparently fearing that his 'wastrel grandson' would swiftly blow any increase upon an expanded wardrobe.

Which... might not be entirely untrue. But still.

I was still wrapped up in this thinking when I realized that we were moving up alongside the group- and not by my own accord. I reached for that newfound sense of connection and power over the dream only to find it entirely missing- replaced in turn by a mirror of that same sense of smug pleasure that I had projected upon the Other earlier.
There had been no contest. My control had melted away without resistance, like snow under spring rain. I made the connection only belatedly: just as my appeals to reason had no effect upon the Other, yet my appeal to passion had granted me control, so it was the opposite for it. Its rage had washed over me to no effect, yet in supplying me with a reasoned morsel to chew upon and engage my imagination upon its words, it had stolen control away from me.

Not for the first time, I marveled at the knowledge of the Other. It seemed to have an intuitive understanding for the bond and how to manipulate it, allowing the creature to piece together quickly secrets that I had to trip over like a dullard.

I was still catching up with the sudden shift in events when the Other barreled us out of the mist and knocked over one of the men in the middle of the pack, throwing him like a toddler.

We had never actually done battle in one of the dreams before, and as I reflect on the experience now to write it down, I find that my memories of the scene that unfolded are oddly distant, in what I know now from Dr. Schillinger's book is called 'dissociation'. Rather than dwelling upon the horror of the situation, my recollections seem to have focused on the mechanics that played out.

In this, the Other was plainly very skilled. I have never been much of a fighter, but my link to the Other's thoughts granted me an insight to the workings of the battle in a way to which I would have otherwise been oblivious. The Other fought like a veteran lance board player- predicting its opponent's movements and lining up his own motions such that every action primed the next.

It had begun the battle by tackling one of the men in the middle, which I had originally taken for a tactical error sure to leave the Other flanked. It was quick, though, and had thrown its entire body behind a swipe through the prone man's throat. I remember trying to stop the Other through the bond, but horror and shock had apparently been less powerful passions than the Other's bloodlust for the purposes of our struggles.

One of the other rear men had shouted an alarm and come at the Other with a wild sword swing, but the Other had plainly anticipated this. The attack had been the reason it had placed so much exaggerated weight into the slash across the first man's throat: it left the Other primed to 'uncoil,’ ducking its head under the incoming blade and connecting with the full weight of its returning arc colliding with the full weight of its opponent's swing, all focused upon the brigand's elbow. Physics occurred, and the brigand stumbled backward with a stump where his forearm had been, as well as an expression of shock on his features that remains vividly etched in my memory.

The Other utilized that same momentum to rush side-face, all exaggerated size and ferocity, at the last of the three men who had been in the rear. That brigand promptly re-evaluated the decisions he had made in life that had brought him to this point and scrambled backward, perhaps attempting to gain the space to bring his crossbow to bear rather than engage the dangerous Other in melee.

This had been what the Other had desired. Taking the opportunity presented by the brigand's withdrawal, the Other swept low and managed to snatch the man's ankle, twisting it to the side even as the Other threw itself in a half-rotation around the man. With his own momentum already heading backward, the brigand had no chance of keeping his footing, and the Other held the ankle-lock as the man fell, causing his own weight to snap his calf.

All of this had taken place over the course of mere heartbeats. As the third man fell, the second's mind finally caught up with his shock, and he began to scream. The three men who had been in front- including the man with the price on his head- had been rushing to engage the surprise threat, and now they found themselves faced with an unharmed Other standing amongst the remnants of half of the brigands’ party, one dead and two maimed. The speed at which it occurred only amplified the terror, and it was too much for these men, who were after all most likely not disciplined soldiers. They broke and fled at once, and the unreserved joy that surged through my bond with the Other suggested that the short fight had gone exactly as it had wanted.

"Exactly as WE had wanted," came the Other's voice in my thoughts, and it looked pointedly toward the man whose blood was worth gold. Everything within the Other sang at the idea of the chase, the hunt. It would chase the men fleeing with the unreserved glee otherwise reserved for children unwrapping gifts. It would torment them, and then it would kill them, and then it would feed.

It gave the fleeing men a sporting head start, and then began to rush after them with supernatural speed. Mercifully, at that moment I began to slip away from the dream- perhaps some self-preservation instinct within my subconscious knowing that to be a helpless watcher during the feeding might deal lingering harm to my psyche, and protecting me by whisking me away to less turbulent slumbers.

The dream that followed this was one of little note- not worthy of a detailed log. For the sake of scientific thoroughness I will remark that it featured a veil-clad Vistani dancing girl with familiar features, and it was pleasant enough- despite the brief intrusion of an ethereal, scowling Sieur Regnier Chaboteaux at one point- that I had nearly forgotten about the unpleasantness of the first dream by the time I woke up.

Until I found the severed human head at the foot of my bed.