The Diary of Verinne van Haute

[Better Dread than Dead]

11/25/772

Hate. There have only been two occasions in my life where I think what I felt towards someone, or a group of someones, was hate. The first involved a man back home, one by the name of Sicart Picavet. While I had certainly had people belonging to the Richemuloise gentry as my clients in the past, Sicart, despite being a merchant, was many times more magnanimous and charitable than they were. His coffers seemed to be bottomless and he seemed to always have his thumb on the pulse of Ste. Ronges. We Richemuloise guard our secrets well, yet he seemed to be be well-informed about everybody and everyone.

I imagine if I went back to Ste. Ronges now, I would see a coat-of-arms hanging from the bars of the wrought-iron gate, and him rubbing shoulders with the various blue-bloods, talking about the massive, sprawling estate with huge tracts of land he managed to acquire. In Richemulot, and arguably in other places as well, power is derived from what you know, and Sicart seemed to be learning more and more about everyone in Ste. Ronges, with each passing day. Furthermore, there seemed to be no limit to his ostentatious wealth, as his gifts to me grew more grandiose, more lavish.

I grew curious.

I eavesdropped upon his conversations, I rifled through the ledgers he kept, went through all the correspondence he had with those whom he called his business partners. Each time I did, I received a piece of the puzzle, and eventually, it all fit together -- with that, came a startling, horrifying revelation. The man who had became my benefactor was, in fact, a slaver, a man who made his money through contacts he had in the underworld specializing in human trafficking. They would capture men and women (mostly the latter) and see them transported across the border into Falkovnia -- their future, once they arrived there, would naturally prove to be a rather bleak one.

Anyway, Sicart seemed to notice I was acting differently around him, and must have realized I discovered the truth. In the middle of the night, two rather large, broad-shouldered men broke into my house, and tried to seize me from where I was in my bed -- I've no doubt they were sent by Sicart. I obviously didn't get captured by them, mostly because I ran. I ran until the soles of my feet began to bleed. I ran until I was out-of-breath, and continued on regardless. I ran until Ste. Ronges was but a speck resting miles behind where I stood.

Before all of this happened to me, I rather liked Sicart. He was charming, he was handsome.  For the companionship I offered him, he, in exchange, allowed me to live not only comfortably, but luxuriously... and yet I grew to quickly hate the man, because it became clear to me that he was more than comfortable with having me clapped in irons and smuggled across the border into a nightmarish, horrifying country full of brutes and butchers, on the slim chance that I had become a liability. He made me leave Richemulot behind, forcing me to abandon everything I knew -- friends, the clients I dealt with before him, to start again elsewhere.

That was one occasion where I began to feel hate, and the other happened to me a few days ago, yet I am not certain who it is I hate more. Is it Sokolov and the Vos for what they did to me, or myself, because I was unable to do a single, solitary thing to stop them from doing what they did. The feeling of utter powerlessness I felt, that I still feel -- it is arguably worse than anything else that's followed in the wake of all this, worse than my lack of appetite, my need to retch, or the bad dreams I've been having.

Others are helping me get my revenge against Sokolov and his countrymen. Others, because I cannot hope to do anything myself. Easy as it is to wallow in despair as I have been, what I require is agency. Power, in whatever form that might take. Strength. I hope I might be able to find that here, in Krofburg. 

[Better Dread than Dead]

12/10/772

The bastard is dead, I think. Others, along with myself, saw him fall down the side of a cliff. I wanted to see his body, to make sure that he was well and truly gone, yet I couldn't find it. I hope I wasn't lying to all those women when I told them he was no more. I hope what I said, what I told all of them, was the truth.

When last I wrote in this diary of mine, I said that I required three things. I should consider myself incredibly lucky that so many people in the village, be they native or outlander, care about me, but I did not feel as though I had any of what I personally thought I needed to prevail. Tied up in that tent, bloodied, I felt like I lacked agency, that I was powerless, that I was weak.. and if they had not made haste in getting to where I was, I would have been harmed in ways my vanity wouldn't be able to handle.

I suppose it could have been far worse, I think. I consider it a small blessing that they led me out of the camp and up the mountain to try and kill me. They very well could have been brought me to below their tent, to the root-cellar they were keeping all those women in. The trail would have probably gone cold, and who can say for certain how long I would have been their prisoner, their slave, and what they would have put me through.

It felt good, taking care of all those women, giving them food, money to afford shelter, warm clothing -- in a couple cases, my own. I don't know how many of them will make it out here, being so far from home, but at least they'll have their freedom, and the choices they make will be theirs and theirs alone. I confess that it wasn't as satisfying as gelding and then eviscerating that corpulent wretch, the monstrous scoundrel who accompanied Sokolov the eve of my performances in the Miner's Merriment. Overcome by wrath as I was, my actions have led others, those whom I care about and those who care about me, to worry about me.. and they should, perhaps. What I felt, after what I did to that man, was fulfillment, and a sliver of the three things I've been longing for.

I want more of it.

[Better Dread than Dead]

12/17/772

I do not understand what is happening to me.

I must've stared at myself in the mirror for minutes, uninterrupted. I did not blink, not even once. That's the first thing I noticed. I began to notice after that, how much smoother my face seemed, how much fuller my lips appeared to be. The scar's still there, but it's like I'm no longer myself. I am a sculpture someone has made of myself, one that's brittle and might break if handled improperly. What might happen to me, should I be tipped over -- will I shatter into a hundred pieces?

I might already be broken; perhaps I am deluding myself, believing that I'm only bent in places.

I keep practicing with others, I keep talking to my friends about how I feel, and yet I cannot shake this feeling. It continues to stay with me, this feeling of inadequacy. It continues to eat away at me, even now.

Maybe IT could help me. Maybe this is why destiny has brought me to this village nestled in the mountains, roused from its slumber by men of low character from places all over the Core, so I could be torn to pieces and then put back together again, stronger than before. There must be a reason as to why I stay, why I feel as though I must linger.. and perhaps, deep down, what I feel about this village's troubled past is not fear, but instead morbid curiosity.

The summit beckons.

[Better Dread than Dead]

1/13/773

Almost a month has passed, and I feel no different. I've been to the summit, I've been to the ruined temple -- I've laid my eyes upon the large stone seal that keeps IT imprisoned. Lily-livered coward that I am, I did not dare try to entreat with the creature for what it is my heart desires most. It is almost as though I expect things to get better all on their own, that I will become stronger and self-sufficient by doing exactly as I have been all my life. It is as though I believe that by doing exactly as I've always done, over and over again, something different will happen.

Nightmares continue to rob me of restful slumber, of the sleep I so desperately require. I still wish I never ate that gods-be-damned flower, despite knowing know full well that it was never the true culprit for the dreadful night terrors I now regularly experience. As it stands, I am half-expecting one of the crag cats that lurk along the road leading into Krofburg to calling out my name between their hungry-sounding yowls...

Is this who I'll always be? Is this just who Verinne van Haute is? Is this the best she can do? Is she a doe, one that skitters away at the first sign of trouble? A woman who exists solely to cater to the whims and fancies of the wealthy and the powerful, with no soul to call her own? A woman who sleeps either with the bed of a complete stranger or on a bedroll in a root-cellar, while another, more fortunate woman sleeps in a four-poster bed with silk sheets and exquisite canopies?

Maybe not, yet I cannot help but feel despondent. Something has to change.

[Better Dread than Dead]

1/15/773

A darkness is starting to well up from inside of me, spurned on by a heart-breaking revelation I received yesterday evening. For weeks now, I've wondered about the girls. Since that fateful night, I've wondered what might have happened to them, since I haven't seen a single one of them around Krofburg. I tried to be their advocate, to help them find honest work, if they lingered. I petitioned the Burgomaster and the Steward here to do all they could to try and help these women, and they agreed to teach them Balok and help them find work in and around the village.

They didn't linger. As it turns out, there was a reason I haven't seen them around -- most of them are now working at the Prancing Nymph. Those who didn't seem experienced enough, they were turned away, and to quote Orinal himself, "who knows what may have happened to them".

I tried to act selflessly. I tried to do right by these women, since it was Natasha's doing that saw them brought to Krofburg in the first place. In the end, I changed nothing. I accomplished nothing. It was as though the future of these women was written in stone, and there was nothing I could do to try and alter it. I cannot help but feel bitter, but at least I've learned a rather valuable lesson.

That lesson, I think, is that it's better just to not get involved. If I wasn't so nosy, I imagine I'd still be in Richemulot, living in comfort, with Sicart attending to my every whim. The doomed are going to remain doomed, no matter what I try and do to save them. In the end, the only thing that matters is me, and how far I can take myself.

[Better Dread than Dead]

[Better Dread than Dead]

2/4/773

I couldn't bring myself to do what it demanded of me -- not because I found it morally reprehensible, but because I cannot see myself being owned by IT or anything like IT. I've learned much about these sorts of things, and I know what it is I want. I also know what I'm willing to give in exchange. If I was going to worship anything, I'd prostrate myself before an altar in a temple or, more likely, attend Fifth Day ceremonies more regularly... and honestly, that's just not who I am.

The Miner's Merriment is quite prosperous, these days. It seems as though we've people, newcomers and regulars, coming and going every hour of every day -- often far too soon with regards to both, though. Bawdy jokes aside, it seems at times that this tent we're peddling ourselves off in has become the center of everything. A nexus. A far cry from the quiet evenings I spent when first I arrived...

I should be proud of what I've managed to accomplish, and yet Morrigan's right -- not surprising, since I think she's always been able to see right through me. My hunger for more, my frustration over not getting all I desire handed to me on a silver platter, has led me to neglect and not consider what all I've achieved here in Krofburg. I can't help but wonder as to whether or not any of it matters, though. I think back to the man I encountered in Dementlieu some days ago -- I was spending some time abroad, searching for something that would lead me to what it is I seek, and by happenstance, I ran into him.

That was an especially profitable evening.

I imagine I could have many more like it, if I stayed. So why didn't I? Why did I return to Krofburg, to Barovia? As I told Morrigan, I am certain a part of me would miss those whom I've met, her included... yet have I truly grown so sentimental that I wouldn't be able to recover? Do I truly believe the halfling might help me realize my dreams, months from now? You would think a woman who has been through as much as I have would recognize when words are hollow. Maybe, deep down, I am hoping that his aren't, and that is why I linger.

One thing is certain -- there will come a time where I outgrow this place. I have no intention of dying in Krofburg, and things here and, indeed, throughout Barovia can be rather dangerous. Until that time comes, I will focus on cultivating myself. On improving my own natural talents, and on supplementing them with something supernatural. I will become stronger. I will become powerful. I will become great.

[Better Dread than Dead]

3/1/773

It has been a month, and I have learned much about myself and about who I am, what I am, and most importantly, what I'm not. I read over these previous entries, and I cannot help but feel disgusted with myself for how I acted -- a mewling quim, constantly feeling sorry for myself, always dwelling on what might have been or what I could be doing, instead of just doing it. I thought myself weak and powerless, yet what I did two days ago to those men and my escape from Krofburg demonstrates, to me, my own inner strength.

She was right. I never needed any of that. Trite and cliché as it might sound, I've come to a life-changing realization: I had all the power I ever needed inside me, all along. All I needed, and more...

In the entry before this one, I wrote about how I wouldn't die in Krofburg, and about how, in time, I would outgrow this place -- I didn't, and I have. Now, I find myself in the City of Lights, where all shall know my name. Women will speak it enviously, and men's own hearts will skip a beat as they hear it spoken. I not have to wonder as to whether I'll sink or swim here, because I will soar, instead..

[Better Dread than Dead]

5/21/773

Time to dust this off. I seem to do a rather poor job of recording my thoughts in here, and I should see about trying to change that; for now, however? I've composed a list of things I must do. Might help me in remaining organized, at the very least. Without further ado:

~ Seek out justice. Make sure Natasha receives her present.  Done.
~ Sort out legal imbroglio in western part of Barovia. (Working on it.)
~ Win hearts and minds. Be beloved by all in Port-a-Lucine.
~ Convince Sophie to help with matchmaking.  Done. We'll see what happens there, I suppose.
~ Create publicity using rumored election? Wait and see with regards to this one.
~ Speak with Zachary about that meeting he had with you-know-who. Done.
~ Find new talent for the theatre. Keep the names "Luna", "Zafirah", and "Voh" in mind for after the war. (Need to work on this some more.)

[Better Dread than Dead]

6/23/773

Another month has passed, with this diary of mine having gone untouched. I am quite terrible at keeping up with things like this, yet I should like to think that I've been simply too busy to put quill to paper. That's my excuse, at least.

It is possible, however, that I am afraid of introspection, that I'm afraid of staring into the mirror and gazing too deeply into mine own soul. Others say that what I'm doing is noble and selfless, and yet I wonder why I am doing it -- do I crave the recognition I will get? Do I wish for the masses' adoration? Am I doing this because it's the right thing to do, or because of the fame it might bring me?

I cannot say for certain, and yet I worry and fret over the fate of those living inside Port-a-Lucine's walls. A good sign, perhaps. Should this terrible conflict resume, should the war's denouement be defined with further bloodshed, hundreds if not thousands of innocent people will die. What of those beneath the estate? They've entrusted their lives with us, and with me. Can I truly keep them safe, or will some calamity be visited upon us, one that would see me transformed into a liar? I do not know if I could live with myself. I don't know if I could stand it. These gentle souls, the women, the children? What did they do to get caught up in this? What crime did they commit? Why should they be punished for the sins perpetrated by cretins and cowards?

I hope what I and others are planning will be enough. I hope we can save this country from tearing itself apart. I hope, because without hope, we have nothing.

[Better Dread than Dead]

7/3/773

A nightmare saw me robbed of my sleep yesterday evening, though I've yet to see this one come alive. A warning to any who might one day read this diary, what I pen might be found disturbing, to say the least.

I dreamt that all was going according to plan, at least at first. Everything seemed to be going as it should be, and all seemed to be going in our favor. Suddenly, the elegant ballroom, once full of people, became empty, aside from myself. The light originating from the candelabras tucked into the corners, from the sconces decorating the walls, slowly began to dim, and then become snuffed out. All was darkness for a time, and then light came into the room from the windows.

Port-a-Lucine was aflame. I could hear the wailing of women suddenly made widows, the cries of children made orphans. I heard the report of firearms, the sounds crisp and clear in spite of the distance between us and the city's walls. Each musket fired, each pistol discharged, each cannon's roar, brought me back to that fateful night months ago, and to the sounds Sokolov's pistol made. Suddenly, I felt not as a heroine ought, but instead as a frightened little girl. I tried to look for the door, any door, leading out of the ballroom, only to find they were gone. I tried to open the windows, only to discover they wouldn't give, no matter what I did.

I felt a presence, then, and not soon after, someone firmly grasped my shoulder and turned me around to face them. I saw Sicart Picavet, and beside him stood Anton Sokolov. I blinked, and in a flash, I was where we found all those women, and there they were, in the cages, clad only in rags with iron manacles on their wrists and ankles. The windows were gone, and yet I could still hear the screams and the cries of anguish of those I could not save. Worse, I could hear them coming from beneath me...

"Did you truly think you could save those living in that gods-forsaken city, Verinne?", said Sicart in a sickeningly saccharine voice. "You couldn't save them." He gestured around the room, to the women kept in cages. Their eyes locked onto mine, and I looked elsewhere. My eyes couldn't dare to meet them. "Why, Verinne, you can't even save yourself... what good are you to anyone else?"

After a beat, Sicart responded darkly to his own question. "You're good for one thing". Knowing what he and Sokolov likely intended, I thrashed about in defiance. I screamed until my throat was raw. I felt something slip over my head -- a bag, and it was then that I woke up, coated in a layer of sweat, my heart feeling as though it traveled upwards, into my neck, my hairs all standing on end. I did not dare try and fall back to sleep.

[Better Dread than Dead]

[The copy of a letter sealed and addressed to one 'Crespin van Haute', but never sent, is pasted on a blank page in this journal. It is identical to its sister in every way, the copy having been created through arcane rather than mundane means. It reads as follows, written neatly.]

"Father,

I apologize for having to flee the city, the country. I had neither the time nor the opportunity to say 'farewell'. They were looking for me. I can only hope that they didn't come knocking on your door, when they were searching, trying to find where I had gone.

I also apologize for having just now gotten in touch with you. I should have written to you months before, just so you knew I was alive, somewhere. I was angry with you, and I will freely admit that I still am, and yet you are my father, and I am your daughter. Still, you should know that this isn't an easy letter for me to write.

Things have changed. Dementlieu is now my home. I live in Port-a-Lucine. I am famous, and I am respected -- they call me "maîtresse" here, and I am beloved by most. I help to manage the most prestigious playhouse in the western part of the Core, more treasured perhaps than le Grande Theatre de Musarde in Pont-a-Museau. I would love for you to see me perform on our stage. I would love to have you join me here, so we could perhaps become something resembling a family again. You won't have to worry about money. Neither of us will.

Even if you should decide to stay, I should hope you are proud of me, and what I've managed to accomplish.   

Your loving daughter,
~ ⚜ Verinne"

[Better Dread than Dead]

8/1/773

Once again, Krofburg has left its indeliable mark upon me.

I do not refer to the fact that I've been maimed. I do not refer to the fact that I've been branded. I have been assured by my beloved that my eye can be replaced and that my beauty can be restored. Even if it cannot, I will try to make do, vain woman that I am.

My time spent in Barovia wounded me, and those wounds lie beneath the skin. My mind has been lacerated, peeled away at like the skin of an apple, and new fears have taken hold, fears that I know are illogical, irrational. When I dream, I envision myself back in that cell in the Citadel's north ward -- naked, vulnerable, covered in filth and grime, unable to see, unable to move, and yet hearing all: the sound of plated boots clacking against stone, the sound of rats squeaking, scurrying in the walls. I rouse from my slumber, covered in sweat, and yet, I attempt to fall back asleep and somehow manage. I dream I am in that hut, waiting and waiting, and waiting, my fate undetermined, unknown, an existential dread overwhelming me.

Passing by the statue of Pauline Jenout on my way into Port-a-Lucine, the flame that revolutionary heroine holds aloft inspires not a sense of patriotism or a desire to help the meek, but instead something else now. My thoughts drift back to the brazier, and the woman's branding iron, radiating an insidious crimson color as it draws ever closer to my face, and I remember the searing pain, the intense agony, and the nauseating smell of my own cooked flesh entering my nostrils. I remember the knife plunged into my eye, putting it out. What might happen, should I burned again? How will I behave? Will I keep my composure, or will even a campfire or a blade wreathed in flame somehow set me off?

Constanta spoke of being reborn by this. "Let the old Verinne die. Let her corpse remain here in Krofburg", she said. I cannot separate who I was from who I now am, however. I cannot pretend that nothing ever took place there, and that I wasn't somehow shaped and molded by it. You cannot outrun your past, nor can you ignore it. You must confront it. You must stare it down. You must endure, as I have. You must grow. You must do better, and try to be better.

If only I had the ability to learn that lesson the easy way...

[Better Dread than Dead]

9/1/773

He's here. He speaks of 'news from home'. What do I do? I'm terrified.

[Better Dread than Dead]

10/9/773

What he said isn't true. Whatever he thinks is there, isn't. He's wrong.

Keep reminding yourself of this as often as you're able. Look at this entry as often as you can.

Stay strong, father. We're going to get you out of there.

[Better Dread than Dead]

10/15/773

My own nightmares could not have possibly prepared me for something like this. I find myself suddenly compelled to compose something for this oft-neglected diary, to chronicle my thoughts, to record down everything, in case I come to discover that I truly am in the twilight hours of my own humanity, and wholly become this beast living inside of me.

I am determined to not let it define who I am, and yet I wonder if my determination will be enough to keep it at bay. I fear losing control and becoming that thing, again. More than death, I fear the loss of self.

Who do I tell? Who do I trust? Who can I count upon to help me? Can I even be helped, or is this simply what I am now?

I am so frightened of what's to come. When next will I become this thing? Will I be able to keep myself from hurting others?

I can't run. I won't run. Not this time.

[Better Dread than Dead]

10/17/773

I find myself far away from the people I know best, from my friends, from those who love me and care for me. It is for their safety and for mine. I am loath to admit it, but she was right. I ought to be handled like the creature I am, as demeaning and dehumanizing as it is.

I truly do not know how long I shall be able to withstand this incarceration, even if I busy myself by writing a complete body of work -- the plays I've been wanting to finish, the ballet I had planned, the opera I wanted to see performed, and everything else I wanted to do.  I almost went stir-crazy in the cell they kept me in, in Krofburg... and though others have visited me and talked with me already, the periods where I'm alone in this cellar feel as though an eternity, and I can hear noises above, the screeching of those the ones who gave me this affliction.

My father doesn't know where I am. He may not even know that I'm alive. Perhaps it's better for everyone that he think I'm dead.

She doesn't know where I am, either. I never told her, or any of the others in the troupe. All they know is that I'm gone, and that I'll return when I'm able. How spectacular a lie. Yesterday evening may have very well been my last night in Dementlieu.

What I was told haunts me more than I would care to admit. I only have one chance at this, and... if I fail, if we fail, I am damned, consigned to my fate. I meant what I wrote earlier, however. My legacy won't be defined by this curse that life has so cruelly bestowed upon me. I will go out on my own terms.