First Entry: 17th of November 778
The Handwriting within this journal is marred by stains from rainwater, bits of blood and whatever else the writer had to endure to ensure the writings of this journal lasted. The writing inside the Journal consists of entirely of Ink being used as a writing tool, and the language written inside is Tepestani. The hand writing is messy, as if done by someone not entire used to writing themselves."I woke up, after the conclusion and failure of the Hunt. My men, dead. My father, dead. Failure filling my veins like a boiling hot wind. Confusion filled my mind as I looked around, still covered in blood from the failure of defeat. All I can remember is a tusk, matted black fur, and piercing red eyes. The creature that took my friends, my family, from me was still alive. Taunting me to find it, taunting me to chase it down. I lived for this, it lived for the hunt. A Child of Autumn harmed us, and the Mist took me away as if to dig the knife of failure further into me. I awoke in a wet, depressed land with cloudy sky's. The sound of drums beating in the air like wings of a great beast, I felt starved. I felt exhausted. The Vistani were kind enough to allow me entry and respite, and I used such Kindness to gain some energy back. I stumbled into the Outskirts of Vallaki, The Grey City of Barovia. Place was cut out of a mountain, grey stone and grey people, all burden by the despair of this land. However, I found a warm, bright place within the Morninglord church. Its caretakers welcomed me in with open arms, and a warm smile." The writing continues on the next rough page. The corners of each page darker than the middle."Arshtat, Solara, Lucian are all kind souls. They all try to console me, to offer me a warm space, but I am a failure. I do not live up to their expectations. I feel a longing to join their ranks, to be apart of something not so Brutal as Belenus's Inquisition, but am I so easily turned to a new leaf? Am I so easily swayed from my peoples needs? Am I truly that selfish? I don't know, and that is what concerns me most. I once thought my resolve more powerful than any other person within the Inquisition. Its my Family's tradition to hunt these creatures down, going back generations. I am unsure if I am fit to replace their role, their legacy. I am unsure of who I am, or what I am to do but survive. A Rey, within the Morning Lord temple seemed to recognize my works or at least the path I wish to walk, and gave me many of the relics I might need along my journey. Why would he give such? To bring me into the Cult?" The Page ends with no other further writing, abruptly, like the person writing grew distracted.
