Dear Diary.
We've been in Barovia for a month now. A month of listening to the wolves howl at night. A month of watching those brown armoured goons harass everyone. A month of fighting to survive.
It's not so bad really. Back home you used to listen to the gunfire all night. You used to watch blue and white armoured goons harass everyone. And you still had to fight to survive.
But I've changed.
I'm not a little girl anymore. Arielle was right, I am getting stronger. I've learned so much more putting my magic into pratice. My selection of scrolls and books grows day by day, looted from the dead and the ruins.
I've faced down legions of the walking dead, skeletal warriors with sword and bow, and I've seen the fabled lycans myself, survived, and won.
The dead are not so bad really. They're comforting in a way. They don't hate you, like the Ourvier. They're not desperate. They don't try to steal, they don't judge. They don't look at you with that look in their eyes, the way they look at all the pretty girls. They just serve their singular, cold purpose. It's unfortunate that purpose is trying to kill you, but in this world, who isn't?
I miss Helene. Only having Arielle around is hard sometimes. She keeps trying to convert the natives and we're not very good at it. I think we've made more enemies than allies. Almost all of them believe in some myth or fairytale or other. All chasing power from some diety, expecting it to be handed to them in exchange for faith.
But I'll show them.