March the 10th, in the 759th year of the Barovian Calendar

Home.

From my earliest memories, Port-a-Lucine (and, more specifically, the Vigil

estate) has been my home. It was here that I was raised, here where I have
studied the mysteries of religion and history, and here where I now find
myself after the harrowing events of days (or months, more accurately)
prior. Strangely, I found little comfort in our arrival here. Where only a short
while ago my first thoughts would have been of my family and their possible
anguish at my extended absence, I could only concern myself with
concealing my party’s whereabouts from mysterious parties that, save for a
few vague pieces of evidence, remain unknown to us.
Connor seems to share my discomfort, though I speculate that the origin
of his somber demeanor can be traced to the night previous – throughout the
better part of the evening, the shaman was assailed by what he deemed
spirits, imploring him to maintain his distance from the grounds surrounding
Gryphon Hill. The encounter seemed to leave him visibly shaken, even as he
recounted the tale in the comforting light of the following sunrise. His
unease troubles me, as I had not before this morning ever seen him to show a
failing of nerve – either the rigors of our journey thus far are beginning to
take their toll on the rugged adventurer, or there are far more dangerous
entities that haunt the lands of Gryphon Hill.
By necessity, my hypotheses were set aside as we passed through the city
gates: unwilling to subject my family to unwelcome hostilities, I chose
instead to seek shelter at the home of my mentor, Stephan Gearling. The
gnome was neither inquisitive or suspicious, gladly offering us a room in his
home where we might rest our tired bodies and weary minds before deciding
upon our next course of action. I was able, thankfully, to share with him a
firearm design that I have refined a great deal during our travels, and he
assures me that said design would revolutionize the future of the firearm – if
a working prototype can be developed, of course.
While Stephan busied himself with my schematics, I completed a series
of counterfeit rubbings (taken from certain portions of the mysterious tome
procured from the Mournesworth crypt) which I plan to present to my
superiors at the University – though such deception seems unwarranted, I am
hesitant to completely trust anyone who might have prior knowledge (or
some higher degree of involvement) in our ambush outside Glenhollow.
These rubbings will enable me to share pieces of my discovery with the
faculty, while preventing them from making full use of its contents until
definite proof of their benign intent has been presented.
Caution, while not always necessary, is still to be considered, whatever
the case.

March the 11th, in the 759th year of the Barovian Calendar

Morning found each of us in renewed spirits: Natheme, ever alight at even

the hint of morning, had already returned with breakfast by the time Connor
and I had awoke, and after a brief meal (consisting of some nameless
concoction of questionable texture and uninspiring flavor) the three of us left
Stephan’s workshop and made our way to the campus to report our findings
to the faculty.
The dean seemed impressed with the extent of our discoveries, listening
with some measure of excitement as I recounted a carefully edited account
of our journey (and the encounters it encompassed): he seemed especially
curious as to the full nature of the obsidian rapier obtained from our pale
opponent outside the Mournesworth manor (despite my attempts at
concealing it from him), but did not pursue the matter further as he
speculated aloud as to the meaning behind the etchings we presented to him.
After the matter of payment (in regards to the services performed by
Natheme and Connor as my guides and protectors) was completed, the dean
dismissed us with what Natheme interpreted as condescension and
disinterest: thankfully, we were all spared an explosion of her infamous
temper, as she chose instead to retreat into an unsettling quiet that, quite
honestly, left a pain in my chest. I feel as if there are volumes of secrets
inside her heart of which she will never speak, and I wish there were some
way to help free her of the burden she so blatantly carries. A task for another
time, perhaps, when I am more intimately informed, and well prepared.
We did allow ourselves one final distraction before departure from the
campus, inspired by the dean’s curiosity concerning the strange weapon I
now carry with me. My friends and I reported to the division of the school
charged with uncovering the countless secrets (and true nature) of what
many refer to, quite simply, as magic (and the items and persona related to
said phenomena): after presenting the weapon to them for a cursory study of
its properties, we were greeted by the head of the University, Lord Balfour
de Casteelle. Like the dean before us, he displayed a marked interest in our
expedition, and the blade in particular. I, for one, was in a state of anxiety
while in his presence: I have never been in such close proximity to the man,
and I chose my words carefully for fear of embarrassing myself in the face
of his boundless knowledge. I curse myself now for not taking full
advantage of the opportunity to inquire as to his thoughts on the many
mysteries that have plagued me since I first enrolled at the school.
Our day ended with an excursion to La société des rasoirs, in an effort to
ascertain the full measure of their involvement in the attack on our party
after leaving Glenhollow. The headmaster, a man named D’Pointu, was less
than forthcoming, denying vehemently that any of his students would dare
involve themselves in such unscrupulous activities. Despite our best efforts
(short of resorting to violent measures, mind you) at probing him for
information, we left the compound with the same volume of information we
possessed upon arrival. We agreed, however, that D’Pointu is indeed hiding
something of import, and we will attempt another excursion after we have
had an opportunity to plan.
I will end this entry by expressing my mounting displeasure at having to
conceal my very presence here in Port-a-Lucine from my family. Though I
am convinced that Lord Vigil and Matthias would shed no tears if I were
never again to return to the Vigil estate, I faithfully maintain that Lady Vigil
and Branwyn must have some question as to my fate following such an
extended absence. I have resolved to send word to them at the earliest – yet
safest – opportunity, if only to ease my own guilt at not having done so
sooner. I do miss them.
I can only pray that they will welcome me home.

Night of March the 12th, in the 759th year of the Barovian Calendar

Today has proven itself to be another battle in what I now believe has
become, for lack of a better explanation of our current difficulties, a war.
I must caution myself against hasty musing and thoughtless speculation,
as the previous day has been filled with details and events that necessitate
careful examination from which learned conclusions can be drawn. The time
for assumptions and hypotheses has ended, as every movement, every
decision made from this juncture onward, must be weighed carefully to find
a tenuous balance between discovery and preservation. Even now, I am
nearly trembling as the day’s events are replayed within the confines of my
limitless memory: the dangers around us seem to be growing exponentially,
and we have skirted death countless times since we first came together six
months ago.
 The morning began with a kiss, unexpected but not unwelcome, as
Natheme nestled my shoulder, her body wracked by shivers that woke me
from my slumber. After taking a moment to comfort her (as well as I am
able, as I am woefully inexperienced in such things), I was able to
disseminate her fearful mutterings into a tense monologue of her movements
while Connor and I slept. The details of her infiltration are still somewhat of
a mystery, as she was hesitant to reveal each detail of her encounter at the
compound of La société des rasoirs: what was of most import were her
discoveries that the duelist training school was indeed involved in the
ambush at Glenhollow, and that a man known only to her as Bendick
appeared to be directing D’Pointu and his men as it pertained to their
dubious activities. In truth, Natheme was barely able to escape the
compound with her life. Intercepted by Bendick as she attempted to flee the
compound, she was subjected to a powerful force that very nearly left her in
thrall to the dangerous stranger: only by misleading him as to the depths of
her susceptibility to his charm was she able to escape his clutches, offering a
false promise to procure the Mournesworth tome (as well as Connor and
myself), and deliver us to him at a time and location of his specification.
Despite my overwhelming relief that she was able to return to us
unharmed, I found myself consumed by an inescapable rage at her blatant
disregard for her own safety, as well as her inability to involve us in
whatever plans or machinations she hoped to set in motion. Thankfully, I
was able to contain the majority of my anger and busied myself instead with
preparing a communiqué which, with Stephan’s help, I was able to forward
to Lady Vigil in hopes that she might offer us aid in dealing with the
quandary in which we now found ourselves. Natheme, sensing my
displeasure at her nocturnal misadventure, left the workshop in search of
breakfast.
As Connor and I waited for word from Lady Vigil (if, indeed, she would
even trouble herself with a reply), I busied myself with translating another
portion of the Mournesworth text, touching upon one section in particular
that spoke of a mythical “sentinel” waiting to be awakened by a “chosen
one” whose identity was not readily apparent from the text’s rantings.
Through an often erratic exchange of thoughts with Connor (relaying on our
collective – yet limited – knowledge of Ravenloft’s geography), we were
able to ascertain certain clues that pointed towards Barovia, a land far to the
east of Port-a-Lucine: it was agreed that, quite possibly, the region would
yield further clues as to the tome’s true nature, as well as the full
ramifications of our efforts in Glenhollow.
 Natheme returned with breakfast, bringing with her an uncomfortable
silence that fell upon the three of us like a heavy fog: thankfully, the
awkward tension was alleviated by the arrival of Alaink Ray, the single most
noted criminologist in all of Ravenloft (if not the entire world), and most
recently commissioned by none other than my adopted mother, Lady Vigil.
He explained that Lady Vigil had procured his services upon receiving my
message, and, after listening carefully the details of our conversations with
D’Pointu (and the intelligence gathered by Natheme the previous evening),
left to prepare a possible countermeasure before we met with D’Pointu and
his men at Bendick’s chosen venue.
I am unsure as to what served to ignite it, but a heated confrontation
between Natheme and myself erupted mere moments after Alaink’s
departure: I uttered a collection of angry words in the chaos that followed
(each of which I now desperately wish could be retracted and forever lost
before they had ever been spoken), after which Natheme, in a fit of rage,
struck me soundly upon my cheek. Despite the testing of my temper’s limits,
I forced myself to retreat upstairs: if Natheme had not followed me, I am
certain that I would have gathered my weapons and walked to D’Pointu’s
compound myself, to kill him or be killed as the fates would allow. In the
end, I held a distraught Natheme in my arms, her trembling frame and
frightened tears calming me in an instant as, once more, the pain in my chest
returned. To see her so miserable…gives way to an ache I cannot explain, a
torment I have never felt before. It pains me beyond measure to see her
unhappy.
With the prevailing of cooler tempers, the three of us were able to form a
plan. With Stephan’s help (and welcome ingenuity as it pertains to new and
insightful uses of gunpowder), we constructed a handful of explosive
devices for use in our upcoming confrontation with D’Pointu and his
students. It was Natheme’s recollection of Bendick’s words concerning his
venue of choice – an abandoned warehouse, resting on a pier sinking slowly
into the water – that sparked the idea: by placing the explosives carefully
outside the warehouse, we would set them off from afar (using the rifles
procured from our enemies outside Glenhollow) to trap our enemies inside
the warehouse and complete the pier’s slow path to immersion. Convinced
that time was of the essence, we neglected to wait for Alaink’s return,
moving quickly to the docks in hopes that we could prepare the site before
D’Pointu and his men arrived.
In retrospect, our actions were ill-conceived (at best): thankfully, fortune
was with us and the three of us were able to execute the plan without major
incident. D’Pointu escaped execution only due to the timely arrival of
Alaink and a platoon of Port-a-Lucine guardsmen hoping to place the entire
lot of Société members in custody. We were, however, able to take full
advantage of the opportunity to interrogate him at our leisure and, after
careful persuasion (bolstered at times by offers of protection and veiled
threats of violence), we were able to learn that Bendick himself was a native
of the very land Connor and I had ascertained to be our next logical
destination: Berovia. With that piece of information in our possession, we
gladly turned D’Pointu over to the authorities and returned here, to
Stephan’s workshop.
Though we have enjoyed a measure of success in our efforts thus far, I
can only imagine the full scope of what we have now involved ourselves:
plainly, there are unseen forces moving against us, doing everything in their
power to thwart our efforts and hamper our movements as best they can.
Thus far, we have prevailed, but I cannot believe that this will be a
permanent victory: fortune, like the tides, ebbs and flows. In time, fortune
will no longer smile upon us, and we will have to rely fully on our own
capabilities if we are to have any chance of survival. I am hesitant to place
that much faith in myself, as I have yet to do anything but disappoint those
who matter most to me.
But Natheme rests beside me, her head nestled gently against my
shoulder, the hint of a smile playing upon her lips as she sleeps. For this
moment, I will be content with the present, and worry tomorrow about the
future. Sleep well, my most precious.
Tomorrow, we return to war.