Week 79 – Bosc, Plague Doctor

Four weeks ago, an Easterner named Baudry went with our new Lady to burn out the insect hives that fester in the swampy Courtyard. I have had him under casual observation ever since, after an inspection given at the Lady's request.

He was resistant, and appropriately, so has his condition been. It first presented as a fever, which I assumed was contracted from the endless vermin of the marshes, but the past weeks have shown that I was mistaken. He has developed some very interesting symptoms indeed!

There is a shaking in his limbs, and his already gaunt face has grown even more sunken. He has been muttering to himself more than is usual for foreigners. Further, he has shown odd and apparently random fluctuations in his appetite. I have as yet been unable to determine what causes them.

I don't exactly hope for this, but perhaps if anyone else becomes infected, I will be able to make more progress. I wonder if the appetite fluctuations will be synchronized?

Bosc, Dr. Md., physician.

Week 80 – The Heiress

Wilhelmina Constantine von W-, Heiress and Lady of the Hamlet: Her Diary.

I came to a realization several days ago. I have spent the last weeks organizing a number of expeditions to scout out what remains of the Ruins near the old manor, in addition to a retributive campaign against the Swine of the Warrens. There were good and sufficient reasons, of course – there are indications that the mad old prophet I've been told about has resurfaced from his apparent death and is badgering the cultists into greater activity, and destroying the profane altars those savages erect is a worthwhile task in and of itself.

However, I realized quite suddenly that I was half-intentionally putting off any further explorations of the Courtyard. It was Baudry who sparked that realization. His condition took a sudden turn for the worse, and he began having screaming fits, begging for "the Blood! The Blood!"

Needless to say that reminded me of my previous trip to the swamp. I remember the stacked crates of wine bottles filled with an unpleasantly thick and vibrantly red vintage, and I felt two successive waves of emotion.

The first was a chilly, tingling fear spreading through my veins at the thought of that strange and awful place – chattering crowds half-seen through the mist, parasites and monsters leaping out at us, the nightmarish crocodilian lurking in the reeds.

The second, of course, was naked fury at my own weakness and the determination that, since the Courtyard had caused this horrid craving in my underling, by heaven the Courtyard would sate that craving!

I brought the fanatic Maynet again, remembering his usefulness and aware that he would likely be coming regardless of what I had to say. Martel and Baudry, as well, since they'd been before and Baudry appeared to be in terrible need, in addition to Elers, my new minstrel, who is as adept with the knife as with the lute.

Knowing what was awaiting us, I steeled myself, but I will own that it was still a difficult thing to pass those gates. However, that knowledge enabled us to prepare for what was coming.

It was a hard thing, but we prevailed, and my anger was satisfied in the bottles we took away with us. Baudry's thirst, also – temporarily, at least.

There is a deep unquiet in my heart. More and more rumors are pouring in from the outlying regions. More sightings of what can only be the insectile inhabitants of that parody of a court.

And I have been having dreams. Dreams of my Ancestor as a young man, dancing in the moonlight with a beautiful woman who was also a great, bloated spider-thing.

Perhaps it's the absinthe. Or maybe it's just that I'm drinking it alone.

Lady W., Heiress.

Week 81 – Miron, Antiquarian

To: My Noble Correspondent:

Your grace,

I was extraordinarily gratified to receive your latest commission, both as a mark of your renewed faith in my loyalty and ability, and as a sign that your displeasure for my previous unfortunate slip of the tongue would not take a more permanent form.

I will, as you command, remain in this pit of squalor. I wish to reassure you that I do not mind the stench, the terrible company, the demeaning labor, or the disease and insects one bit if I am furthering your grace's plans by my presence.

As our mutual friend at the university may have passed on, the new Heir – or I should say Heiress – has been here for some ten weeks now. It is the Lady von W., with whom you are no doubt acquainted, whose family became entangled with the bloodline of this land by an ill-advised marriage to a by-blow several generations back.

Per your commission, I will be watching her closely and reporting if she seems to be engaging in any researches that might be harmful to you. Fortunately on that front, she seems entirely preoccupied with the defense of the Hamlet and surrounds from the monsters that perpetually beset us. Just last week she sent a small party, including myself, to hunt down and slay a certain mystic sea-demon whose enchanted music haunts the Coves. She slipped away into the sea, but en route I discovered a very interesting and illuminating wall carving, a rubbing of which I have enclosed, that shows the family crest but appears to predate any recorded settlement here.

Your Correspondent and humble servant,

Miron.

Week 82 – Von Kalmbach, Crusader

Thank the Light, and praise its glorious rays! I never thought I would write this, but after months of being a glorified constable and beating up thieves and the feistier drunks, I actually feel happy to be able to leave the Hamlet and roust monsters out of the Ruins.

Maybe it's that we were hunting that gibbering heretic of a prophet. Proper work for a Crusader at last, although it's a bit odd to be going out to slay a heretic with a wizard at your side. But wizardry's less of a sin than heresy, or so the priests say, and they would know. Better an unbeliever than an apostate.

Howard's a good enough sort, and he had the sense to keep his hooked nose to himself while Gwenllian and I were beseeching the mercy of the Light for our sins in her tent.

I feel good for the first time I can remember. Maybe that prophet will even stay dead this time. We took the bastard's eyes as a trophy, which might help.

Who gives a damn about titles anyways.

Gottfried von Kalmbach.

Week 83 – Fortier, Raven Fiend Abomination

My name is Fortier. I am a woman. I am human.

Thorel said it helped to write it. That must be why he keeps writing even though his hands hurt and shake. Because he has to remind himself that he is a scholar, a learned man, a human.

My name is Fortier. I am a woman. I am human.

I don't want to write that. I want to write what feels like the truth. My name is Fortier. I am a monster. I am less than human.

Inhuman. Abhuman. Subhuman.

My name is Fortier. I am a woman. I am human.

Please, Light, give me peace. Take this weight from my shoulders.

Sometimes I cough up blood and little bones from the things I eat when I am different. I remember in flashes what it's like to have six eyes. My lips hurt because part of me wants to hold them like a beak.

I wish I could remember how this happened to me. What I was like before I wandered out of the woods.

My name is Fortier. I am a woman. I am human.

Was I ever a human?