Week 97 – Pettiloup, Falconer

I have seen things here that I never could have imagined. Never wanted to imagine, come to that.

Out of all the dreadful things I witnessed in brigand camps, nothing could compare to that towering mountain of flesh, that cleaver as big as a dinner table slashing down at us… it makes my breath catch in my throat just to remember.

And we killed it! Papillon tore at its face and Vatteville and I filled it with arrows as Von Kalmbach and Couer hacked it to pieces. Then we got that little bastard piggie that was following the big one around, and we made him squeal a different tune.

I took his leather flags as a trophy. Little fiend. I can only imagine what vicious tricks he got up to with the folk taken by the Swine.

Von Kalmbach tells me that they've hunted him down and thought him dead before, but this time we made damn'd sure of it.

It's maddening and dangerous here, but there is a wild exhilaration in it, too. Something so unreal about these beasts that it feels almost like a game to slaughter them.

It's not a game, though. Two men died last month. The Warrens are full of corpses.

I can't lose sight of that or I will start making mistakes.

Pettiloup.

Week 98 – Vernon, Arbalest

Blood has healed me.

I spent two months shaking with need, a need kept at bay only by the blood. Blood cursed and infected me, blood sustained me, and now the blood of that disgusting Baron has cured me.

I remember the horrifying, wonderful sensation of the blood coursing through me, the thirst and power it brought. And it is gone, thank the Light. But now…

Do I leave? I don't think I can. Part of me wants to go back there, to the Courtyard.

There are fouler things there than the Baron, and I will be damned if I allow them to survive.

Vernon.

Week 99 – The Heiress

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

First a Baron, now a Viscount. The pretensions of that insect-ridden horde of deviants plaguing my Courtyard increase. These invitations, that disgusting place . . . Filthy wretches playing at nobility, but I will not let it stand.

I've been sending out more scouts than usual. I know from reading his often-disgusting journals that my Ancestor had prepared certain mystical weapons against the Courtyard inhabitants – sensible, given that I strongly suspect he had a hand in creating them. In particular, there is an enchanted mirror, currently hidden within the Ruins, that I intend to lay my hands on shortly.

Then, monsieur le Viscount, we shall see about your mocking invitation.

Lady W., Heiress.

Week 100 – Montgomery, Bounty Hunter

I haven't dreamed once since we killed the Baron.

I wonder why that is. I used to dream every night. Bright, strange lands and odd people, ships in the sky and things I can't even describe.

Can't describe. I couldn't describe the Baron to the Heiress. Vile creature, utterly vile. I don't know how I would have begun. I opened my mouth to tell her how my blood surged in my veins, how my stomach churned, how those horrid cocoons burst open to reveal horrors…

The words stuck in my craw. They would not come out. I can still feel the insects buzzing around me, the horror of it all, the gore dripping down my arms.

I was mad for a time. I know I was infected with that evil disease the Courtyard brings. But I could not stop, my axe would not rest easy until I sheathed it in flesh.

Things are different now. I don't understand how. But I am alive and I am here and I will make the best of it.

I wonder why I don't dream?

Week 101 – Couer, Occultist

Written in a language of the East.

By profession and upbringing, I do not indulge in intoxicants. I know the One Prophet's words for the lies they are, and I see the ultimate futility of all my actions, all the squirming of humanity upon this deadly globe. But the asceticisms of my trade and religion are carved too deeply upon me to change. I have never tasted wine.

But intoxication is now thrust upon me. Intoxication! Like a fire in my heart, a leaping joy in my heart, strength in my limbs and a soothing, however temporary, of the muffling blackness that surrounds me.

I could almost kiss the monstrous thing that has cursed and blessed me. There is something more crimson than blood flowing through my veins and I feel alive once more.

A grim joke that the drunken human beast Kalmbach has been similarly affected. I wonder if his barbarian plaything will appreciate the change, or even notice? Will mere alcohol lose its savor for him?

I know the answer to that, although he has probably not realized it yet. There is only one thing that can quench this thirst. I saw his eyes when that crocodilian fiend tore Vernon to pieces. He was watching her blood. So was I.

Nouh ibn Abdolreza.