Week 102 – Bosc, Plague Doctor

I have to admit, I always assumed it would be syphilis. But as fortune would have it, the first disease apart from hangovers that I am called upon to treat for Von Kalmbach is what the superstitious are now calling the Crimson Curse.

It has been an interesting experience. The moody Easterner Couer has been similarly afflicted. I recently accompanied them on an expedition to the Warrens, destroying swine altars to their wretched god-thing, and their behavior has definitely altered.

Couer is more expressive, I will say that, and not merely the rantings for blood that other victims have displayed. He is much more given, now, to expressing his low opinion of the intelligence, hygiene, character, and general bearing of those around him.

I admit to a certain sympathy with that point of view, but I must draw the line when he chooses to include me in his excoriations.

Von Kalmbach, contrarily, is more withdrawn. As with many of those Northern folk, there is a savagery that underlies his devil-may-care half-nihilism, but it seems much closer to the surface now.

The heathen Gwenllian seems almost smug about something, so I gather it hasn't affected his performance in the tent. Noisy louts.

I'll have to examine her soon.

Bosc, Dr. Md., physician.

Week 103 – Fortier, Raven Fiend Abomination

There is some madness spreading in the Hamlet. A curse, or a plague, or something of both. I do not know, but the part of me that is different can sense it.

I visited the Cove with Howard, Bossard, and Vatteville. They are all kind to me. Vatteville is… motherly. Howard is remote, though. I think he is worried about Couer.

It's strange. I felt more at home around the campfire in that rotting sea-drenched wasteland than I ever have in the Hamlet with Bosc poking and prodding.

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

Week 104 – Von Kalmbach, Crusader

I am shamed.

I am not a temperate man. If the Light enjoys forgiveness, I'm happy to give it all the sinning it can stand to forgive, and as long as my sword is in service to its enemies I'm assured by the priests that all is well.

But this is different. My thirst for drink, for women, for Gwenllian are all eclipsed by this mad craving. I refused to believe it, set out to war with none of that crimson concoction the Heiress calls Blood, and I cannot think back on my actions without feeling my stomach twist.

There is a limit all campaigners know not to push beyond, in the little jibes and cruelties that make the trail bearable, and I knew from the looks in my companions eyes that I was past it, but I could not control myself – pushing into every nook looking for something to satisfy that wild desire, staring at their wounds and mocking their pain.

It disgusts me. I must speak with that bitch Bosc. Maybe she has something to take the edge off. Or maybe there's nothing for it but the Blood.

Gottfried von Kalmbach.

Week 105 – Elers, Jester

I've got what Baudry had. The insect demons that infest the Courtyard found me in the Cove, bless them. Light knows how they did. But they found me and they got me like I knew they would.

I should probably tell someone, but it's easier to filch the Blood than it is to let Dr. Bosc poke and stab and cluck at you.

As long as the Heiress doesn't notice, it should be fine.

If she does, maybe it just means I'll go out with a flourish. I don't know what I'm doing here. Getting paid to be terrified by monsters, getting paid to ease other people's cares with my music. It's not worth it.

At least the Blood is a reason to stay.

Jacob Elers.

Week 106a – Miron, Antiquarian

A letter found in her belongings, stained with blood.

To: My Noble Correspondent:

Your Grace,

I have many exciting developments to report.

Chiefly is the spread of a new and strange malady in this benighted land, which I once hoped to leave. It is something like a curse in the blood, a burning, intoxicating sensation and a thirsty craving like none I have ever felt.

There is no cure but the Blood, and it tastes like wine.

The other developments… The Heiress has us raiding the sunken Courtyard that used to house her Ancestor's degenerate bacchanals. I write this letter from that Courtyard, with a crate of crimson bottles beside me and the buzz of monstrous wings in my ears.

My jaw feels strange. My eyes are twitching. Something is happening to me.

More later. The monsters are coming.

Your Correspondent,

Miron.

Week 106b – The Heiress

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

Damn the luck, that pretentious wretch Miron is dead.

She may have been a spy and a thief, and disgustingly fond of the brothel, in addition to her lack of scruples and constant need to remind one of her education, but at least she was interesting. And now her patron the Duke will probably send in someone else, if he even cares about this place anymore.

I had her belongings searched, of course, and I suspect his interest in this place to be genealogical. Wouldn't that be a juicy bit of court gossip? This bears looking in to. My side of the family may be half respectable, but if the Duke is related to that Ancestor of mine at any nearness, I can well imagine the lengths to which he would go to conceal the fact.

At any rate, I can comfort myself in the fact that Miron passed away as I would have wished: in the mud, insane, surrounded by monsters.

Lady W., Heiress.