Week 121 – Dismas, Highwayman

Fecking stupid seekers. You'd think they wanted to die.

Pack of four climbed right out of their stagecoach and rambled off into the Cove after treasure before even talking with the Heiress. As far as I've been able to find, they're all dead. The Heiress is furious. More about them not coming to her for orders than about them dying, I shouldn't wonder.

I've been preoccupied lately. We all have, especially Bosc, who is clawing at the walls in frustration no matter how much she tries to hide it. She told me once that she started burning her textbooks after she went down beneath the manor into that insane place where Pevrel and Raoullin vanished, and I'm thankful that she isn't at that point again.

Might be close, though.

So many have died. Over a dozen, I think. Certainly after this lot. Picvini and Rache. Reynauld.

Is it almost over?

Dismas

Week 122 – Thorel, Abomination

Been remiss in my writing for the past year. Since going underneath the Manor. My hands hurt and shake, but that became an excuse and then a habit.

But I could not keep this locked inside my head.

Rache was dead. I saw her die. I saw the thing that bore her to the ground and crushed her, and I felt the broken places in her body. I carried her back to the Abbey in my own hands and buried her.

We had gone down into that darkest dungeon together. Fought through nightmares. Supported each other. Talked after, as much as she was willing. And I failed her. Couldn't help her. None of my scientific knowledge, my theological learning, none of it helped.

She was sitting on my writing desk when I woke up this morning.

She died a year ago and she just looked at me and I could see a faltering smile underneath the greasepaint she wears, and she waved at me. Said she didn't know who else to go to.

Sounded lost and scared. Don't think she knew how long it'd been.

I dug up her grave. The box was broken and empty. Not recently.

Is this some veiled blessing?

She's sleeping in my bed and I am pushing myself to write through the pain. I wish Raoullin was alive. I wish Picvini hadn't -

I didn't tell her that Picvini is dead. Oh, Light.

I must consult with Howard and perhaps the Heiress. This is passing strange.

Licinius Thorel, Dr. Theol., Dr. Md.

Week 123 – Mathan, Houndmaster

I've been spending so much of my time keeping the peace that I'd almost forgotten why I came to the Hamlet. Old habits die hard, and I was a constable for a long, long time.

It's easier here, I'd say. For one, none of the mercenaries wants to cross the Heiress, and I can't blame them. She's a hellcat.

I had to get away, though. There have been too many folks disappearing lately. Reminded me of why I left the city, so I went to the Warrens to poke around. Brought back some food they'd stolen, but with their king dead and their god-thing gone they've quieted down a fair bit.

Didn't find anything there. Nothing fresh, that is. I think they're just eating each other now. Which means it's probably someone in the Hamlet.

Damn it all. Hope it's not the Heiress.

Mathan.

Week 124 – Pettiloup, Falconer

Death is everywhere. A whole team got slaughtered in the Cove last month, and girls are disappearing from the Hamlet every week, seems like. Maybe running off, maybe not. So we're scouring the Warrens.

I must've killed dozens of those piggie bastards. Maybe a hundred all told. We've been routing out their tunnels for weeks and we haven't found any fresh bodies. No fresh human bodies, that is.

Probably just some piece of garbage selling them to brigands. Disgusting, but at least I'm too scarred up to interest them.

Brings back bad memories, is all.

Pettiloup.

Week 125 prologue – The Heiress

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

It's almost over.

I must admit to a certain giddy tension. I don't know what to compare it to. My first formal dance, or my first duel. A bit of both, perhaps.

I've laid my plans and selected my bodyguards. Pettiloup and Couer, and Maynet of course. Fanatic and half a heretic that he is, no one is better than he at slaying those vampiric creatures.

There's also a girl named Rache, another jester, with a painted face and a very queer attitude. I'd never met her before, but Maynet took one look at her and immediately insisted that she was fated to come. I talked with her and tested her skills, and she certainly seems qualified enough. And Elers, my own minstrel, was not precisely enthusiastic about reentering the Courtyard.

It's strange, though. Dr. Thorel almost begged to be allowed to accompany us, but Fortier took another bad turn recently when the Shrieker was sighted again, and I need him to help her.

We're going to map out the route to the self-styled Countess, then regroup and return with another party. Then maybe I'll be free of these damned distracting dreams about her.

Lady W., Heiress.