Week 136 – Thorel, Abomination

Had some time now to order my thoughts. About Rache, and all this. Can't uncover what happened. She doesn't know, herself, and maybe it doesn't matter.

My conclusion after all these weeks: Maybe it doesn't matter.

I'm just glad she's alive.

All of this is stirring things in me that I would have preferred to let lie still.

We found what we were looking for, though. We have the key to the Countess. It's a terrible thing we're preparing for. But I believe in the Heiress.

I hope no more die. I hope I can restrain it. I hope we can stop the disappearances.

Licinius Thorel

Week 137 – Of Curse and Countess

First Entry: Iris, Flagellant

I have been blessed beyond measure. My poor, sinful soul does not deserve the transporting ecstasy I have been given.

I have been chosen to carry my lash and my scarred, tattered flesh into holy battle against the unspeakable beast that kept me imprisoned for so long, feeding on me and fattening herself on my sacred blood.

I will not falter. I can barely contain my worshipful joy. The sinful creature will wither and die in the light of the promise of the power of suffering!

Second Entry: Brèvedent, Plague Doctor

Everything is going exactly as I knew it would. It's fate. It's trembling in my belly, I can feel my intestines crawling with excitement. I can barely wait.

There is no way the fools that infest this Hamlet will find me before it's too late, despite Mathan's sniffing around with his horrible dog. Even the finest hound's nose is no match for the fruits of chemistry, and none of this rabble can put two and two together. They're too busy sprawling in front of the Light and mewing about forgiveness, but soon they are going to see a new God.

It is so beautiful. Sometimes I just sit and stare at it, marveling at the endless variety of life it presents, watching as it consumes the presents I bring it. It knows me. It even touched me, once, and my skin still thrills at the memory.

I had to dodge a mouth right after, of course, but that's to be expected. Soon it will know its mother better.

Its mother. Brèvedent, the Mother of God. The thought makes me quake with dreadful pleasure!

Bosc wants to capture one of the vampires and keep it caged to study the Crimson Curse. I tried not to seem too eager to agree. The Flesh is growing, and it needs to feed; why not let it fatten upon the choicest morsels available?

Knowing Bosc was to be accompanying the expedition against the Countess, I naturally took the opportunity to dose her with a simple emetic decoction while we took tea together to discuss her plan, and I was pleased to take her place while she shivers in the healing beds of the Sanitarium.

What a glorious opportunity! I am off to the Courtyard.

Brèvedent

Third Entry: The Heiress

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

My stomach churns thinking about this final expedition into the Courtyard.

Final? I think so. I will do my damnedest to make it so.

I'm still dreaming. I saw my Ancestor cut the throat of the Countess, and the bloody orgy that ensued when he infected his coterie of revelers. I do not know if it is the exhalation of that vile swampland or the psychic miasma of this Hamlet, or some taint in my blood, or the influence of some evil comet or whatever else it may be, but I know that I am well and truly sick of these damnable dreams.

If they stop when we have put her down, they stop. If not, I will survive. But it will be a cold day in Hell before I give up on this or anything else I set my hand to.

The swine are, for the most part, pacified, or at least bloodily chastened. The Ruins are free of the black circle of necromancers and we are containing the restless dead. The Weald's paths are clear and the witches mostly quiescent. The fish-things in the Cove appear to be dwindling without their queen.

We shall see how the blood-drinkers fare without their Countess.

Lady W., Heiress.

Fourth Entry: Couer, Occultist

The Curse is lifted again. I can't bring myself to care.

When I was under its influence, at least there was some sort of driving energy. Not exactly purpose, but motion. Now there is nothing.

I sit and look at my hands. I lack the strength even to move. I remember the strange joy of the battle, calling on every one of my esoteric tricks and spells to hold back the Countess in her many forms, but it comes to me flat and motionless, like a poor painting in grey and black.

I dropped onto my knees in the mud as the thing flopped and died, bleeding from a thousand wounds. I saw that heathen bitch Brèvedent giggling to herself, packing away scraps of its flesh and bottling its blood when she thought no one was watching, and I could not care.

The affair is over. I have been deserted by my faith and by my knowledge and my will and even by my hatred. I do not have the energy to walk into the sea. I have nothing. I am done.

Nouh ibn Abdolreza.

Final Interlude: Discovery

Mathan crouched, staring down at the mud and the flat little bits of ivory white glinting up at him in the moonlight.

"At least it wasn't the Heiress," he muttered, stroking his dog's head. "You've done well, girl."

He stood and stretched, yawning, and scratched his thigh. Long nights of patrol were taking their toll on him, and he was not young.

"She buried 'em damn shallow. Must not be used to hiding bodies, or else in a hurry," he mused. "Or just arrogant. I'll have to talk with some of the folk who know her better. Maybe Doctor Bosc can shed some light."

He glanced over at the rickety barn that Brèvedent had long ago appropriated as her workhouse and alchemical laboratory. She was a peculiar woman, even moreso than Bosc, and the memory of her strange, breathless laughter suddenly made Mathan shudder.

The barn creaked in the wind, and Mathan heard a faint sound as some of the wood bulged outwards, a nail working loose and falling to ping against cobblestones.

"Let's go, Lulubelle," he grunted. "We have work to do, before the Heiress gets back."