Seventeen of the Sixth Moon, 352

Last night was the one-year anniversary of the wedding of death and blood. I spent my time in quiet dismay, mourning Tatyana and all that I had lost. The solitude is absolute here. I had half-hoped that perhaps my curse would end with the passing year, but alas not.

I searched for her body once again this evening. Thanks to my new climbing abilities, I crawled down the jagged cliff through a sea of fog to reach the bottom of the ravine. Of course no bones were there, just like every night before. Likely some animal made off with her body; sweet Tatyana, you deserved a better resting place. I have been wondering, though, if the same powers that took Alek’s body had taken hers too. Perhaps there would be more to this pact than I knew.

The year has been eventful to say the least. It took weeks to find all the mercenaries in my castle, groups hiding in barricaded rooms or attempting to flee during the day. But none escaped for long. I dragged thirty of them into the black dungeon underneath the Castle. After three suicides, I had to declothe them to prevent more.

I let them keep all their gold. Wouldn’t want them to forget what it bought them.

I have researched the tomes in the library, and there is no doubt that I am one of the ancient vampyr, a creature of death and darkness. My powers are incredible: I have the strength of ten men, can change my form readily, can bend the will of the weak easily. Truly god-like power. Not without weakness though, the sun’s rays have become hateful and scorching, water’s purity burns and holy symbols hurt to look at.

And then there’s the blood.

Blood is the life. I must consume it in abundance. Several of my captives died that first month because of my thirst. I quickly realized that I needed to control this hunger, or be consumed by it. Luckily I had a dungeon full of subjects to practice on. I have learned how to control the thirst, take as little as needed to continue to maintain my power. Indeed, my last captive lasted for a month before he finally died.

The land appears to have changed as well as I. The country of Barovia remains as it did, but at the traditional borders of the land there is now a physical barrier: an endlessly tall wall of mist. I’ve flown high into the night sky, but have never found a summit to this wall. Crossing the barrier appears to be futile; every time I do I simply emerge from the mist at the exact point which I entered.

It appears that I am ever the prisoner of Barvoia, as are my subjects. But that means that Leo Dilisnya is still in the country. I will find him, and when I do what happened to his men will look like a mercy in comparison.

Seventeen of the Sixth Moon, 352

Lost in the Mists ignatiusvienna