Diary of the Dead

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this entry.

My name is Isolde.

It has become increasingly clear to me that my final days may yet be upon me, and I find myself somewhat chagrined by the thought that I will be remembered as nothing more than a beast and bloodthirsty animal and not a rational, thinking creature. Though I will fight the final death to my bitterest end, I feel compelled to put into writing some form of memoirs, so that should the unfortunate finally occur, perhaps some measure of my being may be better understood.

I was born a noble's daughter to a wealthy mercantile family in the glorious City of Splendors. In my youth, I did not want for much. My every whim was catered to, my every desire reasonably fulfilled. I could scarcely deny that I was a spoiled creature of youth and I exalted in such trappings. I was haughty, arrogant, and entitled. Father was always away on business, and my Mother was as enthralled in the wealthy life as I was, perhaps more so, always spending thousands of coin on the most frivolous of things, her ears and neck constantly dripping with the latest most expensive jewelry, a practice I must admit I never truly fell into. My vice was books.

I was a frail and bony youth, a trait I carry on to this day, and my lifestyle only lent itself to an indoor existence. I was home-schooled, and so I rarely spent any meaningful amount of time outside. The outdoors was a life not for me. I bruised easily, so I shunned physical sports and play, sniffing at such things with disdain. Outdoor physical activity was anathema to me, and so I turned inward, to the cultivation of the mind. I readily admit I was a rather gloomy sort, always ready with a sharp word for the foolish and undistinguished alike. My studies were primarily in theology, religious texts, philosophy, and more occult and arcane works. I spent long hours candleside, my head buried in books of obscure and complex works, dreaming haughtily of how much better and more educated I was becoming, how mighty my intellect when compared to the dregs of the world that waste their lives in the meaningless scurrying of ants. I was better than all of them, so I believed.

It was not until well into my adult years that my arrogance began to wan in the light of my meaningless existence. Soon I was to be married off, to increase the wealth and prestige of my own house, and inexplicably a feeling of utter despair and hopelessness overtook me like a black tidal wave. The prospect of marriage did not bother, indeed, like my parents before me, I simply saw it as another predetermined aspect of my life and thought little of it. No, it was the grand sweeping plain of my existence spread before me that overwhelmed me. I saw in my future an endless procession of meaningless petty noble politics, parties, and maneuverings, all of which my highly vaunted education would be wasted upon, as in this world, the mind and intellect of a woman is second, at best. Again, the scurrying of ants comes to mind. The name given to shape this despair is purposelessness. I had no purpose.

Despite all my studying and wide-eyed optimism at how much better I would become in my education, I would truly have no purpose in this life. I was destined to be the wife of some ambitious nobleman, a piece of furniture to be placed about his home for its pleasing aesthetics, and my mind would rot to nothing. I saw my mother, wasting her life on meaningless, purposeless pursuits, destined to die forgotten in the shadow of greater beings. I saw this as my destiny, and so I despaired. I was never much for religion, our own house payed barely more than lip service to Siamorphe, the Goddess of Nobility, but in those days of my coming pre-destiny, I prayed. Prayed to any that would hear me. To give me something, some purpose. A reason to exist, and not be a pretty flower to be placed in the vase that is my prison, destined to wait and wilt in the roll of years.

And so I was answered.

I cannot recall precisely how it first occurred, only that at the height of my despair, as I contemplated suicide, an unreasoning anger came over me at the meaninglessness of it all, and I lashed out at a nearby servant girl, only to discover I had somehow killed her with my briefest touch. There was much confusion in this time and the servant girl's body was quickly and discreetly destroyed, the incident hushed and promptly forgotten. In those next days, I spend a great deal of time in study and contemplation. I discovered that my touch could mean death as flowers wilted in my hands and small pets spasmed to death at my determined concentration. In the deepest of my meditations, visions of death and the dead came to me. Feelings of loss and longing and vengeance filled me like the empty vessel that I was. I finally came to understand what I had become. A conduit of death, a chosen of a dead God, seeking rebirth.

To this day, I still do not know why I was chosen. Perhaps a happier less gloomy mind would have panicked at this sudden revelation, but in it, I finally saw my chance to claim my purpose. I had been chosen by a dead God of the dead, to be the vessel of his rebirth. A true divine purpose. Suddenly the trappings of wealth, prestige, and nobility were nothing before the destiny of death that I had inherited.

The distant pulling of the dead God soon came to me, and I abandoned everything to pursue it. With naught but the wealth I secured from the selling of some of my mother's jewelry, I began my trek north, directionless, but not without direction, seeking the source of the pulling in my heart. My wanderings were not without danger or incident, and it is in those misadventures that I met the first true friend that I would possess. But perhaps that is for another time.

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this entry.

Friendship is not something I am used to bearing. In my youth, I possessed no childhood friends, no playmates. My companions were books and pets and forgettable servants, little of which provided me true comfort and none which soothed the ache of loneliness. I became inured to the lonely existence, the path of the alone. Always did I desire a friend, but never would my arrogance allow it, my secluded environs non withstanding. And so it was not until my purpose was already laid down and my path set that I discovered the first creature in this world I could truly call friend and confidant.

I had come upon another nameless village along the coast as I wound my way northward. Within this small village sat a single tavern of questionable air and cleanliness from which I had purchased a single room for the night. I sat downstairs, sequestered to a single table in the corner of the smoke-filled den, listening with growing disdain to the idle babbling of peasants and farmers who looked upon my darkened contenance with sneers and disdain of their own and were content to leave me to my relative peace. I was partaking of the house's peculiar form of nourishment in the form of a stew of dubious contents when the creaky door of the tavern open and in she strode.

She was tall and muscular figure, clad in tarnished darkened plate armor, and torn and road-weary red cloak which only partially obscured the massive blade that she bore upon her back. She was unquestioningly beautiful, her hair a lovely shade of dark red and cut short in the fashion of warriors, and possessing of an air of confidence to match her purposeful gait and welcoming, if coy, grin. I instantly despised her. Her easy personability made her quickly welcome among the dirty rabble arrayed here and she was soon amongst them, talking easily and sharing stories of the road. Her stature and warrior's posture certainly set her above these ingrates, but she spoke in a friendly and welcoming manner that annoyed me, who had so far earned nothing but scornful looks from these peasants, to no end.

While I entertained unflattering thoughts of this woman, her eyes suddenly met mine and held my attention briefly. Her coy smile widened only slightly and she broke off with her conversation to approach me, sauntering in an infuriatingly attractive manner. She bid me welcome, introducing herself as one Ruby Heartstone, a name I scoffed at for its ill ingenuity. Despite my best efforts to remain aloof and unconcerned she paid me much attention with her pestering questions about my well being and history. I gave curt answers hoping my ill manners would eventually drive her away but still she persisted. It was not long before the little crowd of gawking fools she had gathered followed their wayward mistress back to my table and I found my previously secluded corner cluttered with foolish revelry I had hoped to remain distant from.

Ruby took such things in stride, attempting to introduce me to friends she had only just made minutes ago and cajoling me into being sociable. My demeanor and answers made it obvious to anyone that I did not desire such company or attention but Ruby remained frustratingly oblivious to my discomfort, or perhaps purposefully so. When one of the drunken fools attempted to lay, what he no doubt imagined to be flattering, hands upon me, I had had enough. The remnants of my bowl of stew went into his lap and he roared in anger at the insult, rising to his feet and grasping the hem of my blouse. My anger sparked swiftly but to my surprise Ruby interposed herself, gently and diplomatically extricating me from his grasp and deflating his anger and his ego. Mine, however, remained hot and I stormed off, wanting nothing more to do with the lot of them, Ruby's bright and clear eyes the last thing I saw at my final backward glance before I swiftly ascended the stairs to my room.

That night, I lay in my underclothes upon the meager and lumpy bed in my rented room. My anger at the small incident still wormed its way through my mind and turned over to my side and squeezed my eyes shut in an attempt to put the whole thing from my mind. Eventually I began to drift to sleep, but no sooner than I had finally began to slip into fitful slumber than i was suddenly and violently yanked from my bed. A blow in the darkness came, sending my head reeling and my vision spinning. I fought back, but several more blows to the head from my unseen attacker stole the fight from me and I sagged to the floor. The voice of my attacker soon confirmed it to be the uncouth man earlier who had attempted to become closer to me that I desired. Apparently he was not satisfied with our previous encounter and had come to take by force what I would not willingly give. Fresh horror stirred in my mind and I quailed at the experience to come.

That was when the tip of an enormous blade pierced his chest from behind, thrusting through his sternum. He let out only a wet gasp and pitched forward to the wooden floorboards where he began to bleed profusely. Shaken and not quite comprehending, I turned my head to look up into the glittering eyes and smiling visage of the warrior woman, Ruby. As if I were but a child, she knelt down and lifted me up into her surprisingly strong arms. She carried me then, stopping only to grab my nearby pack and took me downstairs and outside where her horse awaited, saddled and ready. Still somewhat shaken and shivering from the cold, I sat upon her mount, expecting to make a quick departure, but she only smiled at me, unsheathed her blade again and turned to stride back into the now darkened tavern.

Screams filled the night and I can only imagine the horror as Ruby strode from room to room of the tavern, murdering each patron in turn, and swiftly dispatching any who tried to fight back and chasing down those who fled in fear. Though I was spared the sight of this scene, the sound was all too clear and would stay with me for a long while to come, though strangely I felt a combination of horror, thrill, and odd satisfaction that these ugly peasants would meet such an end. At some point a fire broke out within and flames and smoke began to belch from the high windows of the tavern. And then there she was, striding from the inferno within, he armor and blade dripping in blood, as if she had bathed in it. Despite it all, that easy smile played upon her lips and for a brief moment I glimpsed the true terrible beautiful nature of this woman, this champion of blood.

Still, without words, she swung up onto her mount with me behind her and kicked the sides of the creature, sending us galloping off into the night. Reflexively, I pulled my frail and cold form, still only clad in nightclothes, against her armored form and found a comfort there that I had never experienced before. In the coming days and weeks of travel we came to know each other, she a creature of blood and I, a creature of death. But in that moment of simple escape, as I clutched to back of Ruby's armor, a warm feeling swelled in my breast as the thought slowly took root in my mind.

I had a friend.

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this entry.

One cannot deny that becoming what I am has changed me in more ways than physical. In addition to the state of undeath I must endure, I find my personality has slowly changed over time the longer I exist in this deathless state. Without the pangs of hunger and thirst, the shedding of hair and skin, the involvement of all biological process, I find it harder and harder to track the ebb and flow of time. As such, I find my patience and focus strangely enhanced by this process. I might spend some time admiring a beautiful painting, only to discover that an entire night has passed in my contemplation without realizing it. Only with onset of the hunger can I appreciably track the passage of time, coupled with the daily cycles of night.

Other changes to my own sense of mind are readily apparent to me. Where once I was a bitter and spiteful woman who delighted in causing unrest and instigation, I find myself further drawn to reclusivity and solitude with no desire to bother others unless I must. I watch as other Children caper and crawl with wild abandon at the thought of the hunt and the blood. I find myself almost in revulsion of such creatures. I was a noble creature. To act as such animals is unthinkable and disgusting, and yet can I deny that such is still a part of me? A part of my lineage and my legacy? I cannot deny that if I go too long without the feeding that my mind begins to slip to the dark urgings of the beast. It is the single reason why I dare not allow myself to go without feeding overlong. I cannot let myself become like them.

There are certainly benefits to possessing such a state. My strength has nearly tripled, my movements more graceful and fluid without meaning to be so, and my mind sharper and more clear, unclouded with the concerns of a living mind. Perhaps unclouded with the concerns of a moral and ethical one.

My sight and smell are equally enhanced and the shadows hold no secrets for me. And yet I cannot help but feel these so-called benefits are merely part of the curse of the beast, for is it not beasts who possess such qualities to aid them in the hunt? Does this not simply reinforce that I am, in fact, an animal, and not a rational thinking being? I would deny it readily, but in the shadowed recesses of my mind I cannot be so sure and it bothers me. Truly, this is my greatest fear. To lose that which makes me intelligent and canny, for I have long abandoned the body for the mind, even before I was chosen by the Lord of Bones. To lose my greatest and cherished asset is to lose my mind and my sense of self. Can there truly be a greater fear than the inklings of madness?

And so I walk amongst these vampiric brutes, these beasts that are less than I am, and I disdain them. They who have abandoned all reason and rationality to live as wolves on the hunt. I despise and pity them, for they now exist as nothing, with no purpose save to serve their masters and the blood that they crave. I am an aberration to them, a concept they cannot understand. "Why do you not join us in the hunt and slaughter?", they would call to me. I can see their furtive looks and snarling incomprehension. They have fallen so far from logic and reason that they cannot even appreciate how lowly their existence has become. And so I am outcast among outcasts; twice-alone.

And so I cling desperately to the vestiges of mortality, even as I exist immortal. I sit here writing this with an untouched glass of red wine which I occasionally bring to my nose, to scent the aroma, but never to drink and taste the vinegar that it becomes in my mouth. A cruel dichotomy of senses, perhaps the perfect expression for my existence. I am both beautiful and ugly, the lady and the monster, so close to life and yet so far away like a dark butterfly fluttering just out of reach. I find it ironic that with my presence and my power I could take almost anything I wish, and yet the things I desire most are beyond my strength to possess. Things like appreciation, like love.

Love. Once a thing that I thought little of. As a noblewoman, love was unneeded and unwanted. There is little love when noble politics and marriage are considered, only the spread of influence and power. Love is luxury, even for those who live the life of luxury. Another dichotomy, a twin and opposing, perhaps conflicting, idea. I have never known love, not true love as the poets would describe, and now I never will. I stand and watch as love blossoms in the few mortals that I can see and I cannot help but feel the pang of loss, of never experiencing that raw and incomprehensible feeling. When I was alive, love was an burden. Now the lack of it is equally so, for nothing exemplifies my lonely existence more than the inability to be loved. Can a vampire even truly love, or be loved in return? I have seen the attempt with my own eyes, and it nearly damned the two in the process. Love blinds from the rational and the obvious, and at any other time in my life I would have snorted at the thought of such a thing bearing me down. And yet here I am craving it all the more and knowing that it is something I will never have.

Each night, I dare the sunrise a little more, perhaps hoping to catch just a glimpse of the brilliant sphere that has eluded me now for countless nights. Am I fatalistic? Will one night I simply stand before the sun in a final act of defiance at my existence?

No, I will not. I dare not. I cannot allow myself to be destroyed now. Not without purpose. Not while I still cling to the tendrils of death that is my faith. My faith. Perhaps that is a topic for next time.

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this entry.

I imagine faith means a great many things to many different people. In my youth and early life, faith was decoration. A little heeded or observed decoration. The truly pious would likely number my family among the False, those who pay scant but lip service to the Gods and are likely summarily judged to exist in an unsatisfying afterlife. I do not know if my Mother or Father are alive anymore, but if I must be honest, I doubt they would be judged as anything other than False. So this is how I was raised. Wealth, prestige, and meaningless gestures were my former life, and so I lived a life like that of my parents, False. One wonders if the Gods have pity on children raised in this way, or if they too must face the cold and cruel judgement of the False, simply for doing what every child must do: emulate their parents.

I have been loathe to transcribe my thoughts on my faith for at the time of this writing my faith, like my entire existence at this point, is in turmoil.

When the Lord of Bones came to me in those times of my darkest despair I latched onto his gift like a drowning woman, believing it to be the answer to my desires: a true meaningful purpose, a reason to exist and be intelligent and willful. I came to know Myrkul slowly, bit by bit, as I researched many different tomes all written before the Time of Troubles to come to better understand this former dead God of the Dead.

One cannot deny that Myrkul is not a benevolent force. He is the grim reaper, patient and cowled in black. He represents the fear of the unknown in death, a healthy and legitimate fear to be sure. What surprised me more, however, was that unlike Bane who is an active and destructive evil force looking to dominate and command, Myrkul is a kind of 'inactive evil.' A necessary evil, as it were. Death must come for us all, even among the immortal. The irony of my faith coupled with my vampirism is not lost on me. Regardless, he is not some gleaming champion of doom, striding forth to spread destruction and death in his wake, as so many are to believe. He is a dark and brooding sort, content to stand patient and let things run their course, unless specific action must be taken. In the texts I have read, it is said that Myrkul rarely directed his faithful to actively harm others unless they threatened his faithful or their churches, and even those who escaped these machinations were smiled upon wryly by the dead God, virtually applauded for their efforts.

I also discovered, to my surprise, that Myrkul had been known to bestow small acts of kindness occasionally, especially to those who knew the suffering of loss in the death of loved ones. Records maintain that he would sometimes visit funerals in corporeal form, standing respectfully and quietly aside, his mere presence both a comfort and a grim reminder that all of us someday must meet an end. Myrkul was no murderer and destroyer, like the dead God Bhaal. He was a shepherd for the dead. He was not a God of Death. He was a God of the dead.

There is no denying that Myrkul is an evil entity, even if he is not a proactive and violent one, however. His cruelty to those who wronged him, or denied their deaths, who destroyed his faithful and their havens, knew no bounds. Never did he rant or rage. No, his was a quiet wrath, sometimes festering for decades or more before coming to fruition in the very worst of possible ways. And yet can we of the human breed deny that such things always dwell deep in our very hearts? Are we not outraged when others wrong us deeply? Are we not vengeful in our own ways, sometimes even cruelly, so that lessons are learned and heeded? Many would deny this part of themselves, but it exists in all of us. In a way, Myrkul is closer to humanity than other Gods of higher principles. He is more 'human.'

And so I willfully and eagerly accepted this faith, perhaps recognizing that in a way, it mirrored my own dark and brooding existence up until that point in my life. This new faith, coupled with my arrogance and my spitefulness made me a very cruel and bitter person. It was a black combination of death and arrogance that is dangerous and purely evil. I will not deny this was who I was. In the time of my cruelty, I did such terrible things, selfishly regarding the gift I had been given as my birthright, to do with as I pleased. And dispense it, I did, many times unrightfully so. I am not sure atonement exists for one who has done so much wrong. Daily, I wonder if I am worthy of the second chance that now lies closer to my reach than ever before. I suppose only time will tell.

Upon my ascension to, or perhaps descension, into vampirism, my faith, like my personality, took an unexpected turn. Only in this new state of awareness and deathlessness and patience have I come to fully understand what it means to be a chosen of Myrkul. And I must say, it frightens me. At first, I believed my new state simply heighten and enhanced everything I was before. Who would dare question my power and my word, now that I was not only empowered by Myrkul, but also strengthened in death as well? I walked openly, brazenly, inviting all to attempt to take their chances. In those heady early nights I killed many, welcoming attempts on my unlife.

It was not long however, before I began to realize the price of this so-called gift, and more importantly, what it would mean for me while serving the Black Hand. I thought vampirism would mean the ultimate freedom. I was so terribly wrong.

My feelings on the baser of my kin have already been made apparent, but many other issues slowly came to my attention, tempering my fury and my wrath with loneliness and despair. It would be a long while before guilt came, a feeling I could not identify at first for having never truly felt it before. And more importantly, the horror of realizing I was far more free while mortal than I would ever be in undeath. I am trapped between the cycles of night, constraining my movements only to locations I can reach with such time, and always the worry if I will make it to reasonable and secure cover before the dawn comes. No more can I walk or sit openly in peace; I am under constant scrutiny and attack. My pleas or excuses fall on deaf ears. With no one but Ruby at that time, I was well and truly completed isolated, physically, socially, emotionally. There can be no worse a prison than that which grants you amazing power, and yet traps you in that same power.

But the worst of it is when the curse of vampirism mixes with my faith.

To most, the Black Hand is simply an evil organization ruled by three dark deities: Bane, Colibrus, and Myrkul. While this is not necessarily inaccurate, it leaves out several important details, the most important being the inaccuracy of partnership. There is no equality between these three deities. The Tyrant Bane is unquestioningly in command of the Black Hand. The Blood God Colibrus is his exarch, and so serves Bane and his designs. Myrkul, however, does not normally fall under the sway of the Tyrant, despite that they knew each other as mortals once. By now it is no secret that Bane seeks to revive the dead God, but I find it strange no one truly considers why he would do this. Why does Bane bother attempting to restore Myrkul?

The truth is fairly obvious when one stops and truly considers. Bane would control and demand the fealty of the Lord of Bones, in essence, forcing Myrkul to serve as an exarch akin to Colibrus. With Myrkul's power restored, and Kelemvor usurped, Bane would effectively control the realm of the dead through Myrkul. It was originally for this reason that I knew that I could not remain with the Black Hand. You must remember that in those early days, I believed myself chosen of Myrkul, to be the vessel of his return. But look what I have become. Vampirism was not a gift from Myrkul. It was a gift from Bane's exarch Colibrus. Would that mean that if I truly was the vessel, I would effectively be leverage to weigh control over Myrkul? In essence, I could be the instrument of control Bane wields over Risen Myrkul, an even greater prison than I now possess.

It is for these reasons I now flee the Black Hand, and pray that they will not notice my absence. The mire of my situation swirls around my feet, threatening to drag me down and trap me in its embrace. The trap of my faith, the trap of my curse, the trap of my so-called organization. Can there truly be an escape from this? Is there no where else to go?

Perhaps the very worst fear is the fear of my final death and what it will mean for me. If I were to finally die now, what would become of me? I would be judged before Kelemvor, my enemy. Would I even be judged fairly, or would he stick me upon the wall for my faith in his hated foe? And even were I judged fairly, where would I ascend to? Where would my soul go, with Myrkul still dead? Would I have an afterlife at all?

Answers to these questions are at the forefront of my mind. Can I truly find a purpose and a place beyond what has been given to me? Will I even be allowed to? Only in freedom will I have the ability to make choices, and now I work toward that freedom. Whether I will reach that freedom, or fall desperately short is another matter entirely.

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this entry.

There are some things I believe I will never truly experience in this existence. This is made all the more disappointing by the fact that there were many things I might have experienced while alive that, in my arrogance, I neglected and are now lost to me in my current state. I never loved another. I never sampled the many fine foods of this world. I never tried to cultivate a garden. I never stopped to appreciate the sunrise or the sunset. And now I never will. What is the expression? 'It is better to have loved and lost, then to never have loved at all.' I think this is a depressingly true statement.

I wrote of love last time, a depressing topic for me to be sure, but I should also recognize that love comes in many forms, and the intimate connection of lovers is not the only kind of love I am missing. There also exists a love of family, which I also never felt. And of friends, a bond of brother or sister-hood that transcends mere friendship, a tugging at one's heart to care for and see the success of another in a capacity not meant for intimacy. The love of a friend. Such are rare things, I think, and rarer still for my kind. Even Ruby, who was arguably my closest friend during those less uncertain times did not truly love me as a friend, though I think she appreciated me as a sister-in-arms, and a trusted confidant and companion.

I never believed I would grow so close to anyone. My faith and my arrogance would not, could not, allow it. In the shadows and the dark and the death, love is a frivolous pursuit at best, and a weakness and danger at worst. Among the Children, this is doubly so. I am wont to quote that "One cannot love something that kills everything it touches." I still think, to a point, this is correct. Will I ever find one who will love me, even as I am slowly killing them with my cold touch and insatiable hunger? Unlikely, despite what others might try to convince me. It is a hole in my un-beating heart that I will carry for the rest of my existence. But I have also discovered, to my utter astonishment, that love can be found in unexpected places, in unexpected ways. Perhaps I will be proven wrong. I was once before, and never have I been so glad to be wrong.

My first meeting with her was a harsh one. Freshly turned, but before I came to realize the hopelessness of my situation. Back when I still exalted in my curse and the power it granted me, before I would come to learn the terrible truth of vampirism. I hunted with a pack of miscreants, Ruby among us, when we found her out in the grassy hills of the Sharahan. She was a small frail thing, with little training. She could be no match for us. We descended upon her and several fed, though I did not. I ranted and raged at her, telling her that her faith in Kelemvor was misplaced, that He was an usurper, that my faith would prevail. I cannot help but smirk at myself for my foolishness now that I think back upon this moment. I was so fervent and arrogant in my faith and power. So foolish. I am saddened by how cruel and disgusting I was, and how noble a creature she was, even as we finally battered her and left her bleeding in the hills.

We met again, in the cold keep grounds of the Argyle. By this time, I was beginning to realize my despair, and so I took a defensive stance, telling her and her companion to leave me be, but they persisted despite it all. I was forced to defeat them, though I spared them both in the end. We met several times since, always battling, and I always trying to defuse the confrontation to no avail. She was a noble and pious thing and would not be dissuaded, even when arrayed against my considerable power. Even in these early battles I recognized something of her that gave me pause. At the time I was not sure what it was that drew me to her like a moth to a flame, but I enjoyed each time I met her, even though it devolved into battle each time. It was not the violence, for I despise such things most of the time. It was her faith and conviction I saw, and how in reflection, I was an empty thing. Finally, after one fight, for a reason I cannot fully explain, I threw my old holy symbol of Siamorphe to the dirt beside her fallen form. I had kept the symbol for sentimental reasons all this time, and I cannot say what possessed me to give it to her.

It was this that seemed to be the turning point. By this time, it was well known by many that I frequented the tavern in Argyle. Many came for me in those days, and I welcomed it for it was a relief from the monotony and loneliness of my existence. One day, she strode in and instead of assuming a fighting stance, she sat before me on the table and looked at me. I had taken a liking to scent the smell fresh wine since such things turn to vinegar in my mouth should I sample it. I sat there, ready for her assault, but it did not come. She had come, surprisingly, to speak. And so we did.

Our conversations were many and long, and despite myself, I found it enjoyable and fulfilling. I suppose I was so alone by this point that I was desperate for any human contact at all. Through these talks I learned of her, and she of me. She came to know my past, what drove me, what I 'lived' for, and most importantly, my disgust at my existence. I found myself, like a night-flower, slowly uncurling each time we met. Somehow, impossibly, I began to trust her. She allowed me to feed from her from time to time, though she was stoic each time, a necessity and nothing more despite the rampant pleasure it brought to me.

To this day, I am still unsure when the change occurred. It has been so natural and unassuming that before I realized it we had become friends, closer than I had ever had before. A thing, I will admit, I thought impossible given my state. I came to long for her company, a weakness I would have never allowed myself before. I came to daydream of her face, and my blood would quicken when she came through the door. There was much movement at this point, as I was forced into further hiding, but she stayed with me, helped me to adapt and survive. There were others that had slowly come to give me a chance, but none so close and comforting as her. We shared our aspirations, or deepest desires, and our darkest fears. I had never been so open with anyone in my life or death. For the first time in my existence, I knew love.

It is still difficult for me to say these words as my old personality sometimes pushes to the fore. I am a cold individual, I will readily admit, but with her the walls came down and I lost myself to her love and friendship. Never had I allowed myself to be so vulnerable. I recoiled at first, chastising myself for my weakness, but in time I came to love the feeling, that I could place my life and my soul in her hands and trust her not to break it. It is a feeling wholly indescribable, even now. It cannot be called anything other than love. The love of a truest friend. I hardly am worthy of the honor, but there it is.

Still she is with me, and she tells me she will walk with me, in whatever path I chose to follow. She would stand with me against anyone, righteous or no, to defend my right to exist, and for this I cannot express my feeling and gratitude with words, spoken or written. But that is alright. I think she knows, even if I am not so outspoken.

The danger is not yet past, and there is much yet to do and tell. But I have her, and so I am content to brave whatever perils I must to have my right to exist. Because I know she will be there with me and with her strength I will overcome. Without her, I would have never come this far, become what I am now. I would have never had the chance to chose my own destiny. I love her. My savior. My raven-winged angel.

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this entry.

So much has occurred in the time since last I put my thoughts upon paper that I scarcely know where to begin.

Upon the betrayal of the Sunite Priestess Amilynn, I found myself in need of hiding. I found such a place in Sestra, under the guise of a traveling priestess of Hoar. I found it much more difficult to locate my Sire, the one who made me, for whom I needed to destroy in order to claim my freedom from the vampire circle of control. It is during this time that I found a new idea and a new faith in the God Jergal, who is Seneschal to Kelemvor. Jergal seemed a perfect fit to my crisis of faith, as he is an aloof assistant, and suitably detached in a way that I found appealing. During this time, because of the help of the traitorous Sunite, the Legionnaire Scholii Bram Drismon finally found me and my Raven. Through tense negotiation, I convinced him not to attack me, and I was forced under house arrest at the Temple of Kelemvor to await judgment from the Centurio Twilight, Drismon's superior.

The meeting was far more fortuitous than expected. I imagine the Centurio's previous dealings with the vampire Katria gave him cause for consideration on my behalf. A deal was made that I would serve the interests of the Legion, and destroy my sire if I were to be allowed to survive. I agreed.

At this time, I was also finally approached by the hidden priests of Jergal, and I petitioned for sanction and entrance into the Dead Scribes of Jergal. Their verdict was the same. If join them I wish, I would have to destroy my sire and regain my free will. My path was set. My Sire must be destroyed.

The long road to that accomplishment was fraught with both peril and delight. During this time, I grew ever closer to my Raven and Sister, and she to me. Our feedings had taken a far more pleasurable tone and I believe she appreciates that I would save her from feeling pain or harm from what I require from her to stave off the Beast. On the other hand, I also had to deal much with the Legionnaire as he was assigned to follow me and watch over me during this time, to ensure I did not do anything unbecoming. We took this opportunity, my Raven and I, to expose myself more to the commonfolk that dwell in this land, so that I might become more accepted among the people here. We met with very limited success however. Few care of my unique position and focus solely on the aspects of my condition. How depressing it is that I work so hard to display myself as no threat, and yet still I am attacked merely because of what I am.

Then the day came that we found my Sire and destroyed him. It is a day I shall never forget. For the first time in my new existence, I was free to do as I will, live as I choose. All that I could ever want had finally been given to me. And yet I looked upon that day also with dread for I knew that I would be asked to now join the Dead Scribes. Truly, it a good fate to join the ranks of these blessed Scribes who record the names of the dead for passage into the afterlife. An honor that I even be allowed such a thing, a creature that I am. But so too, did I dread it, for to enter the Scribes is a lifelong existence. A Dead Scribe does only this duty and nothing else. I would never again experience the ebb and flow of life and living (such as it is for a vampire). I would never see the wonders of this world, nor speak with the people that might enrich my existence. I would never see my Raven again.

So I tarried at the decision. I continued to exist in the now, with my Raven, traveling from place to place and meeting those who would have me.

Until the decision was most cruelly taken from me.

I was finally cornered in a tavern by the faithful of Kelemvor as well as many others, including the Warden of Wrath himself. Tried though I might to reason with them, to make them see that I was not a threat, that I only wished to exist and experience the world that had been denied to me since the day I became immortal. They would not have it. My cries for leniency, for consideration, fell upon deaf ears. In their hubris, they called me abomination, no matter my trials, no matter my attempts at peace and friendship. I was vampire, and that was all that mattered to them. With my Raven so close, I could not risk a battle for her sake, and so I fled them all. I had hoped this one incident would be a fluke and flaw of our attempts at exposure. I was wrong.

The next day came the ultimatum. The Kelemvorites could no longer tolerate my presence without reason or sanction, and so the ultimatum was given. Enter the Scribes, or face Final Death. Serve, or die. I have heard such words before, in the days of my alliance with the Black Hand. Serve or die. How bitterly ironic that such words are now to be used by those I thought would finally accept me as I am.

These words were delivered to me by my Raven. I could scarcely believe that all the hard work we had pushed for was now for naught. A waste. I would never be accepted, no matter what I might do. I knew before she said it that she would follow me into exile. We had grown so close over the intervening months, she my Sister of the Soul, my Raven. I could not allow her to become enemy of her own faith, that she had clung to so strongly since the day we met. I admitted I had no choice but to accept work as a Scribe, to never see the world, or my Raven, again.

But she would not have it. She told me of her failings as a Kelemvorite. That she had begun to doubt, from the first moment she decided to call me friend. That perhaps her faith was in her head, but not in her heart. I tried to convince her that it would be best that I join the Scribes, despite our seperation, or better yet, that I face the sun, for to exist without her tore at my heart, making life without her seem dull and pointless. I placed my very existence in her hands that night. Truly, I have never been so vulnerable.

She saved me then. She came to me to confess her love of me, as a Sister and Soulmate. In my weakness, I could not deny that I wished to only be with her. That my love of her was greater than my faith. I do not abandon Jergal, but I do not yet wish to enter the Scribes and become bereft of my Raven. And so I am made enemy of the faith once again, enemies on all sides, with no solace or succor to be found. Enemy because I cannot be accepted, no matter the proof or excuse. The Kelemvorites will seek my Final Death, to end my existence. They would claim that my time has passed, despite that it was denied to me most viciously. I have set the date of my death. A pact was made to my Raven, that when she finally meets her end, so too will I. She would ask that I wait one year past her death before committing to this course, but we shall see.

So I deny them all and my safety among the Scribes, but despite all of this I am content for I have my Raven with me and that is all that I desire now. Truly, I am a selfish creature that love would blind me to my duty. I cannot help how I feel. I cannot help what I am.

I am a vampire.

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this entry.

I sit here upon the chair of her room, writing furiously in my little black book. My mind is a blur. My thoughts chaotic. I can barely concentrate. I will try.

What am I doing? What have I done? I will kill her. I will destroy her. I have to stop this. I have to stop this.

I can't stop this.

It is the sweetest of sins. The blackest of pleasures. The darkest desire.

I must stop this. I can't stop this. I desire it too much.

I will damn you. Forgive me. Forgive me my weakness.

I can write no more now. I will try again when my mind is clear.

Damn my selfish heart.

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this entry.

Emotions are a fickle thing. Less so for an immortal, but they are still there. For a time. Emotions are tied to our humanity (or whatever non-humans wish to call it). Our ability to speak and interact with others on a human level. To empathize with them and make connections on the mortal level. For a vampire, this becomes more difficult because of the beast that rages within us.

All vampires possess a Beast within. No mortal does, no matter how depraved or vile. The beast does not think or feel. It knows only a few things: Hunt, Kill, Feed, Sleep, Repeat. The "Human" inside, on the other hand, consists of everything that resists the Beast: rational thought, conscience, and the ability to relate to others of your kind. The Beast does not understand what other people think or feel, and it does not care. They are just food.

When a vampire treats other people like tools or prey, the Human within weakens. When a vampire makes an effort to interact with mortals as fellow people, to care about their lives and happiness, the Beast..... waits. The slide toward the Beast is easy and comes naturally for a creature that must take blood from the living to survive. As a vampire degenerates, it becomes more callous, more brutal. It loses its humanity.

The more human a vampire feels, the more human it can act. Every second, mortals send and receive tiny cues that pay attention to each other, that they care and respond, that they are alive. They look at each others faces, mimic each others flickers of expression, shift their weight when another person does so, nod slightly as another person talks. The Human does this. The Beast does not. A vampire can force himself to breath, or remind himself to blink now and then, but it cannot fake the subtle unconscious dance of nonverbal interaction. Mortals soon pick up on this. They cannot consciously spot the problem, but their instincts tell them that something is amiss, and that they should get away. They can sense the predator behind the mask.

Humanity tends to fade over time, some more quickly than others. All vampires face this truth. Their existence as predators forces them to commit abhorrent acts, if not deliberately, then when the Beast overpowers them. A vampire can try to deny the Beast, but it becomes harder to muster the same revulsion to a crime they have committed many times before. Humanity wears away from sheer weariness. High moral codes bend, then break, and are forgotten in time. As humanity fades, less and less seems objectionable. What once caused horrific reactions seems expedient, and possibly even thrilling.

So how does a vampire combat the sheer weight of weariness that comes from the roll of years and the endless parabola of ill but necessary deeds? It must make the attempt to interact with mortals. To care and be concerned. To empathize. To love.

The love that I am given helps me stave off the worst aspects of the Beast. It helps me to better understand mortals. It helps me become a real person again. I will not deny the perverse, guilt pleasure of such moments that are shared, but I think that, too, helps in the retention of humanity. Lust and pleasure are sins, but how sweet they are. How human, perhaps. A desire for love stems from a desire for acceptance and reciprocation. I do not demand affections, loyalty, or obedience. It is given freely to me because of trust. And I, in turn, give it back and come closer to the Human within and stave off the Beast for another day.

I am not naive. Eventually the Beast must win. There is no denying it. Age and experience will wear away my morality and humanity like the waves upon a stone. This is also why I entered into the pact of my demise. I am afraid that if I persist after she is gone, I will find an excuse to keep existing and continue to find such excuses until I no longer care, all the while losing myself more and more to the Beast without her around to keep me sane.

I tried to explain that this love will kill her. It will lead down roads that will be dark and fraught with peril. This love will not have everything that a mortal love should possess. It could very easily lead her to her doom, and it will be my fault. She refutes my logic at every turn. She believes she should be allowed to make her own choice of this matter, and she is right. I have no right to tell her how to live, how to love.

But I know it may not end well for us. Despite this, I am content. Were I a stronger creature, I would cast her away from me for her own good. I would say things I did not mean, force a divide between us so that such a bond could never form. But I cannot bring myself to do this. This is the true center of my selfish core. I desire this, desire her, too much. This love, this life, this humanity she gives me. It is all that I have left that truly matters.

We will trod this tangled path together until it comes to its dark end. I would have it no other way.

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this entry.

Time rolls onward and I am purposeless.

At some point, every vampire must face the terrible truth that their existence slowly has no meaning. What meaning is there for an immortal that must take the blood of the living to survive? We become tied to our daily, weekly, monthly, yearly rituals. They become all that we are, played out by rote, mechanical. What purpose is there in such an existence? What is accomplished?

As the years roll onward, a vampire slowly begins to lose its connection with the rest of humanity. They are no longer current with the trends of the day. The mistakes one makes when the beast overtakes wears away upon the morality of the vampire, leaving them ever colder and aloof. They become detached, distant, hidden away in the dark corners of the world. One could argue that such faces any creature that is immortal. I would not know. I know of no other creature that exists as we do. Perhaps the distant aloofness of the elves is closest. Regardless, what is a vampire to do if they wish to stave off the loneliness and detachment that inevitably comes with time?

There is a game, that many vampires play, to fight this lassitude. Each vampire plays this game differently, uniquely. It is a simple concept that can become quite complicated. The vampire creates a purpose where none existed and adheres to that purpose with insistent fervor. The purpose can be nearly anything, imagined or real. One such example is of a vampire who took it upon herself to watch over the family line, the lineage of her family. Like some bizarre grandmotherly figure she stayed with her family and watched over her daughter, and her daughter's daughter, and so on through the years, protecting them while simultaneously making them feed her in a ritualistic manner like some strange immortal family matriarch.

Another example is of the vampire who went to the largest city in his region. From there he slowly and carefully crafted the city's biggest and most thriving guild of thieves and assassins. He spun for himself a complex web of intrigue and shadow-dealings, tying himself to the political landscape and influencing the government system, all the while keeping everyone but his closest confidant's unaware of his secret nature. He sat at the center of this massive web like a spider, pulling all the threads to his own unknowable whimsy.

This is the game. A game completely crafted by a vampire from nothing to stave off the boredom of ages. Many vampires seek an already existing idea or purpose and latch onto it, pulling and pushing it to their desires. Others create problems from absolutely nothing, just to watch the reactions of others, or to leap in and fix the very problems they helped to create.

Despite my so-called "youth", I find myself already slipping into this fugue. It is because of my aloneness. I am not completely alone, not with my raven beside me, but she cannot be with me always. Most young vampires are never alone. They tend to be run in packs, the freshly turned spawn of a master, and they exist in this fashion, half out of their minds from the control for years or even decades. Once the master is dead and free will asserts itself, most spawn do not know what to do with themselves. Many continue their animalistic pursuits, stalking the night like a predator and eventually being hunted down and killed by canny mortal hunters. The few that remain sane and intelligent enough to raise themselves up beyond the beast must find a way to cope with the long dark eternity of endless nights. Thus, the game.

The game most vampires play is undeniably cruel and self-serving. A way to bring pleasure to an otherwise purposeless existence. To live in the heat of the moment is to be human and a vampire strives for this to maintain some connection to the prey that surrounds them, some inkling of what it was like to be mortal. Even now I slowly begin to craft my own game, to give my existence some measure of purpose beyond mere survival. I wish to surround myself with beauty, and to help it grow and thrive in their own individual ways. This may sound altruistic, but that is not honest. I do it because I desire it, it pleases me to have beautiful creatures at my side, at my call. I will see to their needs, and their goals, and in return they shall see to mine. In this way I might fight the more savage nature of the beast, if only for a little while. In this way, I might find some measure of fulfillment in an existence that should not be.

Time rolls on.

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this entry.

My rage, my fear, my sorrow knows no bounds.

They could not find me. They could not stop me. They could not understand me. So they stab at my heart of hearts. Not at me. But the one I love. How villainously cruel for such a lawful state. She is hunted alongside murderers, killers, thieves, torturers, and worst. She has done none of these things. She is innocent of these crimes, and yet she is placed amongst them like some terrible villain come to kill them all. All of it, because of her simple association with me.

I weep at the injustice of it all. My existence is fast coming to an end, despite all the work I have tried to do to make myself acceptable. It was doomed from the start because they do not want an acceptable vampire. They do not want a creature such as I, who would rather coexist than murder and destroy as countless others of my kin would do. I am hunted now more than ever, and now my beloved is hunted as well because of me.

They would hound her, trap her, cut her off, and make her suffer. For nothing. They make this innocent raven suffer for nothing. She has committed no crime, except to love me openly and willingly. And they cannot stand that. It breaks their tiny unimaginative minds to even consider her, consider me.

And so now I hide. She continues to dare the landscape, but it is only a matter of time before they run her to ground. They would capture her, cage this raven, "for her own good." They think her enthralled, entranced by me. They do not realize that she loves me openly, honestly, and I her. And even if they did, they wouldn't accept that. They would be appalled. Is it a crime to love a vampire?

And worst of all, I know why they do it. They do it because they know it hurts me. If they cannot reach the vampire, they reach for the more convenient target. And they gloat in their cleverness. "Make the vampire suffer by striking at her one and only love." Why do these humans seem more cruel to me than even other vampires? Perhaps vampirism is merely a forced reflection of what already exists in the human heart. Greed. Intolerance. Rage. Jealousy.

And so they strike at my heart indirectly, and they exalt in it. Monsters.

The pain this causes me is greater than my own isolation. My rage boils in my breast and the beast calls to me to lash out at the injustice of it all. To show these inferior fools the pain they give to me. To be the monster, not the one they fear, but the one they want me to be. It would be so easy, to give them a real reason to fear the night. I am a walking conduit of death and so easily could I bring it to the foolish and the unrighteous, these perversions of humanity that would strike at my raven to get to me.

She tries to assure me that everything will be alright, and things will work out, but in my deepest of hearts I cannot believe it. The world is against us, and we are only two. All I desire is her, and her happiness, her success. I am the burden that breaks her, and has led her to this dark and lonely place we now hide. They know this tears at my heart. They hope I will turn myself in to save her. How ironic that they prey upon my humanity, they very thing that would bring friendship and peace to a people at odds.

It is only she who keeps me sane. How foolish these humans. They do not realize the cage she erects around the beast I carry within. They think they can put the fear in my cold heart by striking at my love. They do not realize the terror I will bring if they take her away from me.

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this entry.

Never did I think I would stare at these dark and unhallowed walls again.

I did all that I could to become accepted. Ever since I heard of the vampire Katria, the one who turned herself in to the Legion to be accepted and used as a useful tool against the enemies of humanity, I sought this. Admittedly, I was not altruistic in this pursuit, but neither too was Katria. The fools just don't realize that yet. So, tried I did. I wandered the lonely night, meeting those I could find. I was little danger to them, though I could take them at any time. Most I left alone, some I spoke with, and a few I even made tenuous alliances with. But it was never enough. I was still a vampire, and there could be no tolerance. I worked as best I was able to gain sanction with the Law, and perhaps to work with them against my former haven, but they were too blinded by what I was to accept such help. So they squandered it. Squandered me. Then they abused me.

I was very good at remaining hidden and so they could not find me often, and when they did I was very good at escaping. I escaped every time, and I never killed anyone except in self defense. I did all this, so that those who survived me might think twice about a vampire who would rather talk or run, than fight and kill. But it was to no avail. Trust came too slowly, too little. And now it is too late. They have only lost a potential ally, and re-gained an old enemy. All because of this travesty of the Law that would work its evil on my raven.

I approached Shepard, the Legionnaire in charge of my raven's capture. I begged him to spare her, for she is innocent of any true wrongdoing. Her only crime was to resist the arrest of a corrupt Hand who would try to take her in "for her own good." She never stole, she never murdered. She is only truly guilty of loving a vampire, which by their own law, is no crime. I brought all this to Shepard, and still he would not yield to my pleas. He would not see the truth, blinded as he was by his own lust for vengeance against me for simply trying to hear the beautiful music of a bard again. Such a silly simple thing, and yet to him it was the final straw. He accused my raven of leading people to me, like lambs to the slaughter. He did not know, could now know, that my raven would abhor the very thought, that she would think the worst of me for asking such a thing of her.

Our talk was long, but no progress was made. His only offer was for me to turn myself in to save my raven and I admit I was tempted to take it. But what guarantee did I have that he would exonerate her once I was gone? He asked me to trust him on that. Trust him? Trust him and his law? I asked him boldly, accusing him of using this flimsy accuse for a crime as a way to bring me pain, to make me turn myself in to save her. And he said yes. He admitted, freely, that he was abusing the law to get to me, his perceived enemy. That was when I knew it could never happen. How could I trust his law, when he would bend the law to his own advantages? There was no way. He failed me.

And there, in the darkness of my despair, did I realize the only choice left to me. The only thing that could provide my raven and I with a measure of safety and security. The darkest of paths, and one that lead to familar old grounds. And willingly, completely, and lovingly does my raven walk with me.

She lies asleep in the chamber across the hall now, dreaming deep and smiling when I left her. Smiling, not because of our new and old home, nor for the allies we now have, or the resources available to us. No. Smiling because we are safe, together. We have finally found a place where we can be accepted, be happy with each other.

Never did I think I would return to this place, see these old faces. And yet here I am, come full circle, right back to where I started from. Oaths and pledges were sworn, and we will abide by them because we must to live in peace. My old duties will begin again soon, and my raven... she will do what she wills to see her vengeance brought against those who have wronged us so.

I remember why I left in the first place and it is bitter irony that I would return willing. But it is not the same this time. This time I am not alone. This time I have my raven, and I am content. I will work their will, I will do as they bid. I will do it all for her, and she for me. I am a conduit of death. I am the chosen. And she is my anchor, my foundation.

And so I sit here in this study I have sat in for a hundred times, one that lies right across the hall from her bed chambers as she sleeps. A study I thought I would never see again, surrounded by tomes and grimoires of the blackest arts and vile topics. I look upon these books and I despair again, for I fear this dark place will taint my love. I fear her sense of self, her determination, her inner spark will crumble before the weight of black-soled boots. She tells me that she needs me to keep her sane in this insane place. That only I will save her from true damnation. I fear it is already too late for us.

We have slipped beneath the darkest of waters and now we are sunk so far into the depths we shall never see the light again. And we do not care. We have our love. We will endure. We have to.

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this entry.

And so does it finally end. Never did I wish for this to happen. Not once in the long months of our love did I want this. She was my life, my light, the thing that kept the human in me alive a little longer.

And now it is over.

I found her in my study, weapons resting easily in her hands. She was disturbed, inconsolable. I tried to reach her. I tried to show her. She would not have it. In the end, she did the only thing she knew that would destroy us.

She killed herself.

I could do nothing to stop it. With all my power, with all my skill, I could not stop it. Healing her would only encourage her to end herself beyond my sight. To cage her would only kill her more slowly. I despaired in that moment, as I have never done before. My heart died as she fell to the floor in a pool of her own blood.

I know why she did it. She was convinced that she had betrayed everything she had ever stood for. That her word, her vows, her very sense of being meant nothing. That she had betrayed herself. Little did she know, that now she was betraying me, breaking her very last promise to me.

She never betrayed who she was. She was always true to herself, and to me and our love. She had deceived herself, allowed herself to be deceived by others. Always had she kept her promises, the ones that truly mattered. She did not realize that some promises must be broken. That we must grow beyond some promises when they no longer have any truth to us. She failed to realize this, and so she kept her final promise. Her vow to end me if ever I came back to this place. But she could not kill me herself. She loved me too much. So she used our own pact against us. She killed herself, knowing that I would follow her in death. She broke my heart that night.

Once again, so much pain, so much misery for my love, and all for nothing. She killed herself for nothing. She had never betrayed herself. She had always stayed true. And now she is dead.

I couldn't let her sacrifice be for naught. I couldn't allow her to die for a promise that no longer had any meaning for us. She died nobly, but foolishly. Had it been any other way, I would not be here now to write this. I would have gladly followed her into death.

What follows is something I have never done before, and yet by instinct I knew what I had to do.

She lie there upon the cold stone floor, her life's blood seeping from a horrible wound in her neck, a jagged line drawn by the edge of her own weapon. She lifted her hand feebly, trying to reach for me, her eyes glazed over and half-closed. Slowly, I moved atop her, straddling her lithe form as she slowly grew cold beneath me. I brought my wrist to my mouth and with a small, yet savage movement I tore my vein with my teeth. The sweet nectar of my blood bled freely down my arm, dripping to the floor. With great care I used my unwounded hand to force open her jaw and raised my bleeding wrist to hover over her pale beautiful face, so serene as death rapidly stole over her. Clenching my hand into a fist, the blood dribbled down into her open mouth.

She was still for a single long minute before she stirred, weakly, feebly, impossibly. Her strength was still gone and so I lowered my wrist to her mouth and pressed it there. Her lips formed the seal and slowly, softly, she drew my own blood from me. The moment she did so, I could feel the gentle pull in my own veins and hear the dull rush of wind in my ears. I could feel my very essence being tugged faintly to my arm and my arm grew cold as ice. Deep in my core, I could feel the Beast lashing in its cage, but strangely too, it was subdued, the Beast both outraged at the lost of its own life-force and also strangely approving. Calmly, despite its savage nature, the Beast quieted in me, understanding what I was doing and what was to come.

I could feel myself growing empty and desolate as my raven fed from me then. She had done so before, in the nights of our passion, my blood an intoxicating nectar. This was different. When ingested by a living mortal, the vampire's blood, the vitae, dilutes in the blood of the mortal creating a warm, pleasurable sensation that wracks the body with mounting ecstasy. This was not the case here, for my raven's body was nearly empty of her own blood now. Now, the vitae took root in her deepest of cores.

Eventually I could take no more and I pulled my wrist away, but the task was done regardless. Her head fell back and turned away from me then, her body began to convulse and writhe, as if she bore incredible torment. I climbed from atop her and crawled a short distance away to watch as her body died before my eyes. I whispered sweet nothings to her, trying to console her and knowing that she could not hear me. My heart was desperate with hope and horror.

Eventually she went still and lie there for a long time, cold and dead upon the floor, my blood still stained upon her lips. I did not move as I stared at her, watching her, begging silently for some sign of movement, and perhaps hoping too that it would not work and I would soon follow her into sweet oblivion.

But the fates are crueler than that.

Her finger twitched, and in that tiniest of movements my heart soared and quaked again with this dichotomy of emotions. Elation of her return, worry of what she would think of me, and terror of what she would become, what I helped her to become. She twitched again and suddenly drew breath, only to slowly release a low reverberate growl that rattled in my mind. She came to life again, dead yet not. She rose then, sitting up to stare at me with cold, glassy eyes, so like my own now, piercing in their gray intensity. At first she seemed not to recognize me and I called softly to her, bringing her back to me, back to herself. Recognition flooded her features then, and I knew it was done. I had damned my love.

She did not take it well at first. In her rage of my betrayal she tore the study apart, splitting furniture and throwing down bookcases, tasks made supremely easy by the sudden strength of her transformation. I stood still, a statue amidst a whirlwind of devastation, bearing mute witness to the rage of the Beast within her. I closed my eyes as her fury spent itself upon our innocent surroundings, red lines tracing a fall upon my cheeks as I weeped in the only fashion a vampire can.

Her rage at an end, she moved to stalk furiously from the study only to halt at the door and look back at me. I looked away then, and in my sorrow I begged for forgiveness.

And she gave it to me.

Her sharp features softened, the rage in her eyes lifted, and she moved to me then, reaching for me to wipe the tears of blood from my face. I knew then that all was not lost. She loved me still, and I her. In those final moments of the terrible deed that had been done, we begged each other for forgiveness. She was my beloved vessel no longer, but my equal and my peer. And ever still, my raven. She has much to learn and the coming nights will be rife with lessons and sorrow, but also hope for our love. Our pact of death still stands, and as before should she meet her end, so to will I. Only now, however, our love may last eternal.

My raven is dead, but our love endures. The wound of our mutual betrayals will fade in time as we move forward together into a world of endless night. We are lost now, together, and my apprehension of the trials to come gnaws at my heart. But I will persevere. I must for her sake. A new battle will begin soon within herself and I must be strong for her, that she does not fall into monstrosity and lose the very thing that makes her who she really is. I will not allow her to become like those feral things that prowl the manor grounds. Ever has she been the master of her own body, and this shall be no different. She will endure. She will survive. We will survive.

My raven is dead. Our love is eternal.

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this Entry.

And so I have fallen, and yet I stand.

I entered that dark and surreal temple of Myrkul, my mind in conflict, my thoughts in turmoil. Before me hove the great skull, carved from the rock itself, its eyes spewing forth a ghastly purple mist into the air. An altar sat before the skull, and upon that altar a crown unlike any ever conceived. I was alone in this place, my soul trembling with the nearness of the place that was the source of my power, my inner spark of the divine. I took to one knee and bowed my head. Closing my eyes, I began to pray.

"Hear me, Unfathomable Lord of Bones. Hear me and speak to me, for your Child is lost.

In life, you were my foundation, my sword, and my shield. My faith was assured, my path set. I would be the vessel of your return, the Daughter of the Bone Lord. There were no doubts, no fears, no questions. You filled my being, permeated my every fiber, and I exalted in your gift of the divine. That warming ember was my everything. I was unstoppable, unshakable.

And then, I died.

From the House of Colibrus did I awaken, not in your temple. I was undead, which is aberration in your eyes, and yet I still possessed your spark. A strange juxtaposition of faith and gift. Two gifts, neither meant for the other.

I played at both for a long time. My faith is unwavering, and yet did I give in to the pleasures of the blood. The deep crimson dream that haunted my thoughts and drove me to indulge myself in ways both sensual and sinful. I am haughty in my gift and purpose, ennobled.

And yet this is not your way. Myrkul is not a God of pleasures and desires, of noble ambitions and sweetest sins. So I tempered myself, balanced my faith with my gift. I did not realize that in doing so, I weaken both, for I allow neither to flourish in me. They called me faithless and I scoffed at them, but they are right. I am not truly faithful, not so long as my nature wars with my faith. I scoffed at those who would revel in the blood like animals, not realizing that I did the very same in a fashion all of my own. My gifts fight against each other, and bring me to my loss.

Hear me, dead Lord of Bones. Tell me what I must do you be your true daughter."

For a long moment, I did not stir, praying fervently for some sign, some response, but there was nothing. Nothing at all. Eventually, I looked up and saw that nothing had changed. I had received no answer. I despaired at this loss. Even my own God would not speak to me.

"That is because he is not your God, and he never was." I whirled to look upon a shadowed and armored figure standing in the dark behind me. I could not make out who it was, his voice was strange to me in this place, familiar, and yet I could not place it. He remained where he was, cloaked in shadow, unknowable.

"You have not been of Myrkul since the day you woke up dead. You cannot be the Bone Lord's daughter, because you are already the daughter of another."

"But I have his gift, this divine spark..." I began, but he cut me off, speaking with a deep tone that shook me to my core.

"You have been given everything you ever needed since we took you into our home. Do you truly think Myrkul would allow a Child of the Night to be his Chosen? You have squandered your gift and our hospitality. You are a wayward child. It is time for you come home, once and for all."

It was then I realized that how far I had erred. How long had this gift been tainted in blood? How long had I been calling myself the Chosen of Myrkul so falsely? I was a vampire, but always had I been faithful to Myrkul...

"No, you have not. Ever utterance of your faith rings hollow in the ears of a God that is dead and cannot hear you. Every prayer offered to him is not meant for him, and it only drags you deeper into misery. The dead have never been your concern. Your every thought, your every action, your every desire has ever been stained in blood that you lap up so eagerly. Do not deny it."

I couldn't. Not truthfully. Every relationship I have ever built with a mortal was, at its core, a desire to be fed and the Beast satiated. My loves were true, but always I knew the price that would be paid for my love, no matter how willing they are. Never had I a friendship that did not demand some measure of blood. It was not coincidence. It was my own design, denied to satisfy my own ego.

"Then if not with Myrkul, where does my fate lie?" I asked the dark apparition.

"You already know the answer."

My vision began to turn red. I rubbed at my eyes and blinked to find my hands stained in blood. My vision reddened again and I scrubbed furiously to free my vision, all to no avail. I was weeping blood and copious amounts of it, running down my face, my clothes, to pool to the floor. My hearing deadened and I knew blood ran freely from my ears. I choked and blood bubbled forth from my throat, filling my nose and mouth and sputtering out in an unstoppable wave. I gasped and sank to the floor, a miserable wretch of a thing, drowning in my own blood.

"You know your place. See to it. There will be no chances left for you. Your faithlessness ends, or you end. And everything you love will suffer for it."

I could no longer see the man and I could feel his very presence fading, leaving me to gasp and spasm in an unending tide of my own blood. A great emptiness opened in the pit of my stomach and I knew I was approaching exsanguination. Strangely, I could not feel the Beast lashing in my mind and stomach. Just pure emptiness, void, nothingness.

I lay there halfway between torpor and death for a long time, my mind reeling with what had happened, and what I had done in the past. It was a long time before I dared to stir, realizing that the tide of blood had stopped. I rose shakily to my knees and looked down upon myself, drenched in my own blood. Strangely, I was not ravenous, the Beast did not stir. The void faded from me. It was as if I had never stepped into the Temple, the blood that covered me the only indication that anything had occurred at all.

I clenched my fist, and I could feel that spark of the divine stirring in me as it always did, but this time it felt different. I realized it was a subtle difference that had always been there, and I had never paid it enough mind to notice. It was not an ember that burned in me, but a boiling of the blood, roiling in my center, ready to burst out and conform to my whim.

I turned back to look at the massive skull of Myrkul, hanging in the air, still spewing its violet evil into the air from spacious sockets. I felt no different looking upon it. Nothing felt changed. And I knew why. Because nothing had changed. There had never been anything there to stir in the first place, not since my transformation. I simply had not realized it until this moment.

I knew who I was. I knew what I was. It was no grand revelation, no epiphany. It was nothing new. It was who I had always been. And who I would always be so long as this gift of undeath is laid upon me.

I am a daughter of Colibrus. I have always been a daughter of Colibrus. I can only hope that I can correct the mistakes I have made before it is too late.

[prismaticcrow]

Theme for this entry.

Night had fallen when my raven and I left the noble estate of our Lord and Master. With purpose my love led us up into the cold and snowy mountains of the Spine. Though we wandered treacherous paths, her steps were sure, inspiring me to follow after her. This place was so bleak, so dead, so lifeless, not unlike ourselves I had mused as we continued our long climb. I knew not where we were headed, but I never faltered. We were not careful, we might find ourselves stranded at such heights without shelter from the sun and perish. But I had trust in the dark beauty that I followed and so I remained firmed behind her, unafraid.

After a long but tireless trek through the mountains we came upon a plateau at the highest peaks, one referred to by the native tribesman as the "Cold Breath." A temple could be seen in the distance, dedicated to the Ice Queen Auril, the Lady of the Snowstorm. We climbed up to it, but my love led us past it, beyond it to a high cliff overlooking a vast expanse of snow that stretched unending into the distance, barely illuminated by the pale moon that hung in the sky. All around, the snow storm billowed and roared, motes of white that reflected the moonlight swirling around and a harsh unending shriek of wind, tearing at our hair and clothes. Our dead flesh could feel no cold, despite the frigid surroundings.

I watched as she ascended the last few rocks that protruded from the cliff. She closed her eyes and slowly spread her arms, giving the illusion of flight into the dark snowy night, suspended above the precipitous drop, truly the raven of my dark dreams. I watched her for a very long time, content, and feeling a stirring of emotion that I found hard to put to words.

Eventually we spoke, her and I. She spoke of her love for this place. She called it beautiful. It was harsh, and simple. Unforgiving, unfettered, uncompromising. Without pretense or illusion, manipulation or complexity. It was stark, simple, beautiful truth. It was her. She was this place, appearing cold and dead, but possessing a simple untamed and uncompromisable beauty all her own. This place defined her. I could not help but feel a pang of sadness, for I could not say that I had the same thing. I am so wrapped up in my complex webs, my manipulations. I have to be, to protect myself from the harsh realities of my existence. I know that sometimes my webs strangle at my raven, but she perseveres, for our sake.

It is in times like that I become sentimental, introspective. I look deep within myself at the naked truth of what I am. I reflect on the past and what I have done, on what might have been different. I looked upon my dead love, and I wept.

Her spark of life was extinguished, her ember of vitality that once flickered daringly against the howling winds. Her pure and innocent strength, yet also her fragility. I remembered all of it. Her flush of life, her will, her struggle with others and with herself. All seeming so important at the time, yet all gone now. In my selfishness, I took her down into a deep and dark place where the light never shines. And there, she died. I had killed her. By my own trembling hand, I snuffed the ember.

Now we are coldfire, absorbing warmth instead of radiating it. Instead of shedding life-giving warmth, we absorb it, siphon it away to sustain our own existence, and leave behind the cold and the dead. This, I have long come to terms with. I accept this fate. But her? Never did I want this for her. Before her final dark hour I had imagined that I would watch her live and laugh and grow old. With me to watch over her, she would flourish and find love and friendship anew and die happy and content, a withered thing in her comfortable and familiar bed. Now this will never happen. We are doomed to exist as killers and violators, committing evils to stay alive and safe and accepted. Our love is destined to end in tragedy. We will either exist for so long that our morality wanes into nothing, or we will be destroyed by our enemies, our damned souls released from our shells.

I often wonder what her life might have been like had she never met me, had she never come to love me. I like to imagine that she would have remained strong and determined in her faith, that despite her odd quirks of personality she would have found love and happiness in another, perhaps even one who now walks about today never to know the woman who might have been. Such thoughts bring me a strange comfort. They remind me of the damnation I have wrought, remind me that I am never truly innocent.

All of this I told to her there on that howling peak. We stayed for hours, the moon soaring high above us and down into the savage white peaks. I don't know why I spoke of all this. None of it was comforting, I am sure. Yet I felt the desire to say it, to show her that I felt remorse, that I was sorry for what I had done to her.

She took me in her arms then and with a sad but sure tone, she reassured me. With her warm tone, she brought peace to my troubled mind and washed away my guilt and my sorrow.

But not completely.

I will never be rid of the guilt of what I have done to her, no matter how sure she sounds, no matter how I try to rationalize it. But that is alright. As ever, I will find a way to cope with it. I will not let this ruin all that we now have, however darkly-tainted it is. I cannot abandon her, not now. She perseveres so strongly, for me. I will do the same for her.

We will walk together. We will kill together. And we will die together for our sins. Never will I forgive myself for what I have done. But somehow, I will find a way to live with it.