"I am a murderer," he confessed woefully," and I will never be the same."
When the sun began to cast its beams among the peaks of the mountains, brightening their snowcaps with blue-white radiance, Van Richten sat up and wiped his eyes and mouth. There, in the wilds of Barovia, far from home, he realized that he had survived the night. It was more terrible than he could have imagined, yet still he lived.
Dr. Van Richten looked toward the east. Somewhere out there, his son remained the prisoner of a vampire. It was said that those creatures must sleep by day, and if Erasmus had somehow survived the night as well, perhaps Van Richten might still find him! Weakly he stood, then staggered off to climb the rocky slopes. He would find this Baron Metus, and nothing would daunt him, ever again!
It is with some measure of trepidation and yet infinite resolve that I, Rudolph van Richten, begin this journal as I begin a new life — if "life" I can call it. In truth, I am more like an undead creature, for all that I knew of life is gone, and I am most assuredly a foul murderer.
Madame Radanavich's tribe is slaughtered by my hand, for I set doom upon them like vicious dogs upon a fallen beast. My son, whose rescue was my only chance for vindication — for redemption itself — is dead, again by my hand, for he was transformed into a monster by the vampire Metus, and it was I who drove the killing stake through his tender heart. My beloved wife Ingrid is dead, and still again I am to blame, for I threatened Baron Metus before fleeing Barouia, and he preceded me to Darkon and vented his wrath upon her!
I should have died that night on the Ludendorf Road, when the blood hunters attacked, and perhaps I did, for all that is left of me is hatred and malice, which inflame my spirit beyond mortal limits! Because of Metus, I have dipped my hands into blood whose taint shall never leave me! I am forever lost to the night, belonging only among those whom I would obliterate with my own bare hands!
If Death will allow me to be its champion but once — if I may only live to see Baron Metus delivered into everlasting darkness — I will gladly yield what "life" remains in me. I'll make no claim to heroism in the assassination of the fiend, but if even one person is spared my agony by the destruction of Metus, then I may rest in peace. .
Rudolph van Richten
Rivalis, Darkon
King's Calendar, 735
The Vanished Ones
It's not easy being a lycanthrope, especially if you want to do more with your life than rip apart red-blooded creatures. I've told you already how I got the bitter venom of lycanthropy in my system, how the blood of the creature I slew dripped into my eyes and polluted my bloodstream, turning me into a beast during every full moon or when I become enraged.
A damnable situation, particularly for one like me, Ivan Dragonov, who has dedicated his life to fighting evil in all its dreadful forms. Now here am I, a creature of evil myself — or potential evil. I'll let you be the judge of that.
My first inclination as I left the chilly domain of Lamordia was to visit the one man I knew who could possibly release me from the curse. Well you know of Hamer, priest of Stangengrad. I was weary from battling Victor Mordenheim's monster — blast both their dark souls — and another flesh golem, from whose master's tomb I stole weapons and coin.
But then the thought occurred to me that a lycanthrope could be a ferocious enemy to evil, even more so than a strong warrior, such as I had been. So I postponed my visit to Stangengrad and, instead, continued my crusade, seeking out villainy in all its forms in order to destroy it.
I learned to deal with my disorder in the weeks that followed. I sought out deep caves during the full moon, and when I could no longer find any, had a ropemaker weave me a rope with silver strands woven through the jute. I wind myself up in it before nightfall, and tie knots that my lycanthropic side cannot undo. Those nights are filled with terrible pain, but they keep me from killing.
I also have to avoid traveling in any party, for if it were attacked and I changed into a beast, I might not stop at destroying our enemy, but might savage my companions as well.
So I've traveled alone, and I've come across my share of evil creatures. With every battle, the werebeast within me has come out and triumphed, far more easily than I would have if fighting as a mortal man.
I was in Lekar when I heard rumors of an evil that the soldiery had not been able to deal with in the town of Chateaufaux. So I rode quickly to the domain of Dement lieu. I hoped that I could put aright whatever was amiss before the next full moon.
I arrived in Chateaufaux just before noon, and stopped at a large inn. I ordered a haunch of venison and a mug of tea, at which some of the drunkards made stupid remarks, but my fierce look quickly quieted them. Before too long I fell into conversation with a pair of soldiers. When I told them my name, I learned that they had heard of me, and they eyed me with more respect than before.
When I remarked that rumors had spread of doings darker than usual in their city, one of the soldiers, a stout, honest-looking fellow named Jacques, was quick to give me the details.
"You need not tell us, Monsieur Dragonov. We've seen comrades, and in my case my brother, disappear."
"Or we haven't seen them disappear," said Henri, the other soldier," but they're gone nonetheless!"
Jacques nodded. "For the past six months, men of Dementlieu have been vanishing, one every few weeks. The first was a mill owner named St. Just. Three weeks later a cobbler who left behind a beautiful wife and two children. Then a blacksmith, a tailor's apprentice, and a merchant who was also a member of the town council."
"That got some action, that did," Henri added. "Town council came to the army then, sure enough."
"Asked us to solve the mystery," said Jacques. "And a mystery it was."
I didn't get the point. "But men run off all the time," I said. "Women, money problems, wanderlust — a whole slew of reasons."
Jacques's face grew rigid then. "Are you saying my brother would desert?"
One thing I didn't need was a brawl in an inn; it's not a good place to turn into a werebeast. "No, by the gods, of course not. But what about these other men? "
"They vanished without taking along a thing, and the horses were always found of the ones who rode away," said Jacques, apparently pacified. "None of the men owed anyone money, and each man already had a wife or sweetheart whom he loved, except for my brother."
"And," said the slightly drunk Henri," do you think any man in his right mind would leave a woman such as that?" He pointed toward the door, which had just opened.
You know that I'm not the kind of man whose heart beats faster at the sight of a female. Never had time for them, battling evil for most of my life. But when I saw this creature walk into the inn, my jaw swung down, my eyes got wide, and I thought every woman I'd ever seen before didn't deserve the name.
This was a woman; no doubt about it. Hair red as flame, falling down the back all the way to her. . well, pretty long hair anyway. A face like an angel's, with cheeks red as the rose and eyes so deep you wanted to fall into them and never come up. She was dressed modestly, but it was hard for even the heaviest cloth to disguise the lushness of her figure. And I found myself thinking that maybe I'd wasted too much of my life without the companionship of such females, though she was unique.
Then she looked in our direction, called Jacques's name, and came swiftly toward our table. "Monsieur Legrange," she said with a voice as sweet as honey," have you news of my poor husband — or of your unfortunate brother?"
"None, Madame, I regret to say. But pray, allow me to introduce a gentleman who has heard of our plight and whose curiosity has brought him far: Ivan Dragonov. Mister Dragonov, this is Gabrielle Faure, the wife of Roger Faure, who was the first man to vanish."