【Vyn】方舟城屠夫

[ZzNoah]

The first thing I felt was astonishment. I was not in pain, even though I clearly felt the cut at my throat. Instead, I felt a sober certainty. I had killed myself.

I closed my eyes and waited.

The pain exploded after exactly twenty-seven seconds. I tried to scream, but I only produced a choked rattle. I broke down and rolled to the side, my knees drawn to my chest like a freezing child.

After ninety-six seconds my field of vision had become a dirty, dark red colored glass pane, and my body was flagged. The red puddle underneath me had grown to man size, and I asked myself if the numerous animals that my foster father or his suppliers had killed in order to obtain their beautiful furs had felt the same. After one hundred and five seconds I felt how life melted away and a pleasant drowsiness emerged. How nice it would be to simply close the eyes and sleep, forever and ever, in peace and tranquility … After one hundred and fifty seconds I stopped counting.

And woke up.

The first change I noticed was one that was hard to describe. Even though the room around me was superficially the same, I felt that something was wrong, like as if a deformed man tried to hide his true face beneath a mask. The other change was of a physical nature, and I noticed it when I instinctively put my right hand on my chest. My heart was not beating anymore. I examined my neck in disbelief. The cut was still there, but the stream of blood had stopped. My sight was back to normal, my mind was clear. I noticed a third change when I looked around.

The drawings had come to life. The mist in “The Washing” swirled around. Lightning made of oil paint flashed at the horizon, fading to a milky grey after a moment. The man himself was levitating up and down like a forgotten corpse in the ocean. I was unable to understand what I saw, and my gaze passed “The First Stone” and “The First Blaze”. The same thing. All paintings were moving. The sunrays from “The Time of Rest” blinded me, and thick blood flowed slowly from the neck of the man in the painting of the trial. For a moment nothing happened. Then, I heard a sound like cloth being torn, and at the same time all masked faces of the painted figures looked into my direction. They all stared at me, and even though their masks at least partly covered their eyes, I felt their gaze on me like a dark power. I should have felt fear, but instead the fire began sparkling and awakening inside of me. They don't want to harm me, it shot through my head. They want to guide me.

I watched how the figures left their paintings. Liquid paint trickled down from them. For a moment they stood still. Then they marched lock-step towards me. Their steps made no sound. Only the trickling paint made a surreal sound that I'm unable to describe. With every step they made, the sparkling inside me intensified. They formed a circle around me and stood still. Then they all lifted their right hands and moved them to their faces. Slowly and firmly I watched the figures, eager not to miss any detail, and I felt changing emotions. I despised the thin man from “The Limbus”. How weak he was, how pathetic. Hope arose in me when I looked at the man from “The First Blaze”. The man from “The Renascence”, the painting that I had studied first, I adored. He emitted dignity and power, such as I had never felt before. Nothing could penetrate the cold steel of his mask. He had crossed the Limit. He was perfect.

The fire now filled every part of my body, my arms, my legs, my chest and my loins. You have chosen the right way, I heard a whisper inside me. Now let yourself go.

I sighed, like a man who holds his lover in his arms after years of separation. Then I nodded to the oil figures.

They took off their masks, and I screamed.

[Here some pages were neatly cut from the original manuscript.]

… opened my eyes again. I was stark naked, lying on the warm stone floor of the hall, but I did not bleed anymore. At once my hand moved to my throat. The wound was gone, though the blood was still visible on my neck, my chest and the floor. Half relieved, half shocked, I opened my mouth and gasped for air. Then I lay down on the floor and stared at the ceiling. A warm, flaring feeling filled my body. I had passed the trial; I knew it as much as I knew that I was going to be haunted until the end of my days by what I had seen beneath the masks of my painted counterparts. A sound of disbelief, meant to be a laughter, left my throat.

I had made it. I had seen it.

And now I was a brother of the Libra.

A feeling of power rose inside of me as I thought this. This power was different from what the arcanists did when they let eventualities become the truth, or from what the shamans did when they connected to the ghost world with their singing. The magic of the Libra was different, pristine, immaculate.

I turned my head with an effort and looked at the paintings. The masked man was gone. I was not surprised.

When I stood up, I felt how a heavy tiredness had overcome me. I got dressed and picked up my dagger from the floor. The blood on its blade was still fresh. I looked at it for a long time. Then I wiped it clean at my trousers and put it into its sheath. A moment later I left the hall.

Oh how complete I felt that day.

My chronicle comes to an end, and I do not want to waste time with unnecessary narrations. Time runs faster than the ink on this paper dries, and I was greatly exhausted by the events of the last days. Reading the previous page filled me with anger. How inappropriate my descriptions were, how fragile my thoughts. I can merely hope that they will suffice.

Let me begin the final part with a correction: Contrary to the claims of some people I am no unprincipled murderer. Everything that I had written so far is truthful, no matter how bizarre it may sound. The Black Libra had chosen me, long before I knew about it. It had found me, had given me a taste of my destiny and had made me one of their own. If there was one thing the Libra was infallible about, it was this:

All of the people they killed were corrupted. They had sinned, were guilty of crimes, they were evil — name it whatever you like.

At first I assured myself about it before each killing. Later, the superficial proof I had was sufficient to me. Not once the Libra was wrong, however inconspicuous the target. They all were sinners.

So do not waste time wondering if my victims were innocent. For they were not. Rather ask yourselves: Was it right to kill them?

Back then I believed it was right. The teachings of the Libra guided me, and it was so simple: We have a choice. We decide whether we invite the demons by committing sins. We decide to become corrupted. We, the chosen of the Libra, punish those who are weak. Not all of them, but enough. Enough — so that the innocent ones are protected, so that fear enters the sinner's hearts, so that the world is preserved from ultimate corruption.

Today, I remember the pride that I felt when I faced Qalian and the others with a tired smile. Not many were present, maybe a dozen, maybe less. Nobody applauded or cheered, as it was unnecessary. The men and women who were present knew what I had seen and done.

Nevertheless, I was surprised when Qalian told me that it was about time to return to Ark. I briefly shook hands with those who also had the Fire within, and then I sat in the dark interior of the coach again, confused, exhausted, but full of pride. He did not answer my question on why we had to leave so soon.

Even today many structures of the Libra are a mystery to me, and each time I ponder about them I realize how little I knew. How should I? Not even six month later I betrayed the Libra, and it was naïve to believe that the survival of the trial was all that constitutes a carrier of the Fire. No … there was so much more. Hierarchies, rituals, stories … none of them I would ever get to know.

Everything happened quickly in Ark. Qalian taught me the art of swordfight and the importance of regular meditation. It was not before long that I felt its effects. Each morning I felt more awake and more powerful. I smiled about the people surrounding me, their clumsiness and inertia. Everything around me seemed so clear! Only three days later Qalian gave me a sealed document in which I was ordered to kill in the name of the Libra for the first time. I would like to claim that I still remembered all of my victims, but I don't. The only memories that never fade are those of the nectar. The procedure was always the same: After receiving the victim's name, I started to research and fleshed out a plan. The Black Libra granted me all the resources I needed — gold, weapons, poison — when I asked for them in a letter that I gave to the concealed coachman. When I was alone with my victim, I killed it and consumed its memories. Then I covered my tracks. Many people admire my “perfidy” and my “cunning plans”, as I was never caught. However, I don't think of myself as particularly intelligent or sly. I seemed to have a certain talent for killing, yet I made many mistakes that could have cost my life. I was protected by the Libra.

With each killing I successfully performed, Qalian disappeared more and more from my life. He was a mentor, and his duty was fulfilled. I regretted it at first and missed his presence, but then I started to enjoy the silence and the solitude. I had enough gold to fulfill all mundane wishes, and I was surprised how quickly wine and love for sale lost their taste to me. In the autumn of the year 6291, four months after my trial, I mostly spent my evenings alone in the room of an inn or walking through nature or the city. I took my time to observe people. How little attention I got. My inconspicuous, ugly appearance did not remind anyone of the illusionary conceptions of a hired killer: a tall and athletic man, with a hooded, concealed face and a malicious smile. I enjoyed the anonymity and the role I had to play. I considered myself a quiet wanderer and a servant of justice who wiped the corrupted ones from life like the summer wind withered leaves from the trees. My fate was not easy to bear — never again I'd be able to fulfill mundane dreams, never again I'd be able to truly love someone. Yet I was part of something without which our world had fallen into the abyss, rotten with sinful people.

The others were blinded. I saw.

I never could have guessed how soon everything was going to change.

The day started like any ordinary day. I woke up before sunrise after a dreamless sleep, and I felt pleasingly calm when I stood up. I had accommodated myself in a tavern near the city gates. The stir after my recent murder had already ceased, and nobody had asked me about my Path or my origin when I paid my room for three weeks in advance from a well-filled penny bag. My gaze wandered thoughtfully through the cozy room. It came to halt on an extinct fireplace.

I yawned and rubbed my eyes. When will it happen again? The snow lay high on the trees, but it started melting in the sun. Soon there will be spring, I thought, and I became melancholic. I imagined children running across blooming meadows, and the craftsmen of Ark gathering below the green oak trees in the tavern garden. For the first time after a long time I wished for company.

I meditated, ignited a fire and had a sparse meal. It was not before I left the room to have a walk that I noticed the paper with a red slipknot that lay under the gap of my door. I recognized it instantly: It came from the Black Libra. With a joyful feeling of anticipation that I welcomed after my gloominess I went to my knees, took the parchment and opened it. I read it letter by letter and repeated it after I had finished. Then I threw it into the fire. When the document turned to ashes I was filled with an uneasiness that I can't explain until today. It was different from the dull anxiety from my past life that I had chased away and that, as I had noticed, always appeared when I questioned my own deeds — but it had the same color nevertheless. I ignored it, ignited a candle and sat down at the small wooden table at the window to come up with a plan.

Three days later I left the inn on a newly bought horse. Spring was closing in, but the days were still short, and I planned to return to Ark before darkness, which I did. I gave my horse to the stable-lad of the highly frequented tavern, threw him a penny and made my way to the taproom.

Back in my room I arranged the tools for the upcoming cleansing on the bed, like a cutler at his market stall. My target — a young man — was easy prey, I could feel it, and so I had free choice. I decided to take my long dagger that I had used to help Qalian in the brothel. Then I pondered my plan. A short time before midnight I left the “Dancing Nomad”.

The night was starry and relatively warm. Melting snow fell down from the roofs with a dull noise. According to the document, I could find my target in a noble house of one of the most expensive streets in town. It's always the rich who see themselves above everything, I bitterly thought when I approached the door to the Noble Quarter. I showed my papers to the guards and they let me in with a nod. If only they knew. Not before long, I arrived at my destination. Like all houses in the Noble Quarter, it was impressive. It was surrounded by high walls, and a stone arch surrounded the gate. The portcullis was closed, but behind it, an alley leading to the entrance of the big house was visible. Two towers at the eastern and western side of the abode made it look like a castle. In my former life the thoughts of the costs of such a luxurious building would have brought me down to my knees, but now I only mustered it coldly. I could not see any guards, but a flickering light in the gatehouse indicated that it was occupied. I had to count on that. I walked around the estate twice. At the back it was protected by the King's Rock, at its side there were two other noble's houses. At the west side of the wall, just a few arm's lengths from where it merged with the rock, I found what I was searching for. Finally. My stomach tingled, and the ash began to glow.

The place that I had chosen for my plan was a nice bench at the shore of the Malphas River which rippled sublimely through the nocturnal scenery. From there I had a clear view through the gate to the estate of the sinner. It was cold, but I was not freezing. A grey-haired man and a young woman passed by and smiled to me. I smiled back.

Then the alley leading to the estate burst into flames with a loud thunder. A cold shudder went down my spine and my forehead began to sweat.

The reactions which I had counted on came quickly. First, the couple noticed the fire. The young woman uttered a shrill cry and clung herself to her lover. Shortly thereafter I heard the sound of boots on cobblestones coming closer. The scent of smoke filled the air, and I was unable to fight a silent smile. Then I, too, made a frightened face and ran away, in panic, as it seemed. But unlike the others I did not run away from the estate or towards it. I contentedly noticed that the doors were wide open. Two guards stepped outside. Another guard stepped out of the gatehouse, helplessly looking at the other guards and the burning trees that illuminated the night like torches on a funeral march. No one noticed that the fire did not spread. I had no intention to cause a large-scale fire as I did not want innocent people to get hurt. I was only interested in the man who was going to die tonight.

I freed my face from the fake panicking expression in the moment I entered the darkness of the side street next to the estate. I slowed down my pace and took an iron hook from my pocket.

I stopped at a part of the wall I had chosen for my plan. It was three times my height, but it was old and fissured. I checked for hollow parts and pulled myself up with the help of my hook. Then I lay flat on the top of the wall and analyzed the situation. The trees were still burning bright, and the porter had opened the gate. Just as I was looking down, two guards ran through the open gate, but they stopped and looked around helplessly. The porter shouted something at them which I couldn't understand. Four more people, most likely of the staff, had left the building and joined the two guards. Perfect. I slipped down the wall and hid behind a bush. Now was the time.

I closed my eyes again and listened to the blaze inside of me. It was content, and felt, just like myself, the nearing nectar. “Soon”, I murmured. Then I turned my gaze at the hedge that had been planted directly in front of the house. I felt a greedy, affirmative tingling. I tensed my muscles and felt it shooting up my body, through my ribs, my neck and my skull, out of my eyes. I gasped and reeled for a moment. For a moment nothing happened. Then the hedges began to burn.

I sighed and smiled, as if I were congratulating myself. If the hedges had started to burn as suddenly as the trees, a trained eye could have noticed the magic behind the events. It still seemed unusual, but not like witchcraft.

A young man was the first one to notice the apparent spreading of the fire. He reacted with a quite unmanly cry. In the meantime, some guards had approached. They were pulling a fire cart behind them — one of the Starling inventions that I never learned to understand. By constantly turning a crank it could be used to shoot a straight beam of water from a bronze barrel of water. Its appearance made me hurry up. The inhabitants who had been indecisive before now fled along the brightly burning alley toward the gate. I rushed silently to the side of the house and pressed myself against the wall. I looked for a delivery door at the back of the house. Every big estate had one of these so that sacks of flour, meat and vegetables for the kitchen didn't have to be carried through the front door. While I was sneaking along the wall, I heard how the water from the fire cart fizzled into the cold night. I need to hurry up, I thought, but without any of the nervousness or panic that I had felt in my earlier life. I put my hand on the lock, conjured the fire and watched it melt away. Then I carefully opened the door and went inside. The storeroom smelled like salted meat, onions and alcohol, and after some time I had found a suitable hiding place between three chests.

I smiled, took a deep breath and extinguished the fire. It was only a matter of patience now.

I estimated that the time was three hours after midnight when I decided to begin. My plan was perfect. Everyone had acted just as I had foreseen — I knew it even though only a few noises told me what was happening.

As expected, the panic had cooled down when the fire slowly began to diminish. I smiled, imagining the faces of the guards when they realized that the flames on the treetops did not perish, no matter how much water they poured at them. They could have tried to extinguish it until the Black Guardian awakes, I thought. Only after my order the flames began to retreat, slow and reluctant like a wolf being forced to leave an animal it had killed on a clearing without savoring its meat. After three hours all the voices outside were gone. Then the door opened and closed several times, and after some angry shouts of a man — definitely my target — there was silence. Without any doubt he would be looking for someone to blame tomorrow, I thought bitterly. And he would find someone.

I brought the document before my mind's eye. Mitumial Dal'Joul, twenty-four winters old. And a murderer. Even though the records of the Black Libra claimed that the demons had taken possession of him only a few moons ago, they had caused more damage with him than with others in an entire lifetime. He had sinned three times, and each time he got away unatoned. Young Dal'Joul, whose father had died this year, was considered impulsive and irascible — traits that had gotten any young man of lower status into trouble soon. Yet his father, a wealthy clothier who, according to rumors, had simply earned his noble title by mercantile success, had used his contacts to protect him from any consequences. It's a shame, I thought. Perhaps it hadn't been too late back then. The first murder had been committed in late summer. He had strangled a room maiden in his chamber after abusing her. The murder was pinned on one of his servants. The second murder was committed, in the same manner, in a brothel. The body of a young whore was found in the sewers. The third murder was the result of a tavern brawl. Young Dal'Joul had an argument with the innkeeper whom he blamed to have insulted his dead father. In the middle of the conflict Mitumial drew a knife and stabbed the innkeeper in full sight of the guests. Even though he'd be called to testify to the Tribunal, the result was obvious. How easy it is to turn the world if a few witnesses' tongues can be oiled with gold. Maybe the Tribunal would sentence him sooner or later, after the demons in him had caused dozens of victims. But that's something the Libra was going to prevent. I stood up and began to move silently.

Nobody noticed me as I sneaked through the kitchen and the atrium, up the stairs, along the hallway, decorated with old, fine harnesses, toward the chamber of the man I intended to kill. As melting the lock would have resulted in unpleasant smells, I took a lockpick from my pocket, tricked the mechanism and entered. Many times I ask myself what would have happened if I'd been more aware of my surroundings. Would I have noticed the detail that I painfully became aware of minutes later, with blood-soaked hands and a heart, tired yet racing as a result of the strange, revealing nectar? Maybe things would have taken a different course. Maybe not.

The weak light of a moonless sky shone upon the mournful scenery before me. A big, misplaced canopy bed with rumpled sheets stood at the front end of the room. Books that had fallen from shelves lay on the floor, and a scimitar, presumably intended as a piece of decoration, had been rammed into an expensive-looking table like in a tasteless still life. I wrinkled my nose and tried to imagine what the whore who was killed by the young nobleman had felt. Did she sense her destiny as she entered the room in which every corner, the empty bottles of wine and the carelessly tossed clothes screamed negligence? Presumably she did. I imagined how she tried to play down her uneasiness with a girlish giggle. I looked at the bed on which the demoniac slept. He panted clumsily, his legs were spread and his hands sprawled out like a squire. There he had taken what he wanted from the girl. Did he already start to strangle her then? Did she still try to stay calm? When did her screams of lust become real, fearful ones? I bit my lower lip and shook my head, trying to get rid of these unpleasant thoughts. I was going to know what had happened sufficiently enough, whether Dal'Joul wanted it or not. And I was going to enjoy it.

I drew my dagger form its sheath. It slipped out almost noiselessly, like a snake approaching its prey. I looked at my victim with a mixture of pity and contempt. Regardless of his twenty-four years Mitumial Dal'Joul had the tender features of a boy. A scarce beard grew on his chin and his cheeks were smooth. His naked chest was covered with red spots and his shoulders were small and lankly. To a certain extent he reminded me of my former self, except for the obtrusive smell of sweat and alcohol. “The demons are inside of you”, I said unconsciously.

I open my leather bag and removed a black, thick cloth from it. Then I sat down next to him at the edge of the bed. In the shadows I probably looked like a mother singing her child to sleep. I laughed shortly to which Dal'Joul reacted with a protesting sigh, but he did not wake up. Then he rolled to the side, moved his knees to his chest and crossed his arms like a child. I shook my head. If I hadn't known about the fragile man's deeds I would have considered him a pitiable, spoiled noble's son. But he wasn't one of these. He had given himself to the demons, not just once, but many times, and others had to pay the price for his lack of willpower. Therefore the Black Libra had sentenced him to death. I took a moment to ponder about how the killing was going to feel like. Then I grabbed Dal'Joul's neck with my right hand, pressed his head against the pillow and pushed a gag in his mouth with my left hand.

The man opened his eyes at once. I tensed my muscles, expecting him to try to push me back. Yet nothing happened. I felt his almost scarily regular breath on my nose, as if he had expected to wake up with a gag in his mouth. His grey-blue eyes were wide open, and he looked at me with horror. With horror? Or … with resignation to fate? I had planned to stab him at once in his chest with the dagger I had placed on my leg, quickly, without ado. Yet there was something in his eyes that irritated me, and I was unable to name it. For a moment we both remained in the strange position. Then Mitumial Dal'Joul, murderer of three innocent people, started to cry. What first was a shimmer on his reddened eyes soon filled the corners, and the tears began beading down his cheeks. A choked sobbing was audible through the gag. I looked at him in irritation. I was used to demoniacs starting to cry or begging for mercy when they were facing their punishment. But it was fear which I saw in my victim's eyes, and their tears were a result of the instinct of self-preservation. His sobbing, his look, his tears, however … something was different about them. They seemed … sad. Devastated. What if he was innocent?, it shot through my head. What if the Libra was wrong? Why, no. Even in the tavern at the Farmers Coast I had found two people who had been able to tell me about his deeds. To doubt the sentence of the Libra was betrayal. Betrayal of myself, of the Libra, of your destiny.

I tightened the grip around his neck. There was still no reaction. He resigns. He knows that there is no rescue from his possession, and he gives in to his fate. For a moment time seemed to stand still. Everything happened with an otherworldly clarity, as if there existed nothing except for me and the man I was about to kill. I thought I could hear the movement of his teary eyes in their sockets.

Do it. Fulfill your duty.

With a cry that could have been an expression of anger as well as of helplessness, I took my hand from the gag, grabbed my dagger and rammed it deeply into my victim's chest. His eyes widened, glowing with relief, which caused a wave of rage inside me. Regret!, it flashed in my mind full of anger. Regret your weakness! I removed the blade from his chest, hauled off and stabbed him again, this time a tiny bit underneath his larynx. I felt resistance and pushed harder. Now Mitumial Dal'Joul uttered a choked cry, but still he did not try to defend himself. Irritated, I extracted my dagger and stared at him. His head had sunk to the side, and the gag had fallen out of his mouth. It seemed that he wanted to say something, but only a rattle left his mouth. “Why?”, I uttered, to him as well as to myself. “Why don't you regret?” He did not answer. The life slipped from his body, I could feel it. His sins, it shot through my head. If I lose him now, I won't be able to see them. For the last time, I lifted my blade and rammed it into his neck. This time, a fountain of blood spurted against me, but while the warm liquid on my skin usually caused a triumphant feeling in me, I did not feel anything. Then the fire seized me, and I plunged into the black.

[ZzNoah]

For a moment I saw nothing. Then my view cleared up and I felt how the fire filled my veins. With one eye I saw reality, how I sat at the edge of the bed, the bloodstained dagger still sticking in the body of my victim, weakly twitching in death agony. His vision was blurred and limited, equal to that of a man peeking through a keyhole into another room. Yet what I saw with the other eye was clearer. His thoughts. His memories.

I saw a corridor which was covered with red carpets. It was the corridor I had just passed to get to Mitumial's room. From his room I heard sobs. I took a step toward him and heard a voice from nowhere. It was hard, cold, and without love.

“You are useless.” I felt that it belonged to Mitumial's father who had just died a short while ago.

I went along. The sobs grew louder and mingled with screams.

A jolt went through the spectral version of myself and threw me into another memory. I saw him, seventeen winters old, sitting at a large table covered with all sorts of dishes. He had lowered his head. At the other end of the table sat his father, whose face seemed familiar to me. A woman was sitting at his side whose eyes looked dreamily and impassively into the void.

“This world is no place for weaklings. Why don't you understand?”

“I do, father.” Mitumial's voice was monotonous.

“Apparently you don't, or you would not behave like a damn fishwife.”

The image turned black, and I was back in the hallway. The cries now began to multiply. I took one more step toward his room. One more. And another one. Then: a new memory. This time I saw Mitumial standing at a door, with his back turned toward it. He seemed to be listening. A man and a woman were shouting at each other behind the door, the man furiously and the woman pleadingly. The male voice belonged to Mitumial's father. Again and again the dull sound of an impact could be heard. I did not need to see the scene in order to understand it, and neither did Mitumial. His face was a grimace of disgust and anger. He despised him for what he did to his mother. He despised him for his deeds. I was back in the corridor, having arrived at the door to Mitumial's room. The fire burned greedily and glaringly in me, but the intoxicating feeling that it sent through my veins felt wrong. I was supposed to feel triumphant, but instead I felt … guilty. Empty. “No”, I whispered. He had killed. He had allowed the demons to enter him, and this was going to be his rightful punishment.

The door in Mitumial's memory swung open and I entered. The room was similarly devastated as the one in which my actual self was standing at his dying body, but this time the scattered sheets and books and the overturned table were the silent witnesses of an outburst of fury. Anger. Or despair? Mitumial was crouching on his bed, beardless and clean, completely unlike the man in whose throat I had just driven a dagger. Tears dried on his cheeks, tears — I knew it — that his father had despised him for, calling him a girl. Now his eyes were dried and reddened, and they seemed to stare into nothingness. He was broken. Why do I see this? I understood nothing of what was happening around me. What I was supposed to see were his sins, the moments in which he had allowed the demons to enter. The moments in which he was weak and had chosen sin and greed instead of fortitude and virtue. The moments that had made him the monster that he was! Determinedly I walked toward him. A lightning struck with a crash, illuminating the image. Then it returned to normal, and nothing had changed.

Almost nothing. I was still in Mitumial's room, and in his head. But neither had the shelves been knocked over nor was he crouching on the bed. An open book lay on it. I knelt down and read. The ink on the first page was still fresh.

15th day of the Kraken, 6098 a. St.

Father says there is no place in the world for weaklings. But he is wrong. It took me a long time to realize this. But I feel the truth in my words while I write them down. First I hated him for his bad deeds; his shady dealings, his “trips” to the Undercity, the things he did to mother that without any doubt had contributed to her death. Why he only had injured me verbally instead of beating me is beyond me. Maybe because I was his son after all? I don't know.

What he was unable to understand though is this simple truth: He is the true weakling. Despite wealth, status and the honor of his Path he is not much more than a desperate child inside, trying to use his power in order to gain acceptance and esteem. How easy it is to fall for this kind of pattern when we are not aware of it. I am ashamed at the thought of the things I've done. Little things they were, my mind tries to justify, but only now I realized how close I was to get into the very same cycle of violence and self-loathing as my father. Why did I beat up the noble boy? Back then I said to myself: Because he had treated me disrespectfully. Today I know that I only wanted to prove to my father that I'm actually a strong man. And I'm sure — if I had not realized it, one thing would have led to another, and harmless bullying would have led to much worse behavior. Quickly I would have been exactly what I feared.

My mind is made up: I will change. And once I am the upright person I am striving to be, my father will realize the perfidy of his deeds.

I have it in me … and he has it as well. I believe it from the bottom of my heart.

Stunned, I stared at the open book in front of me.

He wanted to change.

Was it really possible? Were his intentions so noble? But how?, I thought. He was obsessed! And once the demons have lived inside a human for too long, there was no turning back. A luring uneasiness rose inside of me, and with horror I realized that it was familiar to me. It was the feeling of being misguided which led me to leave Fogville, to betray my Path, and to join the Black Libra. And now it was back again.

I heard a dull sound behind me, like a body bag falling to the ground. It was Mitumial Dal'Joul. An older man who I identified as a servant of the house was standing in the doorway. Mitumial had fallen to the ground and had his face buried in his hands. The fire was raging wildly inside of me, but this time its intoxicating effect felt out of place, like an intruder.

“We came too late”, I heard the servant say. He avoided the gaze of his master. “I am sorry.” When he got no response, he turned around and left.

I felt how a jolt shot through my body. The fire had fed, it had seen the sins. Mitumial Dal'Joul was dying. The spectral world around me began to fade, slowly but consistently, like the ink on a letter in the rain. Irritated, I looked at the diary on the bed and then to the memory of the man whom I had judged. The man who had murdered three innocent people. The man who had given in to sin.

He had despised his father's actions. He wanted to change himself and his father.

Yet he had become a murderer. Why? What was the message brought to him by the servant?

A weak light began to glow inside of me, a shimmer of understanding. Who knows how things would have turned out if I had just closed my eyes in the last moment I had been in Mitumial's memory. But I watched. With a torturing slowness my eyes wandered from the clean marble floor to the shelves filled with ancient knowledge, and stopped above the opulent door frame which I had crossed to enter the room a few moments ago. A round shield in a golden frame was attached to the wall, painted with a crest. It showed a bear.

My memories of the moments after I woke up are as pale and blurry as those of my escape from Fogville. I clearly remember, however, that I stood up from the bed with slow, calm movements which an outside observer may have misunderstood as a sign of serenity, or, in light of the act I just had committed, as a sign of cold-bloodedness. Mitumial Dal'Joul was dead; I did not have to look at him anymore to know it. My heart pounded wildly in my chest, intoxicated by the nectar of his sins. Yet I felt cold. I do not remember my escape from the building anymore. When I approached the city gate, I could still smell the smoke of the fire I had set. The gate was closed, but there was light in the guardhouse. I had no idea how to explain to the guards why I wanted to leave the city at such a late hour, but I did not have to. In case of necessity, if it were the only way to gain distance, I would simply turn the gate and all guards into ash. Again I felt this paralyzing fear in my stomach. Only this time, there was no way out. I had been following a lie, from the beginning to the end. There were no demons taking possession of people. There were no sins, no corruption.

There were only cause and effect.

I myself had sealed young Dal'Joul's fate by killing his father. He wanted to change. My eyes were burning, my limbs were hurting. My thoughts were not in harmony with the Fire anymore. It felt the dissonance and punished me for it. Go back, I heard its voice speaking to me from the blaze, go back and do what you are meant to do. Yet I ignored it. My fist was firmly clenched around my dagger as I walked toward the gatehouse. I saw the shadow of a man flicker. The small building was separated from outsiders by bars. I swallowed, prepared myself for speaking. And I halted.

I knew the face that looked at me through the window, and I knew the smile luring on the lips. The man leaned back in the chair, he had his legs crossed and his arms behind his head.

“Where are you bound?”, Qalian asked. He spoke like a man who runs into a good friend after a long night in the taverns. I did not need the Fire to realize what was going on inside my mentor's head. He can feel it.

I remained silent, unable to respond. The situation reminded me of my old self: secluded, with a heavy tongue and no life experience. Qalian also decided to remain silent so that we only looked at each other for a while. His body seemed to cast no shadow despite the bright candlelight in front of him, but maybe it was only a figment of my imagination.

Finally he broke the silence.

“I will not stop you. But they will come to get you.”

I remained silent.

“We all were where you are now.”

I was filled with a dull rage. “Were you?”

“Yes, my friend.” He let his gaze wander, as in many of our conversations before. “We were.”

“It is our fault, Qalian. It is not the fault of demons or sins. It is only our fault.” A word was formed on my tongue. First there was a tickle, then there was a clear shape, and before I knew, I had spoken it.

“It is a cycle.”

Qalian smiled like a master smiles at his student when he came to an understandable, but naïve conclusion. Then he shook his head.

“I will not stop you”, he repeated.

One day you will make a decision. And I hope it will be the right one.

My hands were shaking, and my fear was overwhelming. I felt tears tickling behind my eyes. It was all in vain. I had believed to be special, to make the world better with my deeds, to find my destiny. But I had not found anything. I had joined a group of lunatics who made themselves judge over life and death with wild magic and unholy rituals.

“Open the gate.” My voice was merely a whisper.

Qalian nodded, with a hinge of regret. He had expected my answer. Three draws of breath later the machinery of the gate began to move and it rattled upward. I turned around and left without looking at Qalian again.

“No one leaves the Black Libra”, I heard his voice behind me. It was neither angry nor malicious, only sad.

“No one.”

I disappeared into the dark of night.

My hand hurts. I feel that they come closer.

I want to end it myself. I would like to claim that my reasons are emotions like guilt or a sense of honor, but it is a lie. Pure fear is driving me. Fear of what the Black Libra does to traitors.

The place where I began writing this transcript will be the place where I will leave this world. Was it fate that my life was going to end here? The fact that I am hiding in an old, abandoned trading post in the middle of a forest makes this conclusion likely. I was not aware of the irony of my fate before I woke up between these cold stone walls yesterday morning. I had wandered all night, and I remember the strange figure walking thirty arms lengths in front of me all time. I followed it. Shortly before I found the clearing, she turned toward me a last time and smiled at me. The adornment in her hair sounded like wind chimes from Kilé. Then she disappeared like she had never been there.

I wish I had more meaningful words to end this transcript. But I don't. As I have mentioned before, it is meant to be an account, nothing more. An account of what made Jaél Tanner's Son, the nameless one, the Butcher of Ark.

I am so tired that my eyes are filled with tears, and my hands are shaking in anticipation of what I am about to do. Several dozen people died by my blade, yet I am too cowardly when it comes to taking my own life.

I have a final plea to you. To find simple explanations, my story will not only be twisted by the heralds and the Order, but also by the Black Libra. It was born in the shadows, and there it will remain. Nowhere will you find traces of its deeds, and with artfulness and perfidy it will cover the traces I am going to leave behind. Besides simple explanations — I was straying from my Path, I was a monster — there will be other assertions which will satisfy scholars and philosophers. Do not listen to them.

They are nothing but lies.

[ZzNoah]

Dear Turas,

I had to chuckle upon reading your latest letter. No, the Black Libra does not exist, and yes, I do consider your research on its machinations a waste of time.

Why, you ask me? It is very simple.

Jaél Tanner's Son was stark raving mad, up to the last sensible corner of his brain. He suffered from horrid delusions and nearly everything you have read on the previous pages is nonsense. Now I am well aware that this claim fits the book's closing statement only too well. But allow me to shed light on the life and deeds of the Butcher of Ark — on what truly happened — and you will see how what I say is infinitely more sensible than Tanner's Son's metaphysical ramblings on demons, the Black Libra and the fire.

Jaél Tanner's Son was born to a common carpenter and his companion in the year 6056 a. St. in a small village going by the name Northwind. Therefore, his true age at the beginning of the chronicle was thirty and two instead of twenty-eight. This also increases the age at which he was abandoned from two to four. Being of frail stature and small body size, his age seems to simply have been underestimated.

His natural father went by the name Samaél Chipblade and was an utterly violent and mentally challenged man. Both of these streaks — it pains me to say — have to be attributed to his deep-rooted religiousness. Obsessively punctual, he visited the local temple several times each day to pray, never missed even a single mass or sermon, and was able to recite all of the Path's 101 verses in their full length. Nothing was more important to him than to abide by the path and to love our lord; and these were his exact expectations from his fellow villagers — which, as you might be able to guess led to him living a very isolated life.

Though he usually followed the priest's sermons, he often thought their contents too shallow and Northwind's handling of pathlessness too lenient. When he did not pray, he worked, denying himself desires such as love-making, alcohol or even music. And so the village was surprised when rumors that Samaél would become a father began to circulate. Though he denied it, everyone knew who the mother was: a young wandering whore, often seen at his house in the past weeks. The public knowledge of the pregnancy put Samaél in a difficult situation — abandoning a pregnant woman and thus committing murder on babe and woman both, was a grave sin even if the woman concerned was of low status or a whore — but more importantly, it did not in the least fit self-perception. So he picked the only option available to him: He married the woman — not older than twenty winters at the time — and five months later the young Jaél was born.

As one might imagine, he was not born under a lucky star. Though Samaél had always been slyly aggressive and quick-tempered according to the priest I interrogated, this aggression only increased with parenthood. The fear and horror recognizable in Chipblade's young companion had been almost graspable during the three-day-mass, he confessed. So things took their course and — as if he had not already done so — Samaél sealed himself and his “family” increasingly off from the outside world. By now you will have guessed what happened, dear Turas, so I will keep things short: Samaél Chipblade abused both his companion and his young son. What began with scolding looks and curses slowly turned to regular beatings with a birch.

This he of course merely did to “protect” his loved ones, as he confessed to the priest once. Both his companion and his boy were befallen by “demons”, horrible demons whose only purpose it was to drive them from the right path, to taint them. “One cannot purge them forever”, he had said to the priest, his voice shaking, “Because they always return, no matter what you do.” No matter how devoted the prayers or how chaste one's thoughts. “They always return.”

Why the priest didn't intervene? He did not fully suspect how bad things truly were. Corporal punishment for children and women is not unheard of, especially not among the rural populace, and the truth only dawned on him as, one morning, he watched the young woman go to the village's well. A gust of wind freed her from her veil and revealed an abundance of cuts, bumps and broken bones. Do you remember the Butcher's crow-like nose? It is a remnant of such an "exorcism".

There is little more to say of this sad period of his life, except for its tragic end. In an act of despair, Jaél's mother took her life, but only after she had crushed her husband's skull with a heavy hammer. The starved boy was found five days later in his parent's bed chamber, the empty eyes focused on the bloody altar of Malphas. To this day I do not know whether he had been present during the horrible deed or whether he had entered the room when both parents were already dead. He did not cry, spoke no word and his eyes had nothing in common with those of a four-year-old anymore.

When I asked why the boy had not been given to a family from the village, and with lowered eyes the priest confessed that no one was willing to take him in. A child that had already seen murder and violence at such a young age would undoubtedly bring misfortune on those near it, people said. And besides, times were hard and wheat rare. In the end, Jaél was dressed in a woolen blanket and the priest travelled with him to the Fog road and deposited him before a shrine — in the hopes that someone would take pity on the young boy. You already know of Gilmon, the tanner who would later raise him. He shared neither Samaél Chipblade's religious fervor nor his brutality, but, as you certainly concluded from the Butcher's writings, he gave everything to the boy except for an environment in which his scarred soul could heal.

As he turned eleven winters old, he began an apprenticeship with the local priest and came to oversee the temple of Fogville five years later. The villagers saw him as a silent, dutiful man with constantly uneasy expression; and it did indeed take three days before his disappearance following the Star Summer Night's feast was noted.

In the third chapter of his account, Jaél finally tells us of the events that transpired at the “Red Ox”, a small tavern not far from Ark where an essentially harmless act of revenge escalated into his first killing. In incredible detail he recounts the inebriating feelings that took hold of him during the murder, then turning his attention to his first encounter with Qalian, who accompanied him as a mentor and friend during the following moons and winters. Here, however, fact and fiction, truth and phantasy, begin to mix for the first time. The innkeeper of the Red Ox might still remember a sad-looking, thin man being humiliated who then, together with the two riders, had disappeared early in the next morning. A man such as Qalian, however, had never been seen at the tavern. Now while this inconsistency might be attributed to the countless faces the innkeeper must have encountered since, the fact that both giants — Naratil and Jorah Dal'Karek, who indeed are quite nasty fellows — have been seen in Ark a few days later, both in perfect health, makes opposition pointless. No, you have not misread, Turas — both men who, according to the Butcher, died a bloody death that night are in fact well and alive and I have actually spoken to them during my inquiries.

I don't know what truly happened at the Red Ox, but I strongly suspect that at that evening, Jaél's inner need to take revenge for his humiliation caused his insanity to take root for the first time. He felt weak, and the violence he was subjected to unconsciously reminded him of the situations his father used to put him in.

But at the same time he was obviously lacking the power to do something against this — and at this point his imagination gained the upper hand and he conjured up a variant of the events that simply was never true. He then fled head over heels to the forest.

Now you may say that my claim — that the murders were a mere product of his imagination — is nothing more than conjecture. But let me first continue with my account and explain my underlying thesis later.

About six moons before the murders with a proven connection to Jaél Tanner's Son began, he claimed to have arrived in Ark. He posits to have found refuge in a tavern together with his mentor and his companions only to wipe out a sort of “child's brothel” in the Undercity the following day, together with Qalian. Again: The innkeeper of the “Dancing Nomad” recognized Jaél on a drawing, but was unable to remember a person fitting the description of Qalian. Even the brothel I mentioned had never existed in the form described, as my contacts in the Undercity have assured me of. “But is secrecy and covertness not the whole point of such an institution?” you might ask me now. Yes, dear Turas, it is, but such an establishment could only exist under the protection of a large organization such as the Rhalâta. And under these circumstances you can be assured that the destruction of such a — it pains me to say — profitable source of income would not have been tolerated by the Rhalâta. No… Both of us know what that organization is capable of, and what they do with those acting against their authority. But what actually happened was that more and more homeless and sick people were found murdered in the Undercity's alleys, all of them barely recognizable from myriads of stabbing wounds — Tanner's Son's thumbprint.

The first moments of both Jaél's narrative and the truth aligning occurred three months later and coincide with the passing of the so-called “exam”. Back then, the first corpses were discovered, and here we begin to talk of the “Butcher of Ark” due to the brutal manner of the victim's death. The following year, during which Jaél caused havoc in Ark, managing to escape first the guard and later the holy order itself due to his perfidious intelligence, a total of two dozen murders were committed where the Butcher's involvement is beyond doubt; and another dozen where it cannot be ruled out. A second person was never involved, and not all of his victims had been guilty of crimes.

You probably ask yourself the same question as in the beginning of this letter: Why the deviations? Why invent a mysterious secret society with the aim to keep evil in check? Why the talk of a “nectar of sin” enabling the murderer to enter the memories of his victim to be rewarded with sexual ecstasy?

I for my part have found a solution to this riddle, and it rests on my conviction that very few of this world's murderers and criminals view themselves as bad, instead believing to do the right thing. We are so good at creating models of thought that help us in reconciling our deeds with our self-perception. This was no different with Jaél Tanner's Son, and the essence of what caused him to commit his crimes is deeply rooted in his childhood.

You can surely imagine that his childhood had profound effects on Jaél Tanner's Son. I am certain that, on an unconscious level, Jaél knew what his father did unto him, and that he hated him with passion. You also know that children cannot yet distinguish between themselves and their environment, especially in early years. I suspect that this was the case with Jaé, too. The more he hated his father, the more he hated himself, blamed himself for the pain endured by his mother and him. Father had said it, hadn't he? “I only want to protect you. It's the demons, always the demons; you always allow them back into your hearts.” Again and again the boy failed in this, again and again. And again and again he and his mother had to pay dearly for it. How he wished for peace, his father's love, for harmony. But he would never receive it, for when the demons possessed his mother one last time, they robbed him of the only two people he had ever known.

Unable to even try to process his experiences, the horrible images, the raw hate, the guilt and a biting accusation, a deep-rooted realization were confined in a mental casket that his child's mind buried deep in his subconscious, so he would feel nothing but a diffuse, omnipresent fear that kept him from ever experiencing something like true happiness.

Until the day of his trauma, when he was confronted with his repressed memories for the first time by seeing his own corpse. I am sure that finding his own rotting corpse represented the part of him that had been repressed and locked away, sleeping all these years. Now, however, it's burdening presence had become too strong to ignore any longer. He would die if he did not learn to understand, calm or heal it; and so he fled head over heels out of his life, his only compass being an impalpable feeling that would lead to his death, much like the flame is to the moth. It punished him with an insufferable fear when he acted against it; and it rewarded him with maniacal ecstasis when he did something “right”. Without that feeling, he would have never left his village, never began to kill for his imaginary construct of the “Black Libra”, indeed, without it he would have never become the “Butcher of Ark”, instead ending his peaceful if a bit sad existence as priest of Fogville. He dubbed this feeling “fire”. I call it searching for forgiveness.

With every decision, with every murder, every step he took, he wanted only one thing: to triumph where he failed before. To finally achieve the peace he had always hoped for. He wanted to cleanse the world of the demons that had caused so much suffering for his family — his father had, after all, had only wanted to protect his family of them. Can you follow? The demons, the Fire, the Black Libra — it was all nothing more than his subconscious desire for absolution! Absolution for a crime he never committed! The demons Jaél saw in his victims were nothing more than projections of the guilt he felt for the deaths of his parents, and by murdering he tried to atone for it.

Maybe my thesis seems absurd to you at first glance — but think of all the parallels between Jaél's account and his past! The likely most obvious would be his choice of words — “sinner”, “demon” and “soul cleanser”. Humanity is weak and rotten, but there is a hidden order protecting it from its downfall. What could this be, if not a reconstruction of his familial background! It continues with the imaginary person of “Qalian”. Is he not an idealized incarnation of what Jaél would have wanted to be? Strong, lawless, full of desire to life and absolutely devoted to the Black Libra, without the doubts Jaél had until the end and that would ultimately be the cause of the last parallel to his childhood — his failure. Though dozens had to give their life because of Tanner's Son's mad quest for forgiveness it ended with the same cognition it had ended for the small boy in the past. But no matter the self-sacrifice — at the end he had been too weak. His will, his scrupulousness, his belief in the correctness of his cause — it was to no avail. He had failed — and left this world as a broken man.

You seem dear Turas: The parallels are too obvious to be merely accidental. I have been unable decipher merely two symbols in his story: The veiled woman appearing in his vision and the admission ritual. I do have my theories, but they are vague still.

You can calmly lean backwards, though: The day a wild mage enters your room to kill you and then digest your sins — I am sure they are countless! — will not arrive. The Black Libra does not exist, and neither does the fire or “Qalian”.

To me the story of the “Butcher of Ark” is primarily the sad testimony of a man who took countless innocent lives on his quest for forgiveness. Who, in the end, is to blame? He? His father? And if you chose the latter, how can you know whether Samaél Chipblade with his sick religiosity and his "purges", too, has been merely trying to heal a scar on his soul, a scar on his soul he also had no fault in creating?

Here, Jaél Tanner's Son was right: It is an eternal chain of cause and effect. A cycle.

And nowhere in it will you find someone to blame.

Carolyl Dal'Gamar, Arcanist of the Third Sigil and Chronicler of the Holy Order