Journal Entry 3: The Inn of the Lion

April 7th 1444
Lucy Sommers

What were you thinking Alessandro? Why did you fight your sire? I never was able to read your mind clearly. But I sensed a sadness I could not fathom. And almost I wanted to trust you. But what were you not telling us?

A sword and ashes. Is this all that is left of you, Alessandro?

Is he really gone Mina? Another of our number stricken down? Yes, I owe you one my mind's twin. But did you really have to gouge Wilfred's eyes? It echoes in my mind still; his agonized scream I heard from behind the curtain of glass you pushed me into when you took over. Nevertheless, it was enough to wake him from the blissfull torpor induced by the elder's raging blood.

Yet, more haunting were those howls. They drive icicles to your heart and force frost to your blood. Those were no ordinary wolves. I shudder to imagine what would have happened if Wilfred was not able to find the others. From the safety of the inn I saw them run. Wilfred breaking the scribe's arm in his haste. Faolan covered in blood, carrying Khalid on his back as if he were a child.

Then came the tempest. Its darkened clouds carried not rain but the faces of the dead. How did you call them to you Claudious? Those spectres with voices wrenched from the throats of hell? How easily they threw three of the monstrous beasts back into forest gloom.

Your eyes were glowing Raven. Who did you see following us? Yours are predator's eyes. I still can not look at them without a slight shudder. I know that arrow hurt. And I hurt you more when I pulled it out. But what was I to do? I couldnt leave it stuck in your neck. At least Mordecai took care of that horrible monk.

Yes, there we were ambushed by Templars. Can you believe it? Waylaid by the knights of God.

It would have been funny to see that cross burned on your forehead, Mordecai, given other circumstances. I could see the pain in your eyes and sense your wounded pride. But I could not laugh.

I thought we were lost Raven, when I shared your pain. I felt the sword thrust into you driven into my own body, deep and excruciating.

Then it was over. But who killed you Sir Knight? You who ooze blood out of every orifice in your body? I saw no bruise, no wound. Who's delicate hands covered your eyes and sent you to eternal sleep? Can it be...?

At last, the Monastery of St. Timothy. Pain assaulted my senses as I entered the threshold but became eventually bearable.

Well met, Japhet Cappadocious. Did you know what will happen when you bid us bring Claudious in a week's time?

And you Cappadocious, do you really believe that when you make a sacrifice of God and feed upon Him you will rise above God? The holy undead. Is this what you are?

How wonderful to find you alive and well, dear Uncle John. No, its Uncle Henry now, is it not? Well, not really alive but you know what I mean. Why will you not tell me your secret? What tragedy can so torture a man's soul as to make him deny his own existence?

Yet who can blame you? Has it really been only three days when my world turned upside down? When the blood opened my eyes to the undead who hunt in the night. When the blood tore down truths long held and replaced them with the stuff of legend. I used to hear the world's thoughts. I still do though with no better clarity. Now, if I wished I can also hear its every whimper, the brush of a sleeve, the drop of a leaf. But then, I can no longer trust what I see. Because there are folds in the reality's fabric. What can I believe? Who can I believe? Who can I trust? The whole world has gone frighteningly mad.

Or is it just me...?