Katrina's Journal

*The first entry is dated the 13th day of the 10th moon in the year 1109, >200 years ago:*

Welcome to Mordavia, where the Dark Ones' power reigns. The world of Erana's beloved creation has passed to me, and I have re-made it. Today I was born to darkness, and sundered Mordavia from the material plane. The Dark Ones' hold here is strong, and their power runs deep into the heart of the world. And now all of it is mine to command.

Now no true sunlight may reach here, and a misasma of dread and hopelessness shrouds it in fog and mist. Things grow, but crooked and wrong, cringing in the shadows. None of its people are free to leave. And the souls of those who would defy me will never reach their rest. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I should tell the events in order.

Funny... it was Erana who said if I planned to live forever, I should keep a record so I could refresh my memory of certain events centuries later. Well, my love, I'm going to live forever now, so here is what happened.

I was born in 1038 as Ekaterina Indirovich. Yes, my name was common, but I was anything but. I was exceptionally talented at the study and practice of magic, and left home at sixteen to study from as many masters who would have me. Hag, wizard, troll, gnome, it mattered not; I cared only to learn everything.

The next moment of any consequence in this story is the day I met Erana, forty-nine years ago. To know Erana was to love her, as many others before me learned, but I am certain that none loved as profoundly as I. And she saw something in me, too; she took me on as her student. From her I learned the ways of Mordavian magic. Yet she would never teach me that thing which had come to matter most to me: the secrets of her immortality. It is no secret that she can confer it–all the Gods can.

For what is the point of knowing everything, and of finding the one perfect person who you are clearly destined to spend your life with, if that life is going to be short? If it is finite? But all she would ever tell me, in the nine months I was with her, was "That kind of power has to be earned through living." (Idealism was her one flaw; she believed there are no shortcuts, yet her immortality was as much an accident of birth as my own mortal lifespan.)

Luckily I am not such a fool as to wait for permission to study that which I desire to know. And being Erana's apprentice meant that there was very little to stop me from exploring any and every magical phenomenon that anyone had ever uncovered in Mordavia. And that is how I came to know of the Dark Ones' cave, that open mouth at the heart of the world.

Erana may have walked down from Mt. Borgov and created everything aboveground, but what sleeps under the mountains are more ancient than time itself. And they are more powerful than even her. All they needed was a champion, someone to wake them and agree to bring dread and decay to the land in their names, and in exchange : eternal life and endless power. At last! I would be her equal, and we could re-make the world together. I would be the darkness to her light, a perfect cosmic balance.

So. I listened to whispers and looked in shadows, and within a year I had learned enough to act. But I suppose I was not careful enough. As I knelt at the dark altar before Avoozl, the oldest and hungriest and most powerful of them, I began the ritual to bind my soul, my fate, and my future to it (and twining my fate forever with my beloved’s). The dark powers loomed so close I could almost touch them. But then Erana appeared, beautiful and terrible as the Light itself. She spoke a word and it seemed as though time stopped ; the Dark Powers scrambled to retreat before her radiance. But Avoozl was hungry and un-sated, and close to the surface. Before the veil between their world and ours was fully closed, a sucking tendril of darkness wrapped itself around her ankle and pulled her into the void with it. She was gone, and left behind was her mage’s staff, with a glowing red gem in the shape of a heart, gone dull and silent.

I was devastated. Even now, more than fifty years later, it is hard to remember. I can see clear as day the anguished, yet perfect face of my beloved, lost to the world because she did not believe I was ready. I vowed to bring her back, no matter what the cost; I would make her see see that we are twinned souls, bound together for eternity, our destinies intertwined.

I took the staff and traveled the world for five decades, gathering my forces and planning my strategy. I enlisted powerful wizards to serve as conduits for great magic, and great armies to subdue those who would get in my way. I grew more powerful and more determined as the years went by, and in the past few weeks, I made my move.

I returned to Mordavia by the East Gate with the new moon, and I was greeted not as the righteous savior come to free their beloved Lady, but as a witch who had cursed the land. The old windbag Piotyr even threatened to send his “Paladins” after me. I cared nothing for their opinions, of course, but I did take note of who spoke them aloud. It will amuse me to destroy my enemies slowly, over centuries.

(There were some who remembered to be grateful. I will not forget.)

The Dark Powers had indeed been spreading their influence throughout Mordavia during the time I was away, which was unexpected. But nothing could match the power I had amassed, and we quickly dispatched the pitiful peasant “army” of the old boyar as we moved toward the cave at the mouth of the world.

The ritual to re-call Erana’s soul from the void worked, as I was sure it would. I have spent many years in study and my magic is precise, my control unquestionable. I asked her to return to me, and that I would gladly rule hand-in-hand with her, if she would only give me the one thing I had ever wanted: an eternity with her. But instead of joy at her rescue and awe at my gathered might, she was cold and cruel, and denied me. I suggested another fifty years sealed in with the Dark One might change her mind, and sundered the connection again. But a small voice whispered in my ear to leave it open just a crack, and whispers in Mordavia are powerful things, if you know how to listen to them.

(Did I lose all but one of my archmagi to madness in the attempt to hold the portal? Yes. Were their minds torn apart from the horror of staring into the Void? Also yes. Do I regret it? Not for a single instant. They knew what they signed up for.)

The voice was Vampyr, one of the Dark Powers I had never considered — not as powerful as Avoozl, nor as ambitious. But he had heard my request to Erana, and seen my potential. He promised he could bring her back to me and to give me immortality and command over all his powers. All I needed to do was shed my mortal coil and rise, un-dead, into the eternal Night.

My mortal life I poured into the gem in Erana’s staff, and in that moment I became Vampyr’s champion and the rightful ruler of all Mordavia.

Of course, I will never consent to be truly chained to *anyone* but Erana for eternity ; in my travels, I learned of a place in the Mountains of Morning, a library guarded by a bedraggled group of religious zealots calling themselves “Paladins”, where I can learn more about the Dark Powers… enough to wield their power without being beholden to them.

Imagine — all the knowledge of the Dark Powers was footsteps away, but I had to cross the whole world and many other planes besides to learn of it. They say that a Dragon protects it, but I fear no death nor failure, and *I will have my way.*

An entry dated about a year later

It's almost pathetic that it took less than a year to subdue Mordavia so completely. Even Erana’s so-called “sisters” have fallen to Darkness. She really was nothing like me. My allies grow stronger by the day, and there are none left who would challenge me, except those who are too weak or scattered or broken to try.

The Beast-man and the Artificer have been handily dispatched. The dragon Piotyr was more determined than I expected, but he died just the same. It gave me some small pleasure to mount his insubordinate head in my grand dining hall as a warning to others who might get ideas. “Heroes of Mordavia” indeed. All of them are mere worms in the dirt beneath my heel.

(I will admit I was surprised that the death of the old lizard inspired so many of his “Paladins” to return again and again with such vengeance, and I somewhat regret the losses of so many good soldiers at their hands. But they were still nothing to us, and they did not stop us. May they haunt that miserable pile of bricks until the end of time.)

Another year later, the 13th day of the 10th month again

As today marks two years since the sundering of Mordavia, and I believe I deserve an anniversary gift, I set some lures in the mists in the major adventuring hubs (Spielburg, Grumembert, and Finnsvard) last night and three humans have fallen prey to my traps. It's especially convenient that they're human, as the Mordavians likely won't even notice.

I left them outside the village of Mordavia; I look forward to watching them set themselves against me (or, even better, against one another). Most likely they will kill themselves in some entertaining manner, but if they mange to surprise me, then when the time is ripe I will crush them under my heel and laugh as I watch the light of hope die in their eyes just a moment before they themselves succumb.

It doesn't matter if they last days or months, or even years; time is on my side, after all.

Ten years after the original entry, 1119

Perhaps it's sentiment, or perhaps frustration (surely it cannot be boredom?) but I found myself compelling three more adventurers into my domain today. Three is a powerful number in this country, and always has been.

I've decided to make a tradition of it. A secret anniversary present from me to myself, to reward me for how awfully good I've been.

1130, about 180 years ago

Another year, another adventuring party. This time I made the Vistani collect them. It's important to keep them humble, lest they forget their place.

Perhaps I am more perceptive now than when I was born to darkness, or perhaps it is the current moral arc of the Material Plane, but it seems as though these Heroes are getting more idealistic.

It makes the game more satisfying. They always seem so surprised when they're stabbed in the back after doing something "good."

1152, about 160 years ago

I have no issue with the so-called Chernovy Cult, although their misguided understanding of the Dark Ones has led them down many unwise paths across the years. By and large I prefer to let my allies sow discord and fear in whatever way seems best to them; it is not becoming for the Master to advise the slave in their daily tasks. I merely intervene to punish if they seem to lack the proper motivation or methods.

However, the gibbering Durst idiots in their hideous house finally crossed me for the last time. For years I watched as they persisted in offering useless and painless sacrifices to the "Dark Powers", against which I warned them already. Technically harmless, but deeply misguided, and I do hate waste. I also hate being ignored.

Yesterday, they explicitly ignored my clear instructions to leave my belongings alone. They took this year's adventurers in immediately under the guise of "accustoming them to their new surroundings" and killed them all within a week before they were ready for hunting. So I destroyed every last living cultist, and left Mr. Durst in a hell worse than death; perhaps he will finally understand hat there is more than one kind of immortality, and he should have been more specific in his requests.

The house, through some (fresh, I think) botched blood magic, now persists as a death trap into which idiotic adventurers may still fall. But its future victims will be of my own making, and that is the important thing.

1163, about 150 years ago

I felt strange last night when I bespelled the fog traps, as if I'd used a powerful spell and over-taxed my magic. Worse, my (metaphorical) nets were empty the next morning. This is unprecedented, and I have sent spies in every direction (even beyond the mists) to uncover who or what moved against me in the night. If so much as a bird chirped its dissent last night, I will know.

It is no great loss not to have a new crop of Heroes blundering their tragic way around my lands; six creatures still writhe in my grasp, and this will give me more time to dedicate to their care in the coming year.

The next day

My spies turned up nothing of use, so despite the lengthy trip I went down and communed with the Dark Ones. It has been a very long time since we "spoke," as it were, face to "face." (It seems to me the gap in the veil has grown; I must make another trip to the Library soon, to see if this can be repurposed to access other planes and grow Mordavia.)

At any rate, they whispered in their awesome, eldritch tongue of a child born shortly after midnight, on the 13th day of the 10th month, with a powerfully old soul. Powerful enough even to turn *their* attention elsewhere that night. Perhaps it is wishful thinking, but I believe we may have our first home-grown Hero in quite some time. I suppose I can do him the honor of giving him 18 years to grow up before looking in on him. It would be a shame not to let him grow up thinking he can match me. What is 18 years in the face of eternity?

The journal is mostly just a log of heroes (who's been added, who's dead, who's still alive) with a periodic update on the hero-turns-18 countdown clock for the next little while

18 years later, 1181

"What is 18 years in the face of eternity?" I was a damned fool. I should have searched immediately.

Against all odds, in defiance of the Dark Ones and their powers and the laws that govern this plane, Erana has returned to me. I am sure of it. This "Tatyana Gregorova" my spies have found is the spitting image of my beloved—her lovely ways, her walk, her gentle voice, her laugh. Yet she did not know me as anything other than the Dark Master, to be hated and feared (and, of course, charmed by). But all can be remedied with time, and time we shall both have plenty of. I have another chance, and I shall not be so foolish as to waste any longer waiting.

A few days later

I left my beloved alone in the library for the evening to ensure this evening’s feast would be to her delight and satisfaction—fairy music, her favorite foods, tapestries throughout the great hall—but when I returned to fetch her I found the room empty. I tore the kingdom apart looking for her, my spies leaving no stone unturned, but there was no sign of her. Finally was forced to go to the Dark Ones’ cave for answers.

It seems she somehow discovered who she is, and threw herself from the castle parapet before I could speak to her, see her, Turn her. I have lost the love of my life twice, and I will not be so foolish a third time.

The next time a red-headed girl-child is born in Mordavia, I will know of it, and I *will* have her. I am sure she cannot help but love me, and be who I know she is, with the right encouragement. The earlier she receives it, the better.

The next day

Those fools in Vallaki proclaimed today a holiday in honor of "St. Tatyana" and her "bravery and sacrifice against the Dark Master." As if they believe something has changed. As if they believe that I no longer own every one of them, mind, body and soul. They'll regret that.

I placed a geas on the Burgomeister and his family; let's see how they like festivals after a few hundred years of them.

The next hundred years or so are mostly just tallies of adventurers brought in, who’s alive, who’s dead. Frustration that none of the red-headed children she's kidnapped have been Erana. Not much of note.

About 100 years later (32 years ago)

I sent the necrotaurs to the Werewood this afternoon to remind the clan that it's time to go hunting in the material plane. There are 3 new young pups they are eager to test in the field that they've been saving for this mission; I'm glad they have an appropriate sense of flair and timing.

Six months later

Arrigal reported this morning that one of his bleeding-heart cousins, Drash, smuggled a beautiful red-haired girl out of Krezk toward Paladin’s Keep in his wagon. The Abbot in Krezk seems to be wilier than I gave him credit for, to hide her from me for so long. I shall have to do something about this.

*Later that day*

Again! AGAIN! Foiled again by that fae witch. Why does Erana flee from me? Why will she not come to heel? Why will she not accept our shared destiny?

Drash and his family will be punished, of course. But that is not enough to sate my fury. I’ve banished the rest of his clan from Mordavia, never to return to their native lands.

Twelve years later (21 years ago)

Perhaps this is what Erana meant when she said I should be wary of the banality of immortality, but I feel less and less compelled to note my victories and share my triumphs here as the years march on. All who know me fear me. There is no need to gloat privately when I can do so before a cowering audience.

There are still four Heroes remaining, and last night my steward informed me that the now-mad Artificer has been seen poking his oversized nose in and around the Library. I think I'll spend tomorrow attending to that business, and wait until the slate is clean before I bring in some fresh game.

Besides, keeping a diary feels more and more childish the longer I behold the great things I have made for all to see. And indeed, it’s probably not wise to have such a thing lying around. The Spielburg paladin has holed herself up near the Abbey, believing the Morninglord and the Abbot will protect her. I look forward to proving her wrong, and I suppose it couldn’t hurt to leave the book there with an honor guard. I enjoy having my things close to Erana’s.