Viktoria's Vlog

Well it's been a long time since I've written well...anything.  To be perfectly honest I wasn't even sure I'd remember how to write my name in this barbaric tongue they call "common."  The only thing they have in common is that they're too stupid to understand Elvish.  Okay Viky, deep breaths, it's not their fault the savages never learned the enlightened tongue of scholars.  Speaking of barbarism and savagery, Malar give me strength, I almost lost my shit in the bar tonight...again.  After the last incident I swore off Tavern Rages.  Without exception.  Even in the company of super-cute Tabaxi Manxian Fighters.  Rrrreow!  But I'll be damned if I didn't come close. Looking for work in Daggerford has been an exercise in the same mundane bullshit frustration as it was last time.  The small-minded shitkickers of this provincial little piss-hole have as much mud in their eyes as they do in their asses!  After biding my time for a few days I began to despair when all I saw were the typical farmer village postings of midwife, wetnurse, barmaid, milkmaid, etc.  It was enough to make a woman puke!  Then, when I saw the posting for caravaner and guard I practically RAGED.  Turns out, I didn't need anger to ace the interview - I just needed to flash my gypsy smile and roll some knuckles with my kindred spirits.  Kith 'n kin!  They recognized me near-instantly as one of their own - albeit touched by Malar - but one of their own for sure.  I may not hail from the Romany wandering clans but I've got the blood of a Kender in my eyes and vagabond's wanderlust in my soul.  I don't think that's how that expression goes. All that was left for me was to bide my time until the next morning - tomorrow morning - when the caravan leaves.  And I should have known it would be inevitable.  A couple of podunk drunks approached and their idiocy was promptly diffused and they were dissuaded without violence.  I really must be leveling up in the world.  The allure of exotic black skin and a thick accent is too much for their vanilla blood.  The alcohol lowers inhibitions to near-deadly levels of liquid-courageous!  Hah!  But only a moment later Malar's own emissary a WERE-TORTOISE waddled into the bar and graced me with his presence.  Divinity's Proximity!  The lycanthrope had recently fed and was still covered in the lifeblood of his meal.  The sight was awesome and fearsome and nearly arousing to behold!  Such power!  Such ferocity!  Bathing in the blood of his enemies!  He would make a fine candidate for a husband!  And he was so sweet - offering me the bloody heart of his enemy as a promissory gift!  It was incredibly chivalrous the way he jumped in front of the assassin's spell for me. But wait!  I'm getting ahead of myself!  Tortuga Tate hadn't even begun the tale of his bloodbath before a diminutive figure entered the bar.  Nearly beneath my notice, he walked in and settled at the corner.  When I finally caught a good glimpse I recognized that this was a furtive figure - stealthy - and born of the Underdark.  The Svirfneblin blended into the din without so much as drawing a stray eye of attention.  An assassin in plain sight.  I warily kept an eye on him but my danger sense began to tingle.  When he enlisted the aid of the serving girl and offered his services as an honorary barmaid for the evening I knew it was only a matter of time before he sprung his trap.  House H'kar of Menzo has let it be known that the bounty on my head as an escaped slave will escalate for every year that I remain at large.  I've tried to stay ahead of the would-be slavers and bounty-hunters and I thought myself so careful!  But I cooled my wits and steeled my nerves.  I wouldn't murder a man in public without cause - but I had to be ready!  I palmed my dagger from my sack and casually - nonchalantly - approached the kitchen.  Wait, had the hunter been laying in wait?  Was the prey walking right into the hunter's trap?  Malar's Maw!  I was an idiot!!!!!  Thinking to turn the tables I would hunt the hunter but he had been prepared for the eventuality.  He had actually ALLOWED me to see him to bait the trap!  Viky you bumbling fool!  The assassin's spell struck and my shinobi reflexes and preternatural spider sense were the only things keeping me from getting completely tangled in a nest of thorny vines and tall grasses.  Then, to my surprise, Tortuga Tortoise Tate nimbly - belying his incredible agility - intervened by jumping on top of the bar and taking a defensive stance against the spellcaster! I'm too tired to write any more and chances are I'm going to lose these pages just as soon as I get back on the road. Viky

Malar's Danglin' Dingle Berry!  I can hardly believe my own eyes as I read what the charcoal that's in my own hand is scribbling!  This year keeps getting better and better!  First, I hear the faint whispers of H'kar on the Slaver's Wind.  Then I find myself answering the call for caravanersai and wagoneer guard for - AYE - none other than the AimlessFolk!  Second only to the Kender on the VagaWanderLust Scale!  Then I get to skip my watch and sleep in with a mutt!  AND THEN - all of the caravanersai guards (of whom I'm one) find ourselves waking up in a strange land WITHOUT our actual caravan - AFTER we've been paid half our first's week's wage!  DIVINE DUNG!!!   You cannot - I mean I LITERALLY CANNOT make this shit up! As an aside...note - Khareesa NEVER lets slip her whereabouts on the Wind.  The Underdark Network of Slaver Eyes and Ears is tightly entwined with the House of Llolth, the Jaezred Chaulssin, and the Horizon Syndicate.  The fact that one of her handlers had heard whisper on the wind was highly disturbing.  It mean that the H'kari slaver intentionally wanted her to know; it meant that she was probably trying to flush Viky out of hiding.  It probably meant that there was some kind of political intrigue in Menzo and the fact that a runaway slave had caused so much chaos and STILL remained at large probably made someone look very weak.  It probably meant...VIKY!  ENOUGH!!!  You're going to drive yourself insane if you get caught up in that spiral-ward thinking.  You're a free woman!  There'll be time to contemplate Khareesa when you return to the Sword Coast.  Right now, there's a woman that needs help.  She's hurting.  She's sacrificed so much to get her people, the AimlessFolk, to safety and freedom. That Stanimir - I hope we see the old coot again - can he spin a yarn!  On our first night, by the campfire, and upon the backdrop of drinking and carousing and revelry and much merriment and merry-making - the old dog magicked for us the purpose behind our escort and the reason for our employ.  The AimlessFolk had taken in a fallen soldier and nursed him back to health - then they treated him as one of their own and hid him from his enemies and the assassins who pursued him - such was the strength and grace of the AimlessFolk hospitality.  The fallen soldier was purported to be a prince and the price for his whereabouts was a king's ransom!  And still the AimlessFolk stayed silent and protected his anonymity under their guise and umbrella.  When they finally arrived in the fallen soldier's homeland he extended that hospitality to the AimlessFolk and offered them succor and safehaven and safepassage.  And this man - this purported prince - is afflicted by some foul magic - a CURSE!  The AimlessFolk still have the power to leave his land but none of his other subjects do.  And the AimlessFolks queen, Madame Eva, knows how to end the curse - to save their beloved prince - but she needs the help of...um, caravanersai?  Yeah, wagoneer guards are going to break the curse and free the prince for the paltry sum and kingly ransom of...yup, TEN (10) GOLD PIECES PER WEEK!!!!  At that price I was afraid I'd have to fuck the curse out of the prince but Dio assured me that the only bitch on Malar's list was Stanimir's daughter.  Bless her naive little heart.  She was cute though. In drow society childhood is rife with crushed hopes and dreams and the reinforcement of skepticism and ambition and scheming and backstabbing and - well, suffice to say that if I hadn't heard it from Stan's own lips my first thought would have been incredulity.  But the need must be great and the situation dire for the AimlessFolk to have ventured so far and so desperately sought help.  It is my hope that I might be their instrument of cleansing...and vengeance...and that I might test myself and my resolve and my position in Malar's hierarchy.  My appetites go unsated of late.  Adrenalin, flesh, blood, test of wills, contest of might, and the High Hunt. So I got to sleep in.  And the Were-Tortoise got to watch the dog.  And we woke up in a foreign land wreathed in shadow and covered by fog and darkness.  The wolves are at the gate.  Malar provides.

So I've never had a wet dream before but I'm pretty sure that I'd have had an erection for an unconscious eight hours if I could.  I'm just now blinking away the sleep from my eyes and I felt compelled to jot this down so I don't lose the memories to forgetful wakefulness.  The last thing I remember was taking a bite of this warm, flaky, crusty, doughy, pie.  Like a little pasty-pastry the golden crust outside was fried to an empanada-like crispy perfection - crunchy, but tender and pliable as it melted into a dissolution of pleasure and mastication.  The first bite gushed with gooey cheesy savory meaty creamy goodness - oozing into my pie-hole and flooding my senses with exotic spice and nostril-flaring incense.  In a half-lidded stupor the warmth washed over me like a wave of ecstasy.  I could feel myself being called into my own mind - beckoned by the black hand - to a place I had always known and never seen.  The love went straight to my brain and knocked me unconscious without batting an eyelash.  Malar's Maw!  Darkness took me in an instant. Verdant leas and rolling fields - a place of vibrant fecundity - rife with the life that sustains...the life that feeds...the life that bleeds.  Tall green grasses on the savannah hid the predator from its prey.  Fur had sprouted from my skin as if I had reincarnated into a four-legged fiend - or I was a druidic wildshape convert - as if I'd hug a tree just for fur once or twice a day.  A heartbeat.  I could hear it from malms and ilms away.  The heartbeat was a siren's call to me.  I began to salivate.  Erotic sensations tingle my spine.  Stalker.  The huntress prowled in near-invisibility among the camouflage with each padded footstep - getting closer to that rhythmic pulsing.  Closer.  Stepping.  Closer.  Drawing.  Nearer.  The adrenaline welled-up to teeming inside of me and swelled within the breast of my beast when I could see the sustenance.  It cast nervous glances about.  Frantic.  Fearful.  It knew.  Instinctively, while it couldn't sense me, its connection to the world would be severed in a moment.  The tender flesh, covered by fur, beckoned me - torturing my basic instincts, tantalizing, tempting, as if begging to be rent from life and limb.  I sprung.  In a mad dash I darted from cover and with a BURST of speed, hurled myself toward the prey.  It exploded into action - its life dependent upon the next vital seconds - and sprinted.  My larger, more powerful, more muscular body had been designed - evolved - for this very act.  Paws, nails, dug into the soft earth for sure-footing and purchase.  My long, lithe, sleek body - aerodynamic and evolved to attain ludicrous prey-pouncing speeds - zoomed like a missile with the wind rushing through my ears.  CRASH!!!!!!  Sharp teeth pierced soft flesh and bone and sinew.  CRUNCH!!!!  Blood GUSHED into my mouth as a powerful jaw clenched and chomped through bones and rent ligaments.  GAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!!  A swift thrashing of my neck snapped spinal vertebrae and stillness ensued.  I licked and loved and fed.  Sustenance.  The lifeblood of food - an appetizer of fear-fueled adrenaline followed by the main course of CHASE and the dessert of flesh.  It had a natural order about it.  I purred with contented pleasure.  Life was good. And then I woke up in Barovia.  I was in a bed.  I was mostly clothed.  Was I so...yeah, I'm sober.  What the fuck? How long had it been?  Eight?  Nine?  Ten hours?  I rarely get untroubled sleep - unburdened by alcohol - and unencumbered by *ahem* another body in the bed.  I felt so warm and snuggly and cozy and I probably could have slept forever!  Wait.  That kind of undisturbed sleep is unnatural - it's not the kind of rest a predator gets after the hunt.  It was a hazy, druggy, fog-clouded headspace.  It was magical!  And her Elven heritage prevented her from falling asleep!  Viky had never been charmed before - but she had it on pretty good info that she was very resistant to being charmed - but she knew for a FAERUNFUCKIN'FACT that she couldn't be put to sleep against her will.  Oh!  That crone was gonna get it.  That bitch was next on the queue for knuckle-sammiches.  And she was gonna get a great big beary hug from the half-drow savage! But... The longing to return was undeniable.  Oh...ooooh.  Malar's maw.  A wistful expression came over her face and she turned to look at the bed where she had just lain for so long.  She checked her pack - at the bedside - and found four more pies - STILL WARM.  Wait!  Where was the half-eaten one?  She hadn't FINISHED that one!!!  Could she crawl back under the covers and squeeze out one last hunt?!?!  She felt an overwhelming sense of joy and satisfaction and pleasure!  Maybe instead of punching the crone bitch in the face she'd just intimidate her to give her more pies - or maybe she'd trade a child for another pie.  Wait.  WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!?!  Did she have some kind of subliminal memory about a child?  And a pie?  Actually, it sounded kinda tasty.  What a weird dream! My poor friends - the other caravan guards - thrown together on a random job gone terribly wrong - now stranded in another place - or maybe another time - with only each other as familiar and friendly faces!  My poor friends must have thought me DEAD!  How scary it would be to exhaust all medicines and magics to wake me up and be UNABLE to rouse me from slumber!  They must've been scared little conies! Four more pies.  Four more nights.  When will it end?

Well the latest development has certainly come as a surprise!  Malar's wagging tail!  My companions - the fellow caravan guardsman - found themselves in the employ of a Priest and then at the mercy of some thrice-damned lassie.  What's right in the world...when everything's wrong?  I barely had time to gather my wits about me before my companions returned from the church, regaled me with the tale of their having eradicated a nightmare, and bedding down for rest.  Mine was the first watch I couldn't for the life of me remember who was supposed to take the next watch so I just woke up the priest.  He doesn't seem to need much sleep. My meditations and ruminations were interrupted by ZOMBIES that go bump in the night!  Tate and Bingleberry grabbed their courageous clothes and accompanied me to face our foes head-on.  The foul beasts - unliving - seemed to be attracted to both light and sound.  I couldn't miss an opportunity to wrangle a deadman.  Ended up wrestling a bat too!  Tooth and nail!  And my eyes were widened and deceived me not when I saw a blazing ball of radiant glory flare into existence in the undead midst!  The priest had come to battle!  And then a lunar flare - moonbeam brilliance - we were supported on all sides by the divine!  Selune by way of the druid.  These foul creatures had no chance against our combined might.  Even the chicken-shit pigeon contributed! With the undead put to bed and the deadman laid to rest.  The priest could finally break away long enough to accompany the kids' father to his grave.  Pallbearers all - we finally tied up the loose ends - and will make our way to the next village in Barovia.  This pretty young thing is the vampire's snack and he's savoring it morsel by morsel.  That kind of animal is one I won't suffer.  For there is no pleasure in the kill.  There is no savoring.  Malar's Maw - there is SURVIVAL.  The one exists to feed the other.  The act of sustaining is not one of mercy or pleasure or entertainment - it is the most basic instinct and it is true.  One does not toy with one's food.  One eats to live - no more and no less.  I can almost forgive the monster's actions had he gone about them differently.  But for the suffering he causes and the horror he perpetrates on this woman - he shall know fear while I draw breath.  He shall know fear and he shall pass. Four more pies.