Dark Tidings #2 (Ebberonloft)

Father,

The weather here has been horrid of late ... some sort of fire raging in one of the lower levels has mingled with the stormclouds, leaving Sharn buried in a blanket of sooty black snow. Spending too much time out of doors can and will lead to a rapid decline in health, as the air is not currently safe to breath.

Have tidings of my recent adventures reached your ears, even in far-off Aundair? Of late, I find myself to be something of a local celebrity here. The Sharn Inquisitive has been covering the exploits of a serial killer here in the City of Towers. The man had dubbed himself The Raven, and true to form, his imbecilic ego trip had him writing and leaving strange poems for others to find. It was all utterly ridiculous tripe, the sort of thing I would expect from someone who insisted on billing himself The Raven. After a number of somewhat disappointing false starts, we learned of a connection between this killer and our dear friend Victor Saint-Demain. The killer, it seemed, was actually targeting us in some sort of sick revenge scheme. We'd wronged and humiliated his lover, Victor, and he was taking it upon himself to make us pay.

Naturally, we paid Victor a visit, where I was most amused to see the wreckage of the man we had outwitted a few short months ago. His fall from the bell tower, as it was self-inflicted, was perhaps the crowning achievement in a long list of failures. The man considered himself such a genius that he was simply unable to resist leaving us little hints and clues. His insufferable pride marks him as not only a fool, but a madman as well. His recent death and resurrection at the hands of House Jorasco has done little to humble him. His body bears the scars of his brush with true power, and yet he still thinks to outsmart me and my associates. Victor's pretense at humility may fool his lumbering idiot of a doctor, but I saw a very different man hiding behind that mask of contriteness. Personally, I enjoyed the sight of him, bound to a wheelchair, mangled, scarred, and yet still somehow convinced of his own superiority.

In any case, we gained valuable insight from Victor, but the visit itself was a bit unsettling. I felt as though we had somehow lost a great game, one that only Victor himself knew the rules to. I would greatly like to speak with him once more, just to see his face when I describe the death of his precious tool. Doubtless he will keep himself well-contained, but if I can see even a single crack in his facade, I will indeed be satisfied.

With the final pieces to the puzzle falling rapidly into place, we were able to track the murderer to his lair. Just in time, too, for he had taken it into his head to kidnap the single person he felt each of us valued most. We were forced to rescue each of the people from a whole assortment of deathtraps. Admittedly, the devices themselves were somewhat clever, but ultimately useless. If you truly want to harm someone by targeting their loved ones, you never give them the chance to save the victims. Destroy that which they hold dearest, but quickly and without hesitation. Anything less invites disaster.

The cast of 'victims' that the Raven assembled in this overly theatrical game ranged from a pompous and buffoonish professor to a rather plain-looking harlot. The former Cannith artificer was forced to save his wife, a woman who seems to still love him despite the fact that she has believed him dead for nearly two years. He even chose the path of a coward, preferring to simper about the things he has lost rather than set out to take them back. He is alone by choice, so let him wallow in it as he seems to wish.

The battle with the killer ended quickly, and we were soon set upon by a mix of reporters from the Inquisitive and an absurdly small contingent of city watchmen. The so-called city druid I sometimes work with decided that this was the perfect time to mouth off to the guards. Meanwhile, the artificer slinked away like the pathetic excuse for a man that he is. I despise them for their weaknesses, their folly, and their almost insurmountable need to do the wrong thing at the wrong time. And yet, I find myself able to work effectively with them.

I ordered a marvelous piano, as I have long wished for the chance to play once more. Music is the one thing I always enjoyed when I was living under your roof, father. You always pushed me to try to excel in that area, perhaps hoping that your failure son would somehow make up for his lack of arcane skill with musical talent? I am happy to disappoint you, as I have no intention of sharing my gift with the world. It is for me, and me alone, to appreciate.

-=- Urik Tharsival -=-