Winter approaches.
The warmer months grow shorter year on year.
The priests say it’s a sign of the encroaching end of days but then again, anything’s a sign to them and I’ve lived through many false end times.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Hello reader, my name is Jerek Kruger or as I was called until rather recently, Jerek von Carstein. I am 374 years old and I am alive.

How can I be so old yet still draw breath you my ask? The simple answer is magic, first the nefarious toxins of the vampire’s curse and then the equally unexplainable cleansing of an Elf Queen. She brought me back from Undeath but left before ever telling me why. All I know of myself now is that I am alive.
However, today I wish to record something even more bizarre than my own existence. I wish to tell anyone who reads this diary of the night a stranger came to my door, my impossible house guest.

Our tale starts in Skogholm, a frontier town between Middenland and Nordland. I’d recently decided to move here for the first time, having spent the last year since my resurrection in Middenheim. Coming back to life was an unusual experience to say the least and though I did try to adapt, I knew I would never belong again. I spent centuries wandering through crypts and skulking in the nests of fell bats. In all that time I never thought I would see my old home nor would I feel the breeze on my growing beard or the sinking sensation of food in my gut. These experiences change a man. They change not only what he prioritises but what he can even consider possible in the first place. Middenheim is a city of travesties, home to endless warmongering and scare stories. It is no place to learn of living, not when you’re surrounded by men who only know of death.
So here I am in Skogholm, away from the warmongers, away from the accusatory looks of the priests who wish me dead for the crimes of my Undead self as if we were the same being. But there’s more than meets the eye to Skogholm, there’s Laurelorn.
Skogholm is the nearest human town to the elven forest of Laurelorn. No man may enter the forest of course, Emil Valgeir learned that the hard way. Yet through proximity and distanced view alone I hoped I may find answers. After all, saved by an elf, guided by elves. There is some logic there. So, this is where I live now. It turns out that living for centuries without want for food, shelter or possessions does wonders for your income so affording a large chateau came surprisingly easy. The banks who has to pay out were less pleased.

I spend my days here, watching that forest from afar. Sometimes, I swore I saw a glimmer of spellcraft or a dryad stalking the woods’ edge yet I never saw more than that, not until that fateful night.
The 6th night of Kaldezeit, when the air blew fair and not a cloud could be seen in that vast starry sky. I was sitting in my study perusing through the sacred books of Mullah Aklan’d, a legendary Arabayan who declared war on the notorious Sea Elves, while my valet Anselm was in the next room preparing dessert when suddenly the forest came to life and a bright light blasted through my windows.

I leapt out of my seat and made my way to the balcony, the stones around the forest were glowing, such strange vine markings on them while inside the forest a great blinding light shone through the treeline like a small sun. I looked on from my home’s balcony as the Elves’ magic shimmered and shone across the heavens of their forest homeland, sipping on a glass of fine red wine as I wondered about the splendour of their gifts.I wondered what they could be doing in that forest. Celebrating a birth perhaps? Setting up some kind of magical shielding? Making a sacrifice to their God of the Hunt? Or perhaps something more nefarious, preparing themselves for a reprisal against Middenheim.
In truth I’ve always held something of a morbid curiosity about them. Back in my day there were no Colleges of Magic, no Patriarchs, no wizards. The elves alone guarded such gifts and how could one not be left awestruck?
And then, that brings me to the present. As if I weren’t already curious about the elves, now I owe my life to them. An elf queen saved me, dragged me out of my ghoulish nightmare and gave me breath again…. but why? What purpose would resurrecting me serve? Am I burdened with some grand destiny? If so, why not just tell me? Alternatively, could my life mean nothing to her? It’s certainly possible, but then surely it would have taken less effort to simply destroy me? She brought me back, there has to be a reason why.
I stayed on my balcony, making my way through my second bottle until i was rudely interrupted by a sudden onset of rain. I packed up my things and proceeded to head back inside when I caught something moving just off in the corner of my eye. I turned my gaze and saw a large figure, covered by a long, hooded wolf’s pelt clambering over the wall next to the gates to my carriageway.
I called out to the figure, telling them they were trespassing on my property but they took no notice, leading me to presume they were out of earshot or that the pelt was covering their ears.I ran indoors and downstairs, instructing Anselm to grab my pistol on the way as I ran outside.
“I say, who goes there? What brings you here?” I asked but the figure approached me in silent. ‘Where is Anselm?’ I thought. I’ve died once before the last thing I needed was to enter a potential fight unarmed.
Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. The figure raises their arms before lifting off their hood, revealing a large, stocky man with a long ginger beard underneath. “Who are you?” I asked.
“My name is Jarrick Valgeir, I demand to see the Ar-Ulric. I demand to see my brother.”

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Jarrick Valgeir. I knew the name of course. He was the Ar-Ulric himself once, a combination of soldier and holy man dedicated to purging our shores of the raiders who came from the North. He’d lead many great campaigns in the time I’d been Undead. Then again, I knew it was impossible for this man to be him. Jarrick Valgeir died decades ago.

I had a duty as a gentleman to let him in. He certainly looked like an Ar-Ulric, he spoke with a thick native accent and even wore several of the cult’s crests beneath his pelts. Besides, to leave a man out in the rain would be considered discourteous.
I invited him in for food and refreshment before having Anselm prepare a room for the night. The next morning I sent a letter to Middenheim, to the Cult of Ulric themselves. Surely they would send someone who knew this man.
Soon afterwards I received a reply, a letter telling me the cult would dispatch Claus Leibnitz, their Deputy High-Priest, to identify him.I had hoped for more pleasant company. Leibnitz was among the leading voices calling for my execution when I returned from my vampire’s curse… as if I and the monster I’d been turned into were one and the same. Still, Leibnitz had been an initiate when Jarrick was still in charge so at least he would recognise him.
As I waited for the Deputy High-Priest to make the journey from the city to the countryside, it gave me some days to get to know the stranger living in my homestead. Everything he told me seemed to be true based on the books I could find in my home’s library. Interestingly however, I discovered I made a mistake as I looked into my books. Jarrick hadn’t died, he’d simply gone missing which is what had led to his brother Emil taking over as Ar-Ulric.When I confronted the man with this fact, he recognised it. He told me he’d been blackmailed by a rival organisation, the Cult of the Purple Hand, who’d become aware of a relationship he’d started with a woman by the name of Dorothea Schulte and were using this to gain special privileges over his position in the church. He explained he’d fled into the Northern Wastes, there to seek pilgrimage and attest to his sins.
Of course he never came back hence why everyone assumed he was dead. However, even then this couldn’t be Jarrick. The man I sat across from was too young, almost thirty years younger than he would have to be. So I continued to make small talk, looking for signs of deceit in his language but none ever came.
After 3 days of waiting, Leibnitz arrived and was immediately taken aback when he saw the man claiming to be Jarrick. Apparently he looked exactly the same to when he’d left for his pilgrimage, right down to the same pelt he’d worn when he set off. Unsurprisingly, Leibnitz accused me of daemonry or necromancy, ever the uncompromising blowhard.I knew I had nothing to do with this man’s appearance. There were no daemons or necromancers on or beneath this land, I’d specifically had my house consecrated when I moved in.
Still, I now knew this was real. Somehow, Jarrick Valgeir was alive and almost 30 years younger than he should be. The Deputy High-Priest invited himself to stay a few nights, declaring he would re-purify the household himself in the coming days. At the risk of another threat on my life, I went along with his instructions while I tried to piece together what aspects of Jarrick’s life may still exist. I soon learnt that the woman he’d fallen for, this Dorothea Schulte, was still alive and being cared for by a convent in Kupfengrube.
Over the next few days I travelled with Jarrick to the town, leaving Leibnitz at my home to prepare his ritual, a decision I would come to regret.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
“Dorothea, there’s somebody here to see you. He’s a historian for the Knights of the White Wolf, he’s here to track your family history.” A sister told a now doddery, old woman hunched over in a chair at the corner of her room as I motioned for Jarrick to speak to her.
“Is Anton coming today?” the elderly woman asked.
“No dear…. Anton was her husband, he passed away a few years back, fishing accident.” The sister interrupted as she allowed Jarrick to approach.

I could see on his face he wanted to cry, what must it be like to know you missed that much time? To know the woman you loved has grown old without you? Still, he did his best, exchanging pleasantries with her as he tried to get her memory going while I spoke to the sister.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“The scars of age – Her mind isn’t what it used to be, she doesn’t remember who she is most of the time. She couldn’t live by herself anymore, she’d leave fires burning through the night, she’d go out having forgotten to dress. She never had any children so it became the Church’s duty to look after her.”
“What did she do? Professionally I mean.”
“She was a baker I think.”
“Huh, she always did have a sweet tooth.” Jarrick remarked once the sister had left earshot, “she used to go around Ol’ Maude’s by the theatre in Middenheim for discounted marzipan, there was a small alleyway nearby where we could meet unseen by others.”
“When can I go home? I don’t like it here, they won’t let me see Anton” Dorothea asked around.
I kept my distance and watched for a few minutes as Jarrick tried to get through to his old beloved, her face remained sullen and confused through most of that time, saddening him to no end until it randomly brightened when he made a comment about Blood Bowl.
“Maulers – 1, Bogenhafen – Nil” she smiled
“You remember that game? Remember Karla von Kill, remember how she leapt over that baron’s floppy helmet for that last minute touchdown? I said she jumped so high she could have wings on her feet and you joked they should call her a winger. You used to say silly things like that.” Jarrick enthused.“Dorothea, it’s me Jarrick. I’m back. I took you on all those secret excursions together, remember we kissed under the deputy’s desk once, I bought you that necklace you asked for on three successive festags Dorothea, you kept it beneath your pillow so you could always think of me before falling asleep. Dorothea, please remember!” Jarrick began tearing up as her face returned to a confused stare.
“Is everything alright?” the convent sister asked as she returned to the room.
“She remembered watching a game of Blood Bowl when she was younger.”
“She sometimes remembers aspects of her youth, never for very long mind you.” the sister noted.
“When’s Anton coming?” the senile woman asked again.
“Dorothea, please remember me!”
Jarrick placed his hand on hers, his eyes beset by tears as her gaze slowly turned toward him. She looked deep into his eyes…“Who are you?”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The journey back to Skogholm shared none of the enthusiasm that had been present on our way out. Jarrick knew she would be older of course, but there was a difference between knowing it and experiencing it. The woman he loved, couldn’t even remember him.
That night I sat down for dinner with Jarrick and Claus. The former didn’t speak much and soon excused himself off to the loo, leaving me to talk with Leibnitz.
“How’re ritual preparations going?”
“Well. I just need a couple of sheep and we should be ready to consecrate this building anew in the morning.”
“Very well.” I sighed.
“You don’t seem very optimistic.”
“You know I don’t expect it to do anything.”
“Nonsense, this is common daemonry. My ritual will put him back to rest you’ll see.”
“And what if it doesn’t? What if there are no daemons at play? What if he really is just a man? He’s witnessing the end of his world, of everything he remembers and there’s nothing I can do to help. What if there is no mystery to solve Claus, no daemons to fight, no vampires to kill? Just a lost man who has become our responsibility?”
“Then we take appropriate steps to reintroduce him to the faith, present him as one of Ulric’s miracles.”
“So, he spends the rest of his life as a freak show? A would-be mascot?”
“Better than burning as a heretic.” Claus acknowledged. “Speaking of which, don’t you think he’s been gone a while?”
I stood up from the dining table and made my way over to the bathing room. However, as I opened its door my eyes widened in shock.
Jarrick, strung up against an oak ceiling beam, hanging by the neck with his belt.
I instinctively ran over, and unfastened the belt’s buckle, sending him toppling down onto the floor.
“NO! NO! Let me go!” he shouted as he resisted my efforts to wrap my arms around him.
“You can’t throw this chance away, not without trying!” I demanded.
“I’m not like you, you don’t understand!” he replied, heartbroken.
“I do. I was born centuries ago, I’ve lived in your past, my time is lost even more than yours.”
“Why are you doing this? Speaking to me like I’m some simpleton? Forcing me to stay here when my brother’s dead, my lover’s lost her mind?”
“Jarrick, you’re still young. You have so many options available to you, don’t throw them away. You can find new meaning, make friends, start that family you always wanted.”
“What’s the the point? It wouldn’t be the same without them…”

________________________________________________________________________________________
“I wish I could help you.” I admitted a few minutes later once I’d Jarrick had calmed down.
“There’s nothing that can be said or done.”
“I’m not leaving you here Jarrick, I still believe in you.”
“Then we’ll stay here and wait. The others will tire of waiting and go to bed, we’ll finish our food, get some rest, the sun will rise, we’ll have some breakfast, perhaps take a walk.”
“Yes, you see? There’s always a new day?”
“And I’ll smile and play along, waiting for the right moment when you turn your back and I could do it again, properly this time. I don’t want this life. I don’t want to be here without them.”
“If you die, you won’t be reunited, Jarrick. You’ll just fade to black.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve died before, killed by a vampire, found myself falling through an endless cavern of black sand, choking on its grains again and again until I was made a monster myself. It’s only because of an Elf Queen that I am alive now.”
“Who are you?”
“A man like you. A man who has lost everyone he ever loved. A man not of this age. Alone and terrified.”
“How can you cope with that?” Jarrick asked.
“I don’t have a choice. I have to believe the elf brought me back for a reason.”
“Huh, like mine did? If you want to go round chasing meaning that’s up to you… but I’ve never cared for the games of elves. Let me go with some dignity, don’t condemn me to this life.”
“Are you scared too, Jarrick?”
“I’m terrified.”

We waited together in that room until both Claus and Anselm had retired to their bed chambers whereupon I made my way to where I hid my pistol, the same pistol I drew the first night I met Jarrick. We went outside, stood on the carriageway overlooking the elves’ forest in the distance and I handed him my gun.
He raised the barrel to his temple, his fingers trembling as the gun moved across his forehead. I stepped forward and reached out with my own hand, grabbing his other arm. “Now, you don’t have to do this alone. Good luck, Jarrick. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“You too sir, goodbye.”
Claus and Anselm came running downstairs having been woken by a piercing sound. They ran outside and saw me standing there, covered in my friend’s blood while he lay on the ground with his head split wide open.
“What happened here?” Leibnitz asked.
“I… I don’t think we’ll be needing that consecration after all…”
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I sometimes regret my decision that night. Should I have stuck to my principles? Should I have forced Jarrick to see the world the way I do? Should I really have let him die? Still, my experiences with Jarrick Valgeir taught me a valuable lesson. I can’t spend my life chasing riddles. I can’t rely on the benevolence of Elves to give me purpose because though we may hope they have our best intentions at heart, the likely truth is that we barely fit into their plans at all.I don’t know why the High Elf Queen brought me back from death, I may never know. But that’s not the point anymore, why she saved me doesn’t matter just as it doesn’t matter why the Laurelorn elves brought Jarrick back. What matters is what I do now I’m here. I’ve hid too long in the countryside, waiting for miracles. It’s time I gave myself meaning again rather than looking for it in the actions of higher beings. I will return to Middenheim and reclaim my life, not for the Elves but so I can make a difference to my people. I’m not sure I’m much of a warrior anymore, certainly not a knight, but age brings experience and maybe what Middenland needs right now is a healer. I gave up on Jarrick Valgeir, I failed him. Let it be my penance to save other souls instead. Only then will my life mean anything. For now I know one thing though, never put your trust in the Elves.