12 Mirtul, 1369 DR

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Immy, as that little girl in our favorite bedtime story used to say. Do you remember how Daddy Winthrop used to do all the different voices, from the Mad Hatter to the Red Queen? I wish that I could put down on paper the tones of the two men I met this morning. First, there was a strange man that accosted me as I was waiting for Minsc & Anomen in the bar of the Coronet--- Lord Jierdan Somebody. He rubbed me the wrong way, somehow; his voice was just a little too rich, a little too honeyed as he tried to convince me to take on some monster-clearing job out in the Windspear Hills. I flatly refused--- he looked rich enough to hire enough household troops to take care of the problem--- but he insisted on drawing me a map anyway. The only good thing about it was that it reminded me of the promise I made the dryads. I’ve got to go and deliver those acorns; their trees must already be suffering underground.

Next was Inspector Aegisfield. I felt a bit sorry for the poor man; he’s obviously severely understaffed, with nowhere near sufficient personnel to be able to cope with the wave of serious crimes that have hit his district. His voice was harried, and at first impatient at having to take the time to listen to us, though as Anomen and I between us explained our interest in the case, he warmed considerably. In the end, he declared that he’d be glad to know of any leads we might discover, although he doesn’t believe that Moira’s death was part of the srting he himself is investigating.

It seems that someone has been committing a series of murders with the sole intent of skinning the victims. The flaying’s the only common thread between the victims, who seem to be selected almost at random. So far, all the crimes have taken place within the Bridge District. When the Delryn murder was reported to the Guards, Aegisfield had hoped that the Flayer had expanded his range into the neighboring district, and become a casualty himself. Regrettably for his own investigations, the Inspector recognized the “extra” body as that of a young ne’er-do-well who hung around the fringes of the Athkatlan underworld, especially at Delosar’s Inn, the rougher alehouse within his district. His hope of a promising new lead was frustrated; it was easy to believe that this Dorwen had simply been a very unlucky burglar, probably one with companions who tried to disguise their presence at the scene. We were all three disheartened by this.

We know so little more than we started out with at the beginning of the interview--- except, as Aegisfield himself said, that “there’s a disgustingly sick person out there.” That’s scarcely any news, anyway. What else do you call Irenicus, or that horrifying dwarf Neb we met in Baldur’s Gate? Yuck, just thinking about them makes me feel ill.

It’s frustrating to feel that the answer to the mystery of Moira’s demise must lie close to hand, yet we cannot discover where it is buried. I do not yet despair, however. I won’t, for Anomen’s sake and my own. I’d feel as if I were abandoning you, too, sis. I know just how rotten Anomen feels--- oh, how I wish I couldn’t plumb the very depths of his suffering! This cursed empathy is driving me to distraction. Why is it that of all people in this world, my ability seems to resonate with an extremely troubled man? And his soused father, too? It didn’t happen with Nalia, who’s certainly had just about as bad a tenday; why this Watcher? It’s so depressing, and I don’t need any help in that department! Yet, somehow, I think I did manage to help him some. I know I kept him from making a terrible choice in the heat of the moment, but no friend could have done any less. But I’m rambling again.

What of you, dearest sister? We’ve always been best friends, confidantes. Do you have anyone to open your heart to now? Surely the Cowled Ones do not treat you so ill as that cursed Irenicus. Can anyone not wholly depraved long resist your joy, your zest for life? To know you is to love you; I have seen you win friends everywhere. That is your gift, though it has never been mine. The wallflower is my natural state of existence, and truth to tell, I like it that way. I’d much rather watch you flirting with every handsome man you meet than find myself on the receiving end of such attentions. But where am I wandering off to now? My discipline is faltering abysmally; I cannot keep to the same subject for three sentences together. We must be reunited soon, or I may lose my mind altogether!

The gods say that you yet live, but I know nothing of your state of mind. I pray above all else that you not be stripped of hope, that you still believe that I am searching for you. Even if you lose faith in me, surely you could never come to believe that Daddy Winthrop and Mama Delaine would ever forget you?

I must end here; the others have finished their lunch and are calling me to go with them to the Temple District.