The archivist A.M.

Omen began his journey at a crossroads, guided by one of the oldest fragments of memory he still possessed: a self-made map of Vallaki, marked with names, notes, and investigations he no longer remembered conducting.

Following the map, he came upon a tipped carriage. The oxen lay dead where it has fallen, mauled. The driver fared no better: vestments torn, neck nearly severed by a single, brutal bite.

He was in the middle of securing what supplies remained and hiding them off the road when he heard a child crying for help.

Against his better — perhaps wiser — judgment, he ran toward the sound. He found a small boy wedged into a crevice along the rock face, terror-stricken, severely wounded and trapped.

Wolves circled.

Omen was preparing to fight when another carriage arrived, clearly expensive, though not ostentatious. The rider had blue eyes and black hair tied neatly with a blue ribbon. He urged both Omen and the boy to climb aboard.

As the black horses lurched forward, the two men fended off the rabid canids long enough to escape. When the danger finally cleared, they stopped to rest. Omen poured every scrap of divine energy he had into healing the boy – Yeshka – then treated the stranger’s wounds with practiced, mundane care.

The man introduced himself as Vasili von Holtz, accountant of him.

After they recuperated, they returned to gather the remaining supplies left by the ambushed carriage and travelled together toward Vallaki, speaking easily along the way. Vasili offered Omen two gold coins for his trouble. Omen refused, instead asking for something more valuable: information. Accounts of people worth knowing.

Vasili asked how far back Omen wished the records to go. When pressed for a specific name, Omen produced a portrait instead.

There, at the bottom of the yellowed and almost-brittle page, a name is written haphazardly with something crimson.

Sergei von Zarovich.

Vasili went pale. The man in the drawing bore an uncanny resemblance to himself and carried the family name of the dreadful lord Vasili served. He sharply warned Omen to cease his questioning, especially anything tied to the Lord of the Land.

Omen complied. The journey continued in silence, at least for a while.

Somewhere along the way, Omen had begun casually flirting. Vasili noticed. Vasili asked if he was being flirted with. Omen chuckled and gave half an answer. Omen didn’t mean harm. He missed the banter. He missed good company.

Vasili also mentioned he had lost his wife and son seven years ago, the gold wedding band still resting on his finger.

Vasili did not seem to mind.

They rested once more, Yeshka sharing food with them along the road and promptly resting from his almost-fatal injuries. Upon reaching Vallaki, Vasili bribed a guard named Rusty to allow Omen at least a day’s stay. They returned Yeshka to the Church of St. Andral, and there, because the boy wanted to pray for him, Omen told him his true name.

Vilomen.

As an offer of additional payment, Father Lucien of the church asked Omen if he had a request. To this, Omen requested for onions and fresh bread, bringing them with him to the von Holtz household. (For onion soup. Admittedly, Vasili’s favourite.)

At dinner, paired with wine and warmth, Vasili asked Omen for quite the huge favour: to travel to the Village of Barovia and answer Father Donavich’s call concerning his son, attacked six days prior.

When Omen questioned why Vasili would trust a stranger, Vasili answered plainly: he was desperate. And besides, they were the same: outcasts, shunned, suspected by the people they tried to help.

It was then that Omen revealed his face.

Seeing the half-exposed skull, Vasili faltered but did not withdraw his request. He only cautioned Omen not to reveal more than he already concealed.

In return, Omen asked Vasili to write a detailed account of both the request and his memories, admitting to the fractures in his own mind. Because of this, Vasili hand-printed a daily planner for him — tasks laid out, space for notes, stretching all the way to the day Omen was meant to return.

At one point, while Vasili worked at his printing table, he slowly stopped.

"Vilomen, you should stop looking at me like that." "Like what?" "Like you’re in love with me." Omen’s eye widened. He looked away, stepping back from this man. This stranger. "I didn’t know I was looking at you like that. I’m— I’m sorry." "No, it's— " Vasili fiddled with the golden band around his ring finger. "It's alright."

Vasili looks like Sergei von Zarovich.

And even without knowing what they once were — if they were anything at all — Omen looks at him the same way.

With the ten gold he was given in his pouch, and everything he owned, Omen rode hard for Barovia.

When he woke the next morning, he remembered every face he has seen in Vallaki.

Every name.