Ravenloft - Van Richten's Guide To Werebeasts.pdf

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Contents Cover Werebeasts
In the heart of every man hides the soul of the beast.
In this way, we are not so different from the Shapeshifter.
-
Speculations,
Marth Venn
Introduction
Tales of the lycanthrope - of the shapeshifter, the beast in man's form - are common to every society, human and demihuman
alike. There is a certain universality to the concept, which is understandable. The symbolism is so potent, so immediate: A
man becomes the beast, and the beast masquerades as a man. Does this not perfectly encapsulate the duality of human
nature? In many accounts, the metamorphosis is beyond the shapeshifter's control, signifying the bestial rage that can well
up within the mildest of souls. And the fear engendered by the presence of the shapeshifter - the suspicion that any stranger
or even a friend may turn out to be the beast - is a reflection of the grim truth that no man may truly know what is in his
fellow man's heart.
Yes, the shapeshifter is a powerful symbol. And when I was young, I felt certain that this creature was purely symbolic. One
did not have to believe in the existence of the shapeshifter to understand the innate truth of such wild tales, for that central
truth had nothing to do with monsters or bestial nightmares, but with the psychology of humanity (or so I believed).
How naive was I then. While tales of the shapeshifter may be symbolic, they also reflect a substantive reality. I know now
that shapeshifters do exist. Once, I discounted the werebeast as a superstitious folly, as something no more significant than
an old wives' tale. But I had overlooked the obvious: those so-called "old wives" frequently remember the ancient truths...
A Welcome
Greetings, fellow scholar. I am Dr. Rudolph Van Richten - erstwhile healer, herbalist, chronicler, husband, father. It seems
to me now that I have lived many lives, pursued many careers. How could all of my experiences, all I have learned, be
encompassed by a single life span?
Yet that is definitely the case. I was born nearly threescore years ago in the land of Darkon. Although the tales and rumors
may say otherwise, Darkon is not a place of unrelieved terror, death, and destruction. Certainly, those who live within its
boundaries must make certain . . .
adjustments.
. . to their manner of life. There are particular regions where one travels only
at the greatest of need, where one invites only trusted friends across the threshold, and where the windows are always
shuttered and barred after sunset.
Yet during the daylight hours, Darkon - or that region where I spent my childhood, at least - is a beautiful land. For me, few
places can rival the allure of its rolling hills, deep primeval forests, grassy glades, and meadows ablaze with a profusion of
wildflowers. Before the chill of night sets in, the breezes are gentle, carrying with them the whispers of the trees, and the
perfumes of myriad flora.
I find that now I can look back on those days of youth with pleasure, and can relish their richness. Such was not always the
case. Once, the slightest reminder of the past would rack me with pain and grief. For I had been sundered from those
innocent, joyful times by a chasm that no living man could ever cross.
In what now seems a previous lifetime, I had a family I loved, a profession I cherished. I was a simple healer leading a
simple existence. Then a wretched, blood-sucking horror took my wife and child. My simple existence died with them, and I
came to follow a path very different from the one I had chosen for myself.
Today I am driven not by my own needs and whims, but by a central cause: to rid the world of the Accursed, those unnatural
and supernatural predators who threaten the lives and happiness of all. I speak, of course, of those beings which some have
imprecisely classed as "monsters:" the various forms of undead, the shapeshifters, and other fiendish beasts who feast on
sorrow and pain.
Some who know of my cause believe me to be driven by vengeance. Not so. This once was true, of course. After the loss of
my beloved wife and son, desire for vengeance burned brightly within me. It shames me to admit it, but I took great pleasure
in sending the fell beast who had destroyed my family down into the blackness of true death. The realization that I had
enjoyed my act forced me to re-examine my motives, however, and to scrutinize the very shadows in my soul.
It was that intense personal scrutiny which redirected my efforts. From that moment forward, I no longer sought the
destruction of such foul creatures for personal benefit or desire for vengeance. Today my central motivation is to spare
others the torture and heartache that I myself have suffered. If I go to my grave knowing that I have saved only one person
from the torment that I was forced to endure, I will count myself a lucky man and judge my life to have been of worth.
The House on the Hill
As I have stated, once I did not believe the legends of the shapeshifters, the werebeasts. It was in my thirty-ninth year that I
discovered my mistake. By that time, I had traveled the length and breadth of Darkon in my quest to eliminate the unnatural
predators which threatened the populace namely, the undead. I was near Varithne, a village too tiny to appear on most maps.
It lies in the north of Darkon, where the terrain is rugged and the populace sparse. As was (and still is) my habit, I stopped at
the local tavern at day's end, seeking a glass of brandy and a bit of conversation.
That night, Varithne's tavern was crowded. Nearly all who filled the room were talking of strange disappearances. Simply by
listening, I discovered their plight.
Over the past fortnight, seven men had gone missing. The first two were shepherds. As it was the season for doing so, they
had led their flocks into the hills to graze. Neither shepherds nor sheep ever returned. Scant days later, a pair of professional
hunters joined the ranks of the missing. The people of Varithne had hired these two men to provide meat for the village.
Their hunting expedition was to last only a day or two, but like the shepherds they failed to return.
The latest to disappear were three travelers who claimed they hailed from a land called Sembia. These adventurous men took
it upon themselves to locate the shepherds and hunters. Again, none returned.
At first I paid little heed to the rumblings in the tavern that night. Certainly I understood the villagers' concern, but there are
many
natural
predators in the hills of Darken, and I assumed that the seven unfortunates had fallen victim to such creatures.
Wolves, bears, or the like could easily have killed the seven men. I was not then, and am not now, a hunter of normal, living
creatures.
I had emptied my brandy and was about to leave the tavern when I overheard something that changed my mind. Two
villagers began to exchange tales of a strange howling they had heard. The sound had been carried on the night winds that
blew down from the hills. I asked them to elaborate. This was not the howling of a wolf, the pair assured me, but something
quite different. My curiosity was piqued. Not long before, I had discovered and destroyed several unusual ghostly creatures,
apparently examples of a hitherto unrecorded subtype of wailing spirit. Those hauntings had been characterized by a
nocturnal howling very much like that described by the villagers. Assuming that the orchestrator of Varithne's torment might
be one of these spirits, I decided that I would put to rest this accursed creature as well.
The next day I set forth into the hills, equipped with several vials of sanctified water, which had proved quite effective
against the other wailing spirits. I was confident that I could recognize the sanctuary of my ectoplasmic quarry and then
dispatch the creature with little ado. For one of the first times in my life, overconfidence possessed me, and truly led me
astray. Not simply in a symbolic sense, mind you. I admit it openly: I became lost. Although a bright morning sun had
greeted me when I left the inn, by midmorning that sun was hidden behind slate-gray clouds and a thick mist clung to the
hills. Visibility decreased to little more than a stone's throw. I fear I wandered in circles for hours, until the day - already
twilight-dark under the clouds - began to darken still further.
As the damp chill of the mist leeched the warmth from my body, fear washed over me. It was not the darkness I feared,
however. It was disorientation. In fact, there was still light enough for me to see, even though the sun had already sunk
below the horizon. As in other regions of Darkon, the rise and fall of the hills was traced by a faintly shimmering, blue-
green luminescence. Many call it "gravelight." This light might still have allowed me to return to the village safely - if only I
had known in which direction the village lay.
It was then I heard the howling: a high-pitched, prolonged ululation. It hung upon the cold wind, fading and then renewing
itself again and yet again. My ear perceived the sound, and my soul understood its meaning. It spoke of hunger, solitude, and
ferocity. And, cliche though it seems, it spoke of inhuman glee. No mere wolf had ever uttered such a sound - that I knew at
once. Nor did the hideous cry precisely match my memories of the wailing spirits. But, in the emotion of the moment, I
discounted the difference.
I was lost, but I knew the direction from which the heart-numbing howl had come. If I could not find the village this night,
at least I could complete the task to which I had set myself and hunt down the wretched spirit. I strode determinedly through
the mist.
The wailing spirits I had previously destroyed always lurked within some human-constructed building: a deserted house, a
desolate warehouse, or (by preference) an abandoned church. Thus, when I saw a small stone house set atop a nearby hill, I
thought my trek was at an end. Surely this was the sanctuary of the unquiet spirit I believed I was hunting. Preparing my
holy water and other accoutrements, I advanced stealthily toward the building.
Great was my surprise and embarrassment when the front door swung open, silhouetting a burly figure against the light. No
spirit this, but a red-faced, jolly-looking man around his fiftieth year. He was tall and broad, as muscular as a blacksmith, yet
with the weather-tanned face of a farmer. When he set his eyes on me, upon a comparatively little man skulking toward his
home like a thief, he threw back his head and laughed. Of course, this only added to my humiliation.
"Come in, come in," he called boisterously. "No need to steal an invitation to shelter when it's freely given. Get yeself in out
of the night."
I felt my face burning as I returned my vials of sanctified water to my pack and slid my silver-bladed knife back into its
sheath. "My apologies," I began abashedly, but he cut me off with another booming laugh.
"Ne'er mind that now, friend," he said. and sup with me. Unless ye'd prefer to sleep in the gravelight, o'course."
I did not have to be invited twice. Though I was confused - for surely the wailing spirit must be somewhere nearby - I
welcomed the invitation. This man was undeniably among the living, and no joy of life such as he displayed could coexist
with a wailing spirit. Perhaps this burly fellow could direct me to the ectoplasmic horror's true sanctuary ... on the morrow,
of course.
He gestured for me to enter and I stepped into the cozy little two-room structure. My host's face was wrinkled in a jolly
smile, yet it was curious: I sensed some kind of undertone, some submerged emotion, beneath his jocularity. Was it tension?
A well-concealed effort or strain? I quickly forgot this little mystery, however, as he maintained a continuous flow of words.

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