Oct 8 - Protagonist Backstory

Friend:

I was glad to receive your last letter, more importantly, I was happy to read that you finally finished your Pascal project. From my experiences with that programming language, debugging isn’t fun, especially when you misspell variables and miss colons and semi-colons. Good luck with your FORTRAN one.

To answer your question: Yes. Yes, the dreams have continued. And to further answer the questions I know you have on your mind, I am writing them in the journals my family have given me. The latest dreams are, however, not like the ones I’ve had in the past.

Okay, so I’m still dreaming of dragons, knights and princesses. Yes, the Dungeons and Dragons dreams come to me, almost every night after I campaign or write backgrounds. The ones I’m talking about are - how can I best describe them - odd, as if I’m observing actual events from the past.

For instance, last night I dreamed I was back in the pre-Revolutionary War days, before the French and Indian War, too. I walked in the Schenectady stockade, hearing more Dutch than English spoken. I entered a tavern near what someone called the Binnekill, but looked more like the Mohawk River to me. I heard more English spoken, but it ended when another man entered.

He was tall, muscular, and older than most of the patrons. He didn’t speak a word when he walked to a table and four men who had been drinking simply stood and walked to another table. Before he sat, a server brought over two tankards and set them down. He didn’t drink the first: He simply inhaled it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and looked around. He mumbled something, causing the others to pick up their conversations.

I walked to the bar, or what I thought was it, and asked for a tankard. The man behind it nodded and handed me one. When I reached for something to pay with, the man just raised his hand.

“You never have to pay in here, you should know that.”

From his comments, I had to assume I was someone he, and possibly others, knew. I thanked him for the drink and turned, looked for somewhere to sit. I found an empty table in a corner and plopped in a chair. I smelled the drink: It was ale. I took a sip: It wasn’t half-bad.

I looked around, tried to observe what was happening. The large man had finished his second tankard and was waiting for more. Several men, trappers from what they were wearing, we talking quietly among them. Three well-dressed men were holding a loud conversation, in Dutch. I was about to finish and leave when the tavern grew very silent.

I looked to the door and saw a bloodied man enter. Several men dressed in buckskins and furs raced to him and brought him to an empty table. They called for water and rags. Two women came from out of the back with what they needed.



From what the journal said, I woke up at this. I also had written that I was frightened, as if this was something that was going to personally affect me. Friend, I was scared.

When I returned to sleep, I dreamed of later in that day.

People were on the Binnekill shoreline, looking at something in the water. The weather was cold, but the water hadn’t frozen over yet. I pushed my way through the throng until I saw what they were looking at: the bloodied remains of a young Mohawk woman.

She looked as if she had been knifed, several times. I won’t go into the gory details, but let’s say it wasn’t pretty. I turned away and rushed back through the people.

I ran back to the inn and asked for something strong. I don’t know what the keeper gave me, but I drank it all down quickly. I looked at him, ready to ask for another, when he dissolved into the woman from the water.

She looked at me and said, “Sebastian, help me. Find my killer. I know you can do it. I can help.”



I awoke, sweating. My heart was pounding. Friend, I was scared. This woman’s ghost asked me for help. It was like she knew I could help her somehow, and I’m not I can.

It’s been like over 200 years since this had happened. How am I supposed to help her? Am I really going to help her? Christ, Friend, I don’t even know her name. Maybe if I knew her name, that would be a start.

What am I supposed to do? Call me when you get this. I need to hear your voice.



Always your friend,

Me.