No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. But I know none and therefore am no beast. - William Shakespeare, Richard III Introduction As I once again set pen to paper, I am reminded of my previous works. Each of my guidebooks has been a tribute to the brave souls who have fallen to the evils inhabiting this Realm of Mists. So many courageous folk have given their lives in an attempt to cleanse their homeland! So many innocents as well, including my own beloved wife and son, have been forever lost to the dark instruments of evil. Thinking back upon the life's work thrust upon me by my own bitter losses, I am ever reminded of my responsibility to the dead, to the living, and to those yet to be born. Until it is my time to join my dear wife and son, I will continue fighting evil in all its myriad forms. Thus I freely renew my task in the hope that others will be spared the stark pain and loss I have witnessed and shared. Compilers' Note: And such are the dual reasons for which my sister and I have gathered together the good doctor's manuscripts: in the hope of sparing others' pain and aiding those who, like ourselves in this small may, have taken up the doctor's cause of fighting evil since his own disappearance. - GWF As I have previously written, knowledge is power. The work you now have before you, gentle reader, is a treatise touching on both madness and obsession. To those who would use this knowledge to feed the flames of their own obsessions, I offer a word of advice: Cast this work into your hearth fires instead. I have come to believe that there is knowledge meant only for the gods themselves. The creation of life, the most sacred of all gifts, is surety knowledge of this type. Yet some have managed to "peer beneath the wrapping," as it were. Having glimpsed such wonders, they could not resist the temptation to seize the gift for themselves, whatever the cost. They cobble together bodies that should have long been laid to rest, or even substances that never knew life, and create a living being in the most unnatural manner possible. The horrid results reflect the perversity of their methods. I am speaking, of course, of golems. These unholy creatures are a mockery of the human (or demihuman) spirit and form. Not one - not even the rare golem fashioned in the shape of a child - can ever know goodness, purity, or light. They are the Created as we are the Born. But where the birth of a true child is surely the greatest blessing a parent could ever know, the creation of a golem is just as surely the most hideous curse, as the new "parent" will shortly discover. Some of these so-called parents are wizards and priests, bending powerful magic to their task. I have heard tales of distant realms where only powerful magic can give life to the lifeless golem. I must stress to you, dear reader, that this is not the case in the lands with which I am familiar. Many creators-perhaps the most dangerous of all-are common folk driven by needs so twisted that all else dwindles to insignificance. The very land about us appears to give their obsession a form, to imbue their constructs with life while imparting no trace of humanity. The same wanderers who claim that a golem is a purely magical construct would also suggest that it has no more intelligence than a rabid dog. Such ignorance may cost them their lives. While a few golems might be dubbed "mindless killing machines," such creatures clearly are in the minority. In fact, the mind of a golem is most often keen. Unfortunately, it is always twisted. Like natural parents, many creators of golems fashion their "children" in a familiar medium: flesh. As my knowledge of the Created comes mainly from experience with flesh golems, this treatise will focus primarily on creatures of this type. However, if the accounts I have gathered can be trusted, it is possible in this world to construct a golem from virtually any material, from silver to straw. I will attempt to give what information I can on the destruction of other, less common forms of the Created as well. But I must first confess that what knowledge I possess in such areas is limited indeed. I have often stressed the importance of understanding the mind of one's enemy. With the golem, the hunter must seek to understand not only the creature but also its creator. What would drive someone to meddle with life and death in such a foul manner? Obsession, yes. Madness, surely. But what else? Few of us are fortunate enough to ride life's course without claiming some sort of obsession or madness of our own. I myself might be considered obsessed by some. Over the many years of my fight I can think of any number of good people who have named me mad. Perhaps in some small way they are right. I acknowledge my life's work is an obsession to me. It has been one since the moment I held my wife, Ingrid, in my arms for the final time. Cradling her cold, still form against my chest; burying my face against her soft, perfumed hair; hearing the echo of her sparkling laughter in my mind; I swore vengeance on Baron Metus and all of his murderous ilk: the vampires. Over the years, I learned of still other evils: liches, ghosts, werebeasts, and more. My work and the obsession governing it broadened. I gained an understanding of golems only recently. In studying these creatures, I discovered something about the nature of evil, and about myself. Here, now, I freely confess to sitting by my hearth, in my home empty of wife and child these many years, and toying with the idea of creating a new family in their image. This idea crossed my mind for but a moment before I realized the true horror of what I contemplated. Yet, for that briefest of times, I understood the need - the utter loneliness and the aching void within - that could drive one to commit acts which were previously unthinkable. Looking upon the darkness in my own soul, I realized we all must be ever vigilant. Dark forces lie in wait for the unwary. They listen for our cries and call out to us in turn, offering to fulfill our deepest desires. They seek out the seeds of torment within us and strive to nurture them, bending them toward darkness rather than light. Every one of us, especially those who have dedicated themselves to fighting evil, must be on guard. The darkness calls to us from without, but it has no true power over us unless we allow it access to our hearts. I consider these insights extremely valuable. No less valuable is the knowledge I have gained about golems. I have a dear friend to thank for both. But this information was acquired in the most difficult manner possible: through my friend's death. Indeed, many good people have perished to gain the information I shall impart throughout this work. I hope at least some few will be saved by this hard-won knowledge. As always, however, a would-be vanquisher of evil must remember this rule: Nothing in our world is absolute. Do not cling so hard to old beliefs and knowledge that you become blind to new evidence. I shall now relate to you, dear reader, the tale of how I came to know of golems. It is my fervent wish thatnone of you will ever have to see the torment that accompanies the Created and their creators. However, if you are reading this at ail, it is likely that the Created have already touched your life in some way, or may one day soon. I write in the hope that you too shall come to the same understanding and conviction as 1: that all golems must be destroyed for our sake, and for theirs. A Doctor's Obsession Antonin Madren was twenty-two years of age when we first met. He came to me full of the enthusiasm and imagined immortality felt by the young. He also possessed a finely developed wit and poetic sense. We became friends in no time. When he told me of his desire to practice medicine, I quickly agreed to take him on as a student. Over the years our friendship grew. Antonin's dexterous hands and alert mind were honed by years of practice and learning, and he soon overtook me in surgical skill. When he was thirty, Antonin traveled to Martira Bay to begin his own practice. From then on we corresponded erratically through letters, commenting on each other's latest books. Seven years ago, Antonin wrote to say he had lost his sister, his only living relative, to heart failure. In his letter, Antonin cursed his inability to save her. He claimed to have been too preoccupied to notice the medical dues signaling her heart problem. Of course, I wrote back at once, and suggested that he was taking on far too much blame. These things sometimes happen. We doctors are not omnipotent; we cannot prevent every death. No letter came in response. I did not hear from Antonin again until years later, when he arrived at my very doorstep. I remember it was raining steadily that night. It was not the dramatic maelstrom found in so many novels. There was no lightning, no thunder... only the relentless drumming of the rain. When I opened the door, I was shocked to find Antonin on the stoop. He wore only a shirt and trousers, and was soaked to the skin. Ushering him in, I immediately set the kettle on for tea and offered him a towel. Without so much as a word, he accepted my ministrations. It seemed the silence stretched between usforever, until finally the cheery whistling of the teapot interrupted it. Returning with tea cozy in hand, I settled once more in front of Antonin. By now, I was seriously concerned. His breathing was ragged, his eyes glassy, and there was about him the aura of fear. I know no better way to describe it. When I could stand the terrible silence no longer, I began to ask him questions. But he answered none of them. Beginning to despair of ever reaching the man's once open mind, I quieted. It was then I noticed Antonin staring at the wooden model of a human heart I keep on my cluttered desk. Wordlessly, I rose and brought the mode! to my silent guest. It was as if I had touched flame to paper. Out poured the ragged, disoriented thoughts of what had once been one of the most disciplined minds I ever had the pleasure to know. At this point, you must forgive me for being less than complete in my account. Antonin spoke of many things, none of them quite lucidly. But I will here record only those thoughts of direct relation to golems, only those rantings from which others might yet benefit. As to the other confessions he made to me that night, I shall respect his memory and confidence, and keep my silence. That said, here is our exchange, as best I can recall it. "I tried, every sort of heart I could think to use," he told me. "Not even the lion's was strong enough.. " "What did you try to do with them. Antonin?" I asked as gently as I could. "None of them could help her. Every one failed my poor sister." "Are you saying you placed other hearts in your sister's body?" I whispered. My stomach, so recently manned with hot tea, turned to ice at the thought. Nodding distractedly, Antonin continued. "Yes, yes. But nothing worked. Until I used the living heart. It worked. I took it from that poor urchin, and yet it stili beat. I placed it within her, and it still beat. But not enough, not enough. So I found other pieces to use, other parts to replace. Until every organ, every appendage, was functional." Here Antonin paused, looking up from the wooden heart he still clutched to his breast. "Her eyes opened, Van Richten. And she smiled at me. At me." When Antonin smiled I knew he was mad. Through my tears I asked him to continue. "But it wasn't my sweet sister after all. She was so different, not at all herself. One day I arrived home to find ail the crockery smashed. A week later I awoke with her hands about my neck, strangling my life away." Tears had replaced his earlier smile, and we cried together as he continued. "I hit her, the mockery of my sister. Again and again I hit her. When it was over, I buried her. But the next night I again awoke to find her choking the life from me. That is when I fled." "Then you have escaped your creation, Antonin?" f asked. The uncertainty in my voice stemmed from the madness still in Antonin's pale face. "Oh, no. That isn't ever possible. I just keep moving. When I stop, she will find me again. She tells me so every day and night, inside my very head. She speaks of how she wishes to strangle me." Rising slowly, Antonin straightened his tie and smoothed his pants. "I shall be leaving you now, doctor. She says she is near. and I have no reason to doubt my sister." "But surely if you stay we can destroy her!" I cried. "I do have some small measure of experience with such things." "Not with golems, doctor. 'She is not truly alive, and thus she cannot truly die. She is unstoppable, even by you." Turning, Antonin headed to the door. Looking back at me, he tossed a small journal to the carpet. "You are the only person I could trust to read this, the only one who would not be tempted to follow the path laid out in this book and construct an abomination as I did. Should you ever run into that creature or others like her, use this information in your defense. The man who gave me this book is dead now. Killed by his own creation, as surely as I will be killed by my... sister." With that, Antonin left me. Several weeks later I learned he was strangled to death in a small inn some two days south of my home. Although Antonin succumbed to madness, he did manage to bring me the knowledge I needed to begin hunting down the Created. In the pages that follow, I will attempt to put forth all that I have learned of the Created. I have gathered this knowledge from Antonin's journal, my own researches, and my own experiences. It is my sincerest hope you will come to discern that the monsters and their creators are both, in some sense, victims. Should you ever confront a golem, perhaps this realization will aid you. I say this, of course, so that you might better understand your foe. Never should such empathy keep you from using all means at your disposal to destroy it. For the Created are indeed monsters, despite their vaguely human appearance. And they are enemies to be feared. Golems do not view life and death as you or I do; they cannot share our joys and fears. Should you ever be so unfortunate as to fight a golem, do not rejoice too swiftly upon slaying it. You must be prepared to become acquainted with true horror as your victim rises again and again from its supposed death. It will take all your resources, and perhaps more, to free the world of just one of these unholy menaces.

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