Kelwyn's Notes...
I have crossed blades with liches whose names have been erased from history. I have bargained with archdevils, outwitted hags, and survived conversations with dragons who regarded kingdoms as fleeting inconveniences. None of those experiences prepared me for the first time I saw a Poupée de Haine sitting silently upon a weathered table in a forgotten bayou cabin.
That statement often earns me skeptical looks. Surely a doll no taller than a man's forearm cannot inspire greater caution than an ancient dragon. Those skeptics invariably focus upon the wrong measure. They see height. I see intent. Dragons announce themselves with thunderous wings. The Poupée de Haine waits patiently until one is close enough to smell the damp Spanish moss stitched within its body.
Its appearance alone should offend every instinct granted by nature. The oversized carved head bears an expression that cannot decide whether it is glaring or smiling. Tangled human hair frames glassy eyes that seem forever fixed upon the observer, though no mundane examination can explain why they appear to follow every movement. Most unsettling of all is the mouth, sewn tightly shut with coarse black cord as though someone, somewhere, understood that allowing it to speak - or worse, to feed - would invite catastrophe.
Then the stitches break.
Not all at once, mind you. They part one by one with tiny snapping sounds, each no louder than a twig breaking beneath a boot. By the time the final strand gives way, reason has already begun surrendering to instinct. One understands with absolute certainty that whatever has just awakened should never have existed.
The creature moves with the blasphemous confidence of a hunting spider. It scurries across walls, races along ceilings, and launches itself through the air with astonishing precision. Its head often turns before the rest of its body follows, creating the revolting impression that bones are merely optional inconveniences. I have witnessed seasoned adventurers lose all composure because they could no longer predict where the thing intended to strike next.
Many have remarked that such a tiny creature could surely be dispatched with a single decisive blow. They are correct. One solid strike from a determined warrior will usually reduce a Poupée de Haine to little more than ruined leather, broken wood, and scattered swamp reeds. Unfortunately, this observation is useful only after one has managed to hit a creature that climbs like a gecko, leaps like an enraged squirrel, and possesses all the restraint of a rabid badger.
Its little Bayou Rosa Shucker is not the true danger. Painful though the wounds may be, they heal. Flesh mends. Pride eventually recovers. The bite is another matter entirely.
I have seen the earliest signs of La Haine Rouge, and I pray never to witness its final stages again. The victim remains physically recognizable, yet something immeasurably precious begins slipping away. Patience disappears first. Mercy follows soon thereafter. Compassion departs without ceremony, leaving behind a person who remembers every friend, every promise, and every cherished moment while finding themselves incapable of valuing any of them. There exist fates considerably worse than death. This disease proves the point with horrifying efficiency.
Equally disturbing is the creature's laughter. Those expecting triumphant cackling or theatrical shrieking will instead hear a dry succession of rapid clicks escaping through needle-like teeth. It is a sound utterly devoid of joy, yet unmistakably amused. I have heard it echo from beneath floorboards, from rafters overhead, and once from somewhere inside a pantry whose door I had not yet opened. I chose not to investigate. Wisdom occasionally disguises itself as cowardice.
Scholars often ask why such creatures exist. I confess I no longer care. Whether born of curses, hatred, forgotten rituals, or the poor judgment of some long-dead practitioner of the darker arts changes nothing. One need not understand the origin of plague rats before deciding they should not be welcomed into the pantry.
Should you discover a Poupée de Haine resting quietly upon a shelf or table, resist every temptation to examine it more closely. Do not admire the craftsmanship. Do not speculate upon its value. Do not wonder whether the stories have been exaggerated. Your curiosity is precisely the distance the creature wishes to close before introducing itself properly.
As for the cottage in which such a doll is discovered, I recommend immediate evacuation followed by the liberal application of fire. If uncertainty remains regarding whether the flames have proven sufficiently enthusiastic, apply additional fire. If the surrounding section of bayou should also catch alight, regard this not as an unfortunate accident, but as prudent insurance against discovering there were three more dolls watching from the rafters.
Some readers may accuse me of excessive caution. They are entitled to that opinion. I shall be equally entitled to remain alive while they explain to Saint Edric why the eleven-inch doll with the sewn mouth was, in hindsight, probably deserving of just a little more respect.
— Kelwyn Anord, who has never once regretted carrying enough spell components to cast multiple fireballs in rapid succession.
