The Confession of Dr. Elvarion

To whom it may concern,
I begin by saying that what I did was, at first, for the purpose of good. I am not bad at my core. The magic of the oath stone I put into the box informed me that Dr. Harryfoot wrote his own narrative. In reading that, you can guess at what I have done. But I did it for good. I am not bad at my core.

During the expedition to Toril and finding that accursed page, I believed I had found a cure to my own malady. An accident mauled my flesh, causing my chances of finding a wife and having a family shattered. I was punished for the indiscretions of my youth and here found my salvation. I could be my own self again.

The recipe was strange indeed, unlike any alchemical draft I had made. The odd hours and ways to prepare ingredients and even some ingredients themselves were strange. One that I confess I could never find was the piece of self. I read it as piece of elf as the words seemed similar in my first translation. So when I obtained a piece of flesh from another elf, I believed that it would suffice. To my delight and dismay, it worked. I was restored, but only half way. I was a different person, and newer body transformed from my own.

I tested this new body and endeavored to see how it would work. Perhaps, if the change was permanent, I could assume a new identity and live as a new elf. I later found it did not. I continued to administer the draft, trying different combinations and doses. Some would last more than others. In my excursions in my new identity, I found that I desired to return to some of the pursuits of my youth. I realized that the new identity could retain the propriety of Dr. Elvarion while permitting him to commit indiscretions as Mr. Popansa.

Yet, the more I indulged my impulses, the more I wanted to, feeling the rush of anonymity shielding me from the consequence of my actions. I sought things that, even in my youth, I would have found distasteful. I felt I could not stop, however, the freedom of indulgence having been tasted. I endeavored to try only to experience and involuntary change suddenly and without warning.

I do not recall what happened after that. I am dimly aware of meeting with some sort of gang called the Chainmen. I regained lucidity after the incident with the little girl and having to write that check. I had hitherto felt like a spectator, viewing Mr. Popansa's actions from far off. Still, I resolved to keep the tincture on hand and it worked for a while.

Then those lackeys of Tindaleron began asking questions. Hounding my every step and asking questions. When they found me in the street again, I knew I had to be careful. When they visited Dr. Harryfoot, the rage welled up in me. Upstarts! They fail to grasp the import of what I have achieved. Restoration without divine intervention. True, I admit there is something of the arcane in the potion. It is not pure like Harryfoot would have it, but it is precisely what we sought.

Then I saw Tindaleron in the street. I confess I felt rage and I could feel the transformation as he began to greet me in the street. Popansa felt gratification when the look of terror came on his face as the face of his friend disappeared. He felt joy in the look of doom on that smug bean counter as he saw his death looming in Popansa's hands. The crack of the cane in our hands brought me to my senses, seeing Popansa's hands stained with blood. I fled. I was relieved. My persecutor was dead and I had the clearest incentive to never assume Popansa's identity again.

But it kept happening. I kept changing. I could not stop. I was a doomed man. I can never leave my laboratory until I can find some way of reversing this. Out there, I am a murderer. In here, I can be Dr. Elvarion in Mr. Popansa's body. I cannot accept this but I must. This is my end. I end as someone who is not myself. Mr. Popansa has killed me.