Curse that fool Hiram Burrows! Lord Regent my lilly white bottom! We almost had it all. Now I wear the Heretic's Brand for the short remainder of my days. The Heretic's Brand, of all things! I should have banned the ritual, but in truth I planned to use it against a few undesirables should the need arise, perhaps even Hiram. Now it's all lost. When I spy my own reflection in a puddle of filthy water, I see failure burned into my face. I am cast out.
And now the plague is upon me. Already, the fever grows and my thoughts are as slippery as hagfish. It won't be long before I'm drooling and moaning and bleeding from the eyes. Last week I was sipping fine Tyvian wines and enjoying the comforts rightfully afforded to my position within the Abbey. Today, I sleep in filth, lost in this bleak and destroyed district.
If my mind is going to rot away, then let these be my last words, the final coherent thoughts of Thaddeus Campbell—a great man, a voracious lover of life in all its flavors and odors, and once High Overseer in the great capital city of Dunwall itself.
From the blackness of the Void, I fling curses upon the head of Corvo Attano. It was he who cost me everything I held dear.
May flies nest in your eyes, Corvo, and may all your desires come to ruin as you have ruined mine.