We Deal In Lead: The Ballad of Quincey Morris

 From The Journal of Quincey P. Morris,

If you're reading this, then there's a good chance I didn't meet a good end. We'll see about that, though.

That's happened once before. I was in a part of Eastern Europe. I had experience with vampires before. I tracked their lot to a slip door and I stepped through. I did have a horse when I came through but the bastards ambushed me in a land called South America not too long after sunset, draining my horse dry. 

I didn't have enough lead on me to kill the bats but I spared the horse of any further misery. So much for old Cuthbert. If you've heard the legends, then yes, I did name him after one such legend. If not, well then, don't worry too much about it. I reckon it suffices to say that Cuthbert was a good horse and one of my constant road companions. I hated to leave him in the jungle trails like that but I had no tools to bury him. I travel kind of light. Kind of. 

I took what mattered and kept it moving. Killed many a vampire there on my way to this land called Texas before hearing word that there was a possible source in Europe. 

I met a young woman named Lucy Westenra in those days and I'd hoped to be an eligible suitor for her. The way I saw it, if I could track down and kill off this source for all vampires, then my duty to my order was complete. 

Three more tragedies would line up after that. First, Miss Lucy died horribly. Lord Arthur, a newfound friend of mine lost his fiancée and I lost a dear friend in her. Second, this Count Dracula, we had him on the run and even managed to get ahead of him but I was seriously wounded when one of the Szgany who were protecting that thing's tomb stabbed me in the side. I still managed to stab the beast in the chest with my knife. Jonathan Harker, another friend of mine, cut the thing's head off and we managed it right about just after sunrise. 

I remembered feeling weak at the end of it all. I'd cut my way through wild Szgany people, no doubt under this supposed noble's spells but I had been convinced that I had done it, ended the plague, ended the curse. 

I remember my mother once telling me in confidence "There are other worlds than these." Seeing the faces of Jonathan, his lovely wife Mina and that crazy old coot, Abraham Van Helsing, I noticed the curse on Mina had been lifted. Thank goodness. 

There was a door up ahead. One I hadn't noticed before. I'd asked them to help me up. When I opened the door, pale and still bleeding, that was when I noticed the looks on their faces. There were looks of both shock and surprise. I told them to inform everyone else that I'd died from my wounds. I bid them fare thee well and stepped through the door, never to see them again. I took up a spot on the front porch of an abandoned house and used a small kit to try to stop the bleeding. It worked but only barely. When I had enough strength, I moved inside and hid myself away from the world until I was well-rested and healed. 

Took a long time. For a little while I was starting to think of this place as home. For a minute I was thinking that I'd killed the Source. It's over but something told me I was wrong. I scrounged what I could from the pantry, took some water from the well, put my boots back up on the road and armed with my trusty repeater, continued. 

The world went and wandered off. For a couple of days, I had no idea where in that world I was. 

I'd stopped to make camp one day and used an old trick to help me find my way. I put a dead-wood stick into the dirt and used a rock to mark where the shadow was. I sat and watched and then place another stone where the shadow had moved. I had my bearings. Now I just needed a direction. 

Wandering around the desert has a host of challenges. You have to eat. You have to drink but you also have to conserve what you have on hand in order to make it from one place to the next. Now, that's a race against time and you ain't got much of that. Trick to navigating the desert is timing and paying close attention to your needs. You ain't good to a soul if you're gone. 

I was starting to think that perhaps I knew what my mother meant when she said "There are other worlds than these" but even I couldn't be sure at that moment. 

I walked for two days before the oasis came into sight. It was a town but the sign had long since fallen into heavy weathering and disrepair. It wasn't readable. The buildings were old, gone to seed, save for three. One of them was an old church, the congregation, much like the world; moved on. The second was a Saloon that also served as a sort of City Hall and the third was just a small cabin. 

A man emerged from the old church as I strode into town. 

"Hile, Gunslinger!" he said, waving to me from the door of the church. I had my trusty repeater propped onto my shoulder, keeping my finger well off the trigger. I approached, not speeding up nor slowing down. All things in good time. 

It was when he came within several feet of me that his eyes went wide and he suddenly seemed unsure of himself. 

"Beggin' yer pardon," he says, "Izzat gun a symbol o' yer office?"

"That it is," I said, "My name is Quincey P. Morris, Order of The King of the Line..."

"Of Eld," he said, finishing my sentence, "Arthur Eld, say thankee. Pardon me fer sayin' I thought the Line of Eld had seen it's last days."

"Why is that?" I asked him, "I've been away for some time."

He gestured toward the saloon and nodded. He was an older man, short in stature and lean with skin like wrinkled leather in areas. His clothing was worn but well-kept. He seemed to keep himself clean despite the long hair and beard. 

"Mr. Quincey," he said, "You been on a hell of a long journey an' I'd rather have ya sit in the shade, have somethin' to drink with me, if ya please. Maybe stay the night before moseyin' along like ya do. I only seen one o' your line maybe one time through here." 

We walked slowly to the saloon. I held one of the bat-wing doors for him and followed him in, looking around.

"No reason to fret, Mr. Quincey," he said, "Ain't nobody here but ol' Walter O'Shea. That's me, in case you were wonderin'. I apologize for tensin' up the way I did. Last time I saw one o' your Order, he was travellin' with a man named...oh, what was his name?" His voice trailed off as he poured two drafts of a fragrant apple graf. 

"Who was the man from my Order?" I asked, "Might help nail down the name of the man that was with him." 

"The man who was with him was a no-good damned snake," he says, "The man from The Order of The King was named Isaac."

"I knew him," I said, "He's the man that gave me my test and inducted me. If memory serves, his companion was a man named Severn Stephens. He's always been a friend to us and my family so he couldn't be the man..."

"That's the one!" he said, interrupting me again, "I dunno how long ya knew him or how well but I tell ya I seen him gun down The Good Man, Isaac and take off in the night. Shot him right in the back, stone dead. I was sore the next day from givin' him a proper burial. Shame I had to bury him among our own. He deserved better'n he got, may The Good Man, Jesus receive Isaac." 

I tried to keep my surprise to myself. For Severn to kill Isaac, that had to be answered. He'd betrayed the entire Order and, if Walter spoke true, it would be up to me to send him to his reward, for good or, mostly, ill. 

"Mr. O'Shea," I said.

"Walter," he said, taking off the Bowler hat he wore the entire time I'd known him revealing that he was bald at the top of his head and the long hair had come from the fringes, "You can just call me Walter."

"Walter," I said as his Bowler came to rest on the surface of the bar, "You're absolutely certain that Severn Stephens shot Isaac in the back and then ran off?"

"Sure as the sun still rises," he said to me, "I hesitated when I saw the Excalibur symbol on the stock o' your rifle. Now, I know that I'm bound by duty to provide information but I have to ask you somethin'. I need a favor, if you would."

"If you can lead me to Severn," I said, "You can name that favor."

"I'm gettin' old, Mr. Quincey," he said, "At first when I had this town all to myself, I didn't mind all the upkeep but...as I get older, it ain't no peach anymore, if'n ya get my meanin'." 

I nodded in understanding, curious to see where he went with it. I gestured a finger in a circle, letting him know he should continue. 

"Mr. Quincey, I need a guide," he said, "Someone to escort me to the next town over. A place where people are. A place where I ain't talkin' to myself all the time. A place where maybe people wouldn't mind havin' me as I get older. I can't keep this old town of Ramshackle goin' anymore by myself." 

"Where is the next town?" I asked, "Certainly it can't be all that far."

"It ain't," he said, "Ain't the issue though. A man like me, ain't got shootin' iron to speak of. Ain't got much ability to run. Out in the distance, I seen 'em. Red eyes. I hear screechin' in the distance at night. I don't want your lead, Mr. Quincy. You'd have more use of it than me. 'Sides that, ain't got no shootin' iron o' any kind. I sleep in the church. That ground is still consecrated an' it's the only place in town that's safe at night. I'll give ya a place to rest your head, food an' any information I got. I'll answer any o' yer questions. All I ask is for your word that you'll get me over to the town o' Cactus Junction in one piece. I have your word an' everythin' in this town that's mine is yours." 

I agreed. I noticed the lack of livery stables, no real wagons to speak of. Crossing the desert would be a difficult time for him. Figuring it may be easier to help him cross that terrain with him navigating, it would be a far cry from trying it alone. I could look after him and he would point the way. If it was more than a day, I'd have to keep watch by night. I only knew of one thing with red eyes.

"Walter," I said after a long sip of my graf, "I think our deal works just fine. You stick with me when we're ready to make the journey and, if me or my gun will help you get there safe, you will reach Cactus Junction alive."

"Say thankee-sai," he said, after a pull from his own mug. I could see him visibly relax, "Been a long time since I seen anyone. Tell me something, if you wouldn't mind, Mr. Quincey. That gun o' yours. Are the rumors true? Is that made from..."

I nodded. 

"Yes it is," I said, "you hear true."

"Sun's goin' down," he said, looking out of the window, "Mr. Quincey, we should get movin'. We need to get everythin' together before it gets dark. Do you have provisions?"

"I have about a day's worth of rations left," I said, "Aside from that, it's gonna be whatever I can hunt or forage."

"Which ain't shit out here in the desert," he says, "beggin' yer pardon, not puttin' any doubt in your capability." 

"No offense taken," I said finishing my mug of graf before we cleaned the mugs, gathered a few things and then moved to the small house near the church. 

"This was my home," he explained as we ventured inside, "Now, it's just a damned kitchen. Managed to kill some small game." He began touching some shriveled meat he had laid out, "No varmints touched it. Good." He took a pelt he'd cured and stretched and began gathering the meat into it, fashioning a bag  which he bound with twine and carried, "Save your ration, Mr. Quincey," he continued, "this'll feed us tonight while we hunker down in the church. We need to head to the well an' fill our canteens."

We left the house, filled our canteens at the well and heard something in the distance. Walter O'Shea froze. 

"They're on their way," he said, a tremor tinging his voice, "Come on, Gunslinger." 

I turned and winced. The wound in my side had closed but it didn't like a sudden turn such as the one I'd performed. For a moment, it felt like my side threatened to tear itself open again. 

We both walked as quickly as we could to the church before entering. Walter barred the door behind us and then quickly checked all the other doors to ensure they were also sealed shut. The evening's rays were beautiful in the stained-glass windows. 

Walter sat in one of the pews and coughed a few times. He took long, deep breaths. 

"We'll...keep the lights...down low," he said, still trying to catch his breath from the exertion, "We keep our voices down. They can hear us."

In the night, I could hear the battering of wings. They sounded like bats but I knew they weren't. Vampires were about again and they were flying around. They didn't emit the same squeaking sound that bats made, these were full-throated, high-pitched screams. I had my rifle at the ready when Walter tapped me and gestured to lean in close. 

"They won't come in here," he whispered, "They can't come on to the grounds. I was bein' chased one night an' I ducked in here. I saw their eyes when I turned to shut the door to the chapel behind me."

"Vampires," I whispered back, "I hunt those. Ain't got enough lead for all of 'em. Where did they come from?"

"They showed up after Sai Isaac was gunned down by that sss..." he stopped, considering what he was about to say, "When Mr. Stephens killed Sai Isaac." 

As we moved apart, I mouthed the word, "Cocksuckers..." 

******************************************************************************

We both awoke the next morning just before sunrise. I was able to hear them leaving. Walter was still sleeping behind the altar when I checked on him. I'd slept on one of the pews while Walter insisted on sleeping where the preacher would stand. I waited until I knew the sun was up and everything would be visible. I took my things and ventured to the outhouse. 

When I arrived back at the chapel, I saw a very worried and disheveled Walter O'Shea standing there. 

"I thought you'd been taken in the night," he said, "thought you went an' done some damned fool thing like goin' out there after 'em. I wouldn't advise it. Too many of 'em." 

"Where are they hiding?" I asked, "It's flat desert for miles around."

"Who knows?" he asked, "Best we gather our things. We have a long way to go and I still have something you'll want to see before we do."

We gathered our belongings again and he led me out through the back door of the chapel and into the cemetary. He walked down the rows and I followed until he pointed out one grave with a simple marker made from a board that he'd carved himself. 

"That's him," he says, "Poor Sai Isaac. He was a good man. A strong man. If he inducted you, I know you're as good as he." 

I stood there and stared at the grave before gently guiding Walter back. 

"I do not aim with my hand." I said, reciting the Oath of our Office, "He who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his Elder. I aim with my eye. I do not shoot with my hand. He who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his Elder. I shoot with my mind. I do not kill with my gun. He who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his Elder. I kill with my heart."

Immediately, I shouldered my rifle, aimed into the sky and fired, the loud crack sounding off in the distance. I activated the lever and ejected the shell, having spent one round to honor my fallen leader. The shell casing landed on his grave where I would leave it. The Honor of The Gunslinger hardly seemed honorable in this deserted town. I looked to Walter, lowered my rifle back to keeping it propped on my shoulder and we began walking back to Walter's home. He needed to pack. He was never going to be coming home again. I had sympathy for him. He'd built his house, dug his well and had planned on living the rest of his days out here but, after Isaac's murder, the town continuously fell into a state of disrepair save for the three buildings that mattered the most to him. Aside from what was in his home and the saloon, the rest of the town was laid bare. We began walking while it was still morning. 

We took it slow. He was no good on our trail if he was as winded as he was when night came. Walter seemed to be keeping up pretty well as I'd already let him lead. 

"I used to go to Cactus Junction when I was younger," he said to me, "Two horses drawin' a carriage...take me 'bout half a day. Wagons were covered though, took the heat off of the sun beatin' down on us."

We had been walking for a few hours until we came a driftwood tree that had been broken and laying on it's side along our path. 

"Hey Walt," I said, "Let's have a seat, take a rest, have a little lunch and something to drink."

"We're half the way there, Sai-Quincey," he said, seemingly in mild distress, "We got another...half day's walk before we get there."

"You speak true, Walter but," I said, "You hired me to get you to Cactus Junction, alive, well and in one piece. I ain't asking you to sit as a man you hired. I'm asking you to recouperate as a friend. Got about maybe half a day til we reach the Junction. I just want to be sure you don't start having trouble on the way."

He relented, nodding and having a seat on the fallen tree. I took a seat next to him. He began opening the pelt sack still full of the seasoned jerky he'd made. He handed me some before feeding himself. We ate little, drank much of our respective canteens and he told me how the red-eyed beings, vampires, began showing up after Isaac's murder. At first, there were disappearances of the children of Ramshackle. After several of the town's children had been taken, many fled the town, fearing for their own lives and that of their children. The missing were never recovered but the vampires started to show up. At first, it was two or three and then, over the course of a month, the town had all but disappeared, leaving only Walter and a swarm would descend upon the town at night. When I asked if Walter recognized any of the misshapen horrors, he shook his head. 

"Too damn dark," he said, "I stayed hidden and with good reason. I stayed in the Sanctuary that The Good Man Jesus instructed our preachers to build, and I say thankee. You think maybe it was the good people of the town come back to take me with 'em?"

I nodded. I couldn't say for sure but I'd seen this before. My earliest hunts for the originator of the affliction had led me down paths that proved fruitless. 

The Count's own education at The Scholomance is what gave him his power. His exercise of it threatened to tear the fabric of reality apart. If all vampires descended from him, I was certain that killing him would release the souls of those he had turned but it hadn't. Now, we were dealing with swarms of them, possibly the townsfolk of Ramshackle, itself. A half-day's walk wouldn't really put much distance between us and would not prove difficult for them to find us. 

"We shoulda burned that town to the foundations," Walter said bitterly as he chewed on some of the meat, "Maybe that woulda given us a good start. Distract 'em, you see..."

I nodded, kicking myself for not having thought of it. I looked up briefly and looked around. Now I was embroiled in a mystery concerning these damned parasites and the whereabouts of Severn. I asked Walter if he knew what happened to Isaac's weapons. 

"That Mr. Stephens took them before he ran," he said, "Ain't right if ya ask me. Man like that didn't earn 'em. Hope they blow up in his hands when he shoots. It would serve him right." 

I didn't say any more. He was right. On top of killing Isaac, the town being overrun at night by the undead, I needed to get him to Cactus Junction and do it before sundown. We still had a few hours of walking left. I stayed close as we walked, keeping my eyes moving around. Aside from the sagebrush, there was nothing along our path but the sun beating down on the both of us. 

We reached Cactus Junction and, to our relief, there were people there, bartering, trading and going about their business. We moved more deeply into the city and stopped into The Lucky Star Saloon. Unlike Ramshackle's saloon, this one was teeming with life. In Cactus Junction, it almost seemed as if the world had decided to stick around instead of drifting like I had been in the last couple of months. 

A couple of people called Walter's name and approached the table. For the first time, I saw Walter smile. The lines on his face becoming both more apparent and giving him a warm look. The men who approached him were introduced to me as Julius Holmes and Fritz Davis, both young men in their thirties. They were almost certain he'd died, occupying the town alone. I asked them if they had any troubles at night in this town. Surely, an walk across the desert of several hours wouldn't be any good distance to things that could fly. 

"None so far, Sai Quincey," Julius said, "All the same, nights around here in the Junction are pretty normal." 

I nodded but urged caution. Those things would undoubtedly go where the food is and it probably wouldn't be long until they were discovered. Julius and Fritz bought us drinks and we sat discussing the events of the last day or so. When I asked about Isaac and Severn, their faces became somber. 

"Isaac was a good man," said Fritz, "honorable. Never had an unkind word to anyone."

"It was the man who accompanied him," said Julius, "Severn, he made every damn one of us uneasy. The guy always seemed like he was trying to look into you...or through you. He just had this really distant gaze at times. Especially when he was by himself and would get all kinda sideways atcha if ya disturbed him." 

"We just steered clear of him," said Fritz, "Something about him told us he was bad news. The night that Walt saw Isaac shot dead in the street, that's when we knew for sure. The Sheriff went after him but never returned." 

"Heard he came through here," said Julius, "but everyone we talked to said he was just passing through. Everyone thought he was one of your Order, Sai Quincey. They really didn't know he was a traitor. Hope you find the sumbitch and hang 'im high." 

I nodded. I drank as I listened to the two of them fill in details that led up to the day they chose to flee with their families. 

"Take good care of Walter," I said, "He's been a good friend to a weary traveler. Listen to him when he tells you of the danger he faces. He speaks true." 

I shook their hands and decided to keep moving. I had to find Severn and hold him to account for his betrayal of our Order. I vowed this would be a reckoning he wouldn't soon forget. 

Thousand Year Old Vampire: The Chronicle of Thrasamund pt. 3

 

Athens: Three Years Later...

Living among the Greek people, it has taken me considerable time to learn the language. Heva has been my tutor when and where she could. 

I have spent my time hunting animals as I've done since I found I had to feed. While Heva sleeps, once every month, I would travel into the forest at night and hunt deer. The only things I claim are the heart and the blood. The meat, pelt and antlers are also harvested for sale. Admittedly, we retain some of the meat for salting and preserving. I stretch and tan the pelts for crafting uses and I'm careful to remove any parts that may provide tell-tale signs that it was me who killed the deer. The meat we don't keep, we sell to butchers or provide to people in need. The antlers are used to make various trinkets when I'm able. 

The home that Heva and I own in Haidari was chosen on purpose. The home itself is modest and was unassuming. Being so close to the mountains but having the ability to travel into the city was ideal for both of us. 

In all of the last four years, I have yet to see The Boeman again. It is something that both disturbs and comforts me all at once. Not seeing him meant that perhaps I was alright. I knew that seeing him meant someone, eventually would die. I thought back to the night in the cave. I didn't see him then either. To this day, I still do not understand why. 

I found that I must feed at least once per month. If I wait any longer, Heva tells me that I look gaunt, even decrepit and that my skin continues to grow pale. Once I have fed, my pallor goes back to almost normal. Almost. Having been hidden away from daylight for so long, my flesh is paler than most and far more so than the people here with their olive complexions. No one notices the deer that are missing. The trinkets, meat and pelts that we sell have had a tendency to keep us from suspicion. 

Seeing in the darkness isn't a problem. By the full moon's light, everything is visible to me. Still, deer are tricky creatures, even for me, to stalk and kill. Their hearing, agility, speed and hypervigilance means that they can, and sometimes do, even elude me. 

I have taken to stalking them from the trees and dropping onto them, making them my meal. 

Why animals? The answer is simple. I have no interest in attracting unwanted and unneeded attention to either myself or Heva. Heva would be in much more danger than I would. I've come to think of our home as our sanctuary away from the world and my time with Heva has drawn our partnership together in a way that we grow stronger together. 

Still, in order to continue as I have, I still have to feed, same as Heva must consume food and drink. It would be far worse to make every attempt to hide ourselves outside the city. That failed to help me the last time and the isolation was not good for me either. Having to consider Heva means that every deceptive story we tell must be passable at a passing ear and nothing can raise suspicion. It forces me to be careful in the construction of such stories. 

Our production of goods to sell had grown our supply of coin and living in Haidari allowed us the ability to stay secluded in plain sight.

Thousand Year Old Vampire: The Chronicle of Thrasamund pt 2.5

 

Author's Note: Thanks for hanging in there with me. I was looking back at the writing prompt I had just finished and realized, I had left out the part that specifies that a mortal begins to accompany me so this is a continuation of the second part. The third part will be coming along shortly but it's now that I introduce you to Thrasamund, now Roderic's new mortal companion. 

Something vexed me. 

I saw her everywhere. At the tavern when I watched young warriors, farmers and village folk make fools of themselves after too much drink. She lurked in the dark alleys, watching me. 

She seemed to act as though I hadn't noticed her, but I had. She had been following me since I left my cave. She stayed to the shadows and at a distance but I could smell her, sense her. She ensured I stayed hidden. She took great pains to ensure that I would not be discovered. She kept me alive and out of the sun but, each time that I awakened to the dark, blanket of the night sky with only the stars to greet me when the tangled branches of trees didn't blot them out, she was not there. I could sense her on those roads, along those rivers, in those dark forests but she was hidden from me. 

I could have lost her. I've found that I could move at considerable speeds for short distances, however, I knew if she were following me, had she stayed, perhaps she could be of use. I moved at the speed I would if I were a mere man. 

I sensed no ill-intent from her. Certainly, had she wanted me dead, she had every opportunity to end the wretched state that is now my existence. I didn't know what she looked like, I could only sense her presence. I kept looking back but could not see her. I kept my ears open, however, I didn't hear her. I began to wonder if, perhaps, we shared this affliction in common. 

It had been several weeks and, one night, I decided to end the entire damned game. 

As I walked under the stars, I suddenly turned and approached her. She turned to run and that's when I gave chase. It was not long before I had caught up to her, pulling both of us in between the tavern and the blacksmith's building. I held her to a wall by her shoulders, preventing her escape. 

I finally beheld my stalker. Her golden locks fell around pale and smooth skin. Her eyes shined like sparkling jewels, the youth and vitality alive and brilliant in her eyes, the color of amethyst set against white. 

"Who are you?" I demanded, "Why are you following me?"

She stammered, a look of surprise on her face but then she winced and almost cried out. 

I let go of her when I realized that I had hurt her. My nails had grown into small talons and the sharpened ends had pierced her shoulders, causing her to bleed a little from where I'd caused punctures in her skin. I backed away, fully expecting her to run, fleeing in terror but she merely stood and pressed her hands over the small wounds to conceal them. 

"My name is Heva," she said to me, "I have been following you because I heard the stories in our village and I had to see if they were true for myself." 

"You could have been killed yourself finding out," I told her but, she didn't seem in the least bit frightened. 

"If you wanted me, you could have killed me at any time," she said to me. She looked at me and took a step forward. More of the full moon's light illuminated her. "I ensured you stayed covered. I saw to it that none of the animals you killed along the way went to waste. I took care of myself as we moved along the roads and rivers. I knew that, as much as you have become the beast they say you are, I was safe with you."

"How would you know that?" I asked. She had my attention and now, my curiosity. 

"Because were you nothing more than a beast you would have killed without thinking about it," she said, dusting herself off. 

I could smell the little bit that she bled. She was right, against all that I had been taught to believe, I did want her blood. I could hear her heart slowing from it's racing beat. 

"You can only move at night," she says, "You hunted and killed wild animals no one would miss. I would not watch how you consumed them. You have no one else to help you. The man who led the volunteers to come against you? Is he your enemy?"

"He was my father," I said.

"My apologies," she said, "I followed you because you have no one else. If you are this beast that your father said you were, then why have you not slain the entire village. Why allow all of us to live? You needed someone. I saw you carrying sacks of meat to the ale hall. Why would you do that unless you..."

"Unless I what?" I asked.

"Unless you needed help," she said, looking straight at me, "I can be your help. I can make sure you have your room. I can sell meat during the day. I know how to approach others. All I need is for you to trust me. I know that this isn't my place but what choice do you have? They called you a beast but I see a man standing before me. I aid you in your matters during the day and you can rest much more easily. Do you see?"

I did. Though I asked myself if I could trust this girl who called herself Heva, the reminder that she had seen to my well-being was enough to put the thought from my mind. 

She was correct. What other options did I have at my disposal? Though beautiful, she did have need of food and a bath, perhaps. I had no use for food any longer. She would be the only one in need of it. If I fed and clothed her, then perhaps she would be of some use. 

"Follow me," I said after a long pause. We both walked back to the inn where I'd signed in and she accompanied me to my room. My few possessions remained in the pack I had taken with me. She immediately began covering the windows with heavy blankets, hanging them like curtains as I began lighting the candles in the room. The light given by the candles was dim but the light was sufficient enough for me. I sat down in one of the two small chairs in the room and she drew another chair and sat across from me. 

"What is your name?" she asked. 

"Thrasamund," I replied, "I signed the register under the name Roderic." 

She nodded and looked at me, seeming to study me in the dim light of the room. 

"You have had to change your name," she said, "Roderic, I think it important to change the way you look. If you wish to keep from being found or you do not want to be recognized, I think it best to dress you differently and perhaps trim your hair and beard. You will need two more nights in this room. You will also require horses and perhaps even a cart. I will drive during the day while you sleep and you may drive at night while I sleep. As you know, traveling by day on foot can be dangerous to you. You will need provisions but, for now, you need rest. 

I listened. She was right. It took some time to change my appearance. My beard and hair were trimmed. She secured food for herself and took care of our lodging. She only took care of the small tasks at first but, over time, she began to acquire the things we needed, tightly managing and keeping count of the coin we had on hand for ourselves. Her resourceful nature, her ability to negotiate aided both of us in our quest to procure supplies. 

Sitting with her one night, I remember thinking that a woman in her 20s and as beautiful as she was, Heva should have had a suitor and should have been ready to marry but she didn't. I never asked but I also never told her. I may have had a hand in that. Many of the men who invaded my place of rest were from her own village and now they lay broken in the cave not far from the village. 

We began to gather the supplies into the cart. She had a sort of trunk built into the cart itself. By day, she would drive and I would lie in the cart to rest. By night, I would drive and she made a place to sleep inside the cart. We stopped at times, sometimes to hunt and camp but others because the terrain was too uneven for Heva to rest comfortably. I could rest through anything at all. There were villages and cities along the way as we headed South. 

It was one city in particular where we finally concluded our travels. The night we arrived, Heva was awakened to the sound of our wheels on stone. We both agreed that this city would be one where our time would be more well-spent. 

The city of Athens at night is not only well-lit but beautiful. 

Thousand Year Old Vampire: The Chronicle of Thrasamund pt 2

 Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed the first installment in this particular adventure. There's so much more to come for Thrasamund. Exactly what? I have no idea. I know where I want to go with him. The dice and prompts may decide otherwise. Yesterday, I actually wrote two prompts worth of passages. I concluded the one yesterday just to ensure that it wasn't too long. Well, I'm sure you're sympathizing with Thrasamund's plight by now. Let's see what he's been up to since he's killed Nerthuz. 

Flight!

I spent a few days traveling to a small community. I spent the next ten moons sheltered in the forest until I was able to find another cave along these mountain ranges. The passages were dark and narrow, perhaps two men standing side-by-side at the most. There were recesses in which I could rest. As I explored, I realized that there was a large opening into a cavern. The floor had terminated at some point and the drop was treacherous at best, lethal at worst. I didn't explore past the large cavern. From my perspective, this, for better or worse was home for the time being. 

I withdrew for the first two months. I fed only by hunting animals in the forest. Adalrik, my father, taught me that every part of the animal must be used. Were I lucky enough to quickly overtake and fight a deer, I would consume both the blood and the heart. At first, the act disgusted me. I had to remind myself that it was no different than eating venison. Cooking the flesh I was eating would not do in my current state. With no one to reverse the curse now applied to me. I don't know why there's such a difference. It's something that I can not explain. I hadn't seen the Boeman, a fact, for which, I found relief. 

I began taking the rest of the meat, using my dagger to butcher the meat. I would take the hide and wrap the meat that I had harvested. I buried the rest of the offal from the inside of the deer and then, I would take that into town. A local mead hall that served as a tavern seemed surprised that a man would appear in the night with meat for them. I was paid in a few coins, sometimes a small jewel and I was told I could drink my fill. 

I tried. 

Two ales in and I would need to find a reasonable excuse to be sick outside. I learned very quickly, the ale was safe to sip but not to drink as others do. The food, of course, did nothing in the way to satisfy me. 

I still heard the stories from weary travelers stopping in for a moment's rest before moving on. Stories were that of an older man had spent his days telling everyone that his son deserted and fled the battlefield, entered into a dark pact with Frau Hulda to bring Helle itself to Middegeard. 

Part of it was true. Helle was here in Middegeard ...for me. 

Frau Hulda does believe in subtle torments. Her table is a mockery of mortal feasts and it required no crossing of icy realms for me to come to rest within it's gates

At my own dwelling outside of town, I had collected the bones of the animals that I had taken. I still remember the night that Nerthuz died by my own hands. She said her wards would not allow me in. I didn't enter until the Boeman beckoned me and kept urging me to feed, to kill her because she would expose me. She had wards. Perhaps, I could have my own. I began to place them just into the darkness of the cave. I arranged and bound bones together, standing them in twisted mockeries of their former form. 

Understand that I know nothing in the ways of magic, dark or otherwise. Nerthuz, I no longer have doubts, knew. The bag that I had taken from the small table contained nothing but her runes that she had carved herself. I placed them in my pack, not that I wanted to ever truly learn the runes...perhaps I should. I knew the runes enough to communicate with others in languages they may not know. Another language to have to learn. Perhaps one that may be useful. In the meantime, I merely wanted rest and to fend off anyone that would happen upon my sleeping form, accidental or otherwise. 

I had given no one my name. I was doing my level-best at the time to stay as unnoticed and anonymous as possible. 

It was during my sleep that a sound awakened me. One of the bone wards had been kicked, coming apart and scattering bones. I sat up and immediately slipped into a nook across from where I slept in the darkness and waited. I watched as they went by, two at a time. I slowly moved into position. According to my count, twenty men had entered my dark recess. I saw one man lingering behind and immediately I bolted into him, putting him into my alcove where I slept. I slammed him hard against the stone wall, his torch fell from his hand into the room. I clamped my hand over his mouth and nose and immediately, forcefully removed his heart and consumed it. I let him drop to the ground when he began going limp. I extinguished the torch. I used the tactics in which I'd been instructed in Teutoberg Forest. There was no chaos this time. Each man I killed, the act was quick, though not clean. 

To whomever may find this chronicle, it's important to note that, in the consumption of blood, for one such as myself, the flesh and blood of animals, it will sustain me but it is wholly unsatisfying. That from a human such as yourself...there is truly nothing like it. Combined with the consumption of the heart and it is a feast unlike that of which even Wotan can provide. 

I had silently killed four of the twenty but it was on the fifth man that I stopped relying on my stealth and I killed him by forcing my hand through his back and out the front, his heart in my hand. I pulled it back, leaving him to finally drop, the hole in his leather armor and body a glaring reminder to all that saw him when the remaining fifteen turned to find themselves faced with me and I continued devouring his heart as they watched. 

Their expressions were that of surprise mingled with abject terror, despite being armored to a lesser degree but well-armed. 

The corpse of their compatriot whom I'd dropped to the rocky floor was illumnated by the torch he once carried. 

When the first one responded with the fire of courage burning inside, I grinned. I was not armed by traditional means but that hadn't stopped me from killing five of them before anyone truly noticed. In the midst of the war being waged in that narrow corridor, I'd managed to push the force back into the cavern. I did hear one man foolishly not watching as he backed himself right over the precipice, down onto the rocks below. The rest made their stand, eleven out of the fourteen remaining and one had died by his own foolishness. I broke necks, ripped out hears, lacerated throats and even, in one case, completely removed a man's head with mine own hands. Some of them did land glancing blows, I pulled a few crossbow bolts from my own chest and shoulder. Wounds would heal in a matter of hours. 

Some of these men were men from the town at which I'd been selling meat at a price that kept the locals fed. 

One man remained. I turned to face him amidst the torn and wrecked bodies of the dead in that space of darkness, I realized my own father had led this mob into my home with the intention of destroying me. 

"You're not my son," he says, "You're unnatural! An Abomination! You're one of the Alp. What Have You Done With My Son!" 

In his ranting and raving and carrying on, it occurred to me, I wasn't looking him in the eye but slightly down upon him. 

"Let my son's soul go, Alp," he demanded. Some of you are not familiar with that term but it was then that I realized that, between the terrified ramblings of Nerthuz, her stories that she would tell me as a child and Adalrik before me and Adalrik's maddened description of me, I was the embodiment of all that was meant to scare me. 

Alp is a word that has an entirely new meaning today than it did then. When someone mentions Alps, you may think of what you would call Switzerland or Sweden. In those days, an Alp was our word for Elf. 

You may think of elves as being fair of hair with pointed ears, slender builds, magical, mystical and even beautiful. 

The Elf to which my father referred is almost nothing like the referent for the term you have in mind. Pointed ears, intense and fierce silver eyes, pointed, angular features to a severe extent, pale, vampiric, bearing razor-sharp fangs, that is the referent that my father used and he directed it at me, his own son. 

"You are right," I said, "I am not your son. I didn't run from the battle at the forest. I was taken and carried away. You will return home. You found the remains of your son. You provided him a funeral pyre after the men saved you from an ambush in the cavern. I will see to the bodies of these men. No one will be shamed here or ever. That is what you tell anyone who asks. You can say that the stories Nerthuz talked about were mere stories. Your son's murderers are dead. Your son is at peace. ...Go...I would not want you to be the next to be consumed and you still have my mother to look after..."

I allowed him and only him out of that cave. I picked through the bodies to gather supplies that I may need. I managed to find money purses on the men. Though little flowed through the town save for some copper and perhaps bronze coins, I managed to find six hundred and forty-four gold pieces among the men, then, another nine hundred and thirteen pieces of silver and one hundred and thirty-one copper pieces. 

My father could not afford these wages. Who paid these men to accompany my father? 

Night was coming and I needed to make haste if I were to leave successfully. I staged the bodies over the drop into the cavern. I kept many of the torches lit, dropping them on top of the bodies down below. A mass pyre. Fitting for the mob sent to kill me. I combined the valuables and waited for nightfall. As I walked along the river, setting about in my travel, I knew I needed to clean myself up. Blood caked my face, beard and hands, possibly even the tunic I wore. I stopped by the river and suspended my pack and gear up into a tree. I took my clothing off and waded into the river to clean myself. 

Nerthuz used to tell me stories of how Nachzehrer and Alps could not cross running water. This water was still on this moonlit night. I submerged myself into the water, taking my shirt with me. I spend a minute or two under the surface, cleaning the blood off of me and my tunic. I emerge slowly from the water, careful not to disturb the surface so much. I look down into the surface of the near-still water only to see my own silhouette lit by a moon behind me. I emerge from the water only to realize that, despite the autumn chill in the air, I'm not cold. I reach up and touch my ears but they're the same round ears I have always enjoyed. I lick my teeth behind my lips and they are still my normal teeth. I couldn't see anything else. I dress and take my things down from the tree limb, putting it all back on and making my way toward wherever my next home would be. 

Traveling at night, though safe, poses a problem I don't think I have discussed at length. Where to go during the day? 

Caves aren't quite as accessible. I'd been very lucky thus far. I must also remain hidden. My resting places can't be obvious to those passing by for the curious. Some days, I bury myself in three feet of river bank muck. Other days, I am able to make a sort of cocoon that wouldn't look out of place if it's just laying around. This was the farthest I'll have ever been from home and family. The farm, my father's legacy are now, only distant memories. I would have to make my home elsewhere. 

Eventually, I find a region and settle in an inn. I use the coin I'd found to pay for two nights so that I am not disturbed during the day. 

I also had to leave my name behind. I am no longer Thrasamund, son of Adalrik. I simply sign the register as Roderic. 

Thousand Year Old Vampire: The Chronicle of Thrasamund, The Vandal pt. 1

 Author's Note: My apologies for being gone so long, many of the games, I've just been unable to post. For anyone who knows me, I've spent my days settling into a new job lately and that means hardly any video content and, when I play games, I'm just playing Fabled Lands (which I've never posted any of my battle reports from that because I started playing that long before I started this blog) or I've been writing articles in my Substack which you can check out because I post opinions on Tabletop RPGs, reviews of systems and many different articles on a variety of subjects. 

Thousand Year Old Vampire is a solo-journaling game that I just sat down and started playing. I'll post a proper review on it on my Substack which you can read for yourself. In the meantime, the character I created is named Thrasamund, born into a tribe of Vandals in Ancient Europe in 21 BCE. He spent his youth on a farm with his father, Adalrik and his mother, Garsindis. As for the rest of this story. I've rooted it in Ancient History but ended up taking liberties here and there. It's a game, folks and my aims with this vampire may not pan out the way I would like them to go, they might. I don't know. In any case, I'm going to let Thrasamund tell you his story and then, when the time is right, I'll tell all of you about how I played this game, what supplements I used and how I arrived at certain points. I've seen others do the short journaling thing but that's not my style. If I'm going to create a monster and let him tell his story, I'm going to let him tell his story, his way. 

Enjoy. 

Awakening:

I can still remember. I remember early mornings, sunrises, rain, mud. I remember the days of my father teaching me how to tend our herds of both sheep and goats. In the afternoons or evenings, my father would teach me swordplay, stealth and how to manage both myself and my supplies when away from home for long treks on foot. He also taught me the ways of our polytheistic family and that our god was Wotan. Wotan commanded excellence in war, hospitality and the initiation of deeds. This would build a man's reputation, I was told, so we must always do what is right for our tribe, our community, our neighbors and our families. 

My father, Adalrik's favorite words were "Nothing lasts forever." In his opinion, things were better that way. Natural, if you will. The animals we had would eat grass and then fertilize the ground upon which it grew. Everything needed to be sustained in some way, preserved for future generations. We, in turn would fleece the sheep and sometimes, harvest enough for ourselves so that we had meat, milk, and food to sustain us. We would then pass on the knowledge to the next generation along with what he taught me in Wotan's wisdom that our way of life and our reputations would go on. That was the only thing to last forever, well after we had breathed our last. 

Teutoberg Forest is where I thought my own time would end. 

We were commanded to hide among the hills, trees and the foliage. Imperial Romans were going to be redirected into the forest and, only when the last of them entered were we to begin the ambush. Hide we did and we waited. Arminius wanted these Romans to see the error of invading our lands and subjugating our people far too late. The Romans were a threat to every one of our tribes and we couldn't allow them to continue pushing any further. If any were to survive the night, every one of those that did survive, would suffer so immensely, they would be denied sleep until their dying day. 

We waited, silently, with eyes and ears open, weapons ready. I posted myself in a tree and waited. We had prepared for this ambush to commence. We had our rituals, we made our promises to the gods that we would send these men to them for what they'd done. Frau Hulda would be pleased to have them, no doubt. Once within the forest, we struck with Wotan's fury and the strength of Thunor. We were a storm that would rage forever. 

Nothing lasts forever. 

I don't know what today is. The Cloaked Figure that stands hunched and decrepit, as all of the clothing he wears seems to be decayed, merely begins to give me an account of what has occurred. 

We Became The Storm of Thunor. 

I dropped from my tree in which I'd perched and the tip of my sword bit into flesh, the edge ground against armor and bone and the soldier that I'd attempted to kill, howled in surprise and agony, one scream against the many, his nearly drowned out by the howls and roars of my kinsmen fighting along side me. Romans could be heard shouting but I could not make sense of what they were saying. Steel met steel, wood, leather and flesh. Bones broke, voices cried out in the darkness, horses began to panic and try to turn to get away. All sense of anything that may have resembled order was lost. Now, those that referred to us as mere "barbarians" were receiving all that they had wished for and learned that, when addressing us, respect should have been a given. 

It was in the darkness that I fought, taking lives nearly indiscriminately. Frau Hulda would receive all that I'd personally slaughtered. Let her decide what to do with these dead. If I were to be ended this night, my appointment would be kept in Wælhalle. Let the wolf-riders come from Irmansul to claim their faithful and may our songs be sung. 

Something answered the call in my mind as I fought another of the Roman's so-called "legions." It was not, however, Wotan, nor was it his wolf-riders. 

I felt something suddenly bite into my shoulder. Initially, I thought two errant arrows had found their marks, however, there was no weight. I swung with my sword. I went mad with rage, my attack with my sword found only air. I followed suit with my axe only to find the same. Nothing!

The pain only stopped when another began. I felt the Roman's blade pierce me below the sternum. I suddenly found it hard to breathe. I also heard my attacker scream.

It wasn't the scream of my attacker that chilled me to the bone, it was the shriek that I heard from just over my shoulder before, whatever had been attached to me was now detached from me. 

I fell to my knees, blood was running from my exposed shoulder and from the wound just below my sternum. I still found it difficult to breathe. I looked up momentarily  and I still cannot describe with any credibility what it was I saw. 

There was a spectre of sorts. It seemed to give off a soft, faint light. That light was just enough to see the expression of the Roman who had attacked me. He swung wildly, a look of shock and horror on his face. The spectre tore the Roman's throat out. I tried lifting my own weapons but found my own arms simply would not move. 

The darkness consumed me and the sounds of the battle around me faded. 

The Nachzehrer, those undead spectres that Nerthuz told me as a child to frighten me into going to bed had been, until now, a product of fantasy. I had hoped that Wotan would see that I did die in battle, killed by an enemy that I had faced. Two of them, to be exact. Wælhalle was my reward, surely. 

No. Though the recognition of The Boeman wasn't immediate, descendents of Sweartylfehám is recognizeable, once certain. It, this thing, served the Nachzehrer and, because it was the Roman who killed me in his final moments and mine, the Nachzehrer is now attached to me. 

It told me that returning to my home would only see me hunted as a deserter since my body was never recovered among those slain in battle. In that moment, I was believed to have been killed. If I returned, I would not only confirm that I had not been killed in battle but suspicions of desertion would carry more weight. 

It told me that the Nachzehrer needs to be sustained. If I choose otherwise, it will make itself known more and more and will make every attempt to be sustained by force if necessary. 

I began to panic. This is not what I am. I resolved that I would not be a slave to this corrupt and unnatural thing. I swear to the Boeman that I will rid myself of the Nachzehrer and he will be next. I vowed I would send them to Helle where they both belonged. 

I fled the cave. The supplies in my bag, namely the food satisfied nothing at all. The rays of the sun which I loved began to burn me alive. I learned very quickly to find shelter during daylight hours, as anything less would prove to be extremely painful, like being consumed by a fire that I am unable to see but able to feel. I, despite having depleted the food that I had packed, still feel a burning hunger that I am unable to understand. These cravings are still alien to me. The thought of consuming raw flesh or blood, to me, is revolting, though this was part of the Boeman's explanation. In all this time, I have only counted one moon cycle and I am still alive despite having taken in nothing. 

What is it that is sustaining me? 

Homecoming:

Two full cycles of the moon have past before I finally arrive home. Rather than seeking my parents, I first need to speak with Nerthuz. Her house, though small, is on our land. She's an older woman that is steeped in stories, if anyone knows of a weakness to these creatures, it's her. With her help, perhaps I can rid myself of these two evils and restore my good name. 

When I knocked at her door, she opened it, despite the late hour. She looked at me in terror, saying she could see the spectre through me. She claimed her wards would not allow me to enter. 

I try to tell her what happened but she continued to scream at me to stay back. She said I'm not the same man that went off to protect us all. 

I see the Boeman behind her. Damn her wards. They'd failed. He beckons me inside, past the threshold. I can hear Nerthuz's panic-filled responses in my ears but The Boeman also speaks but it's not my ears that hear him. His unnatural and otherworldly voice almost drowns the voice of a terrified Nerthuz. 

"You bear it's eyes!" she cried out over and over and over again. I remember hearing Nerthuz scream and then everything fell silent. 

When my senses returned, I dropped the remains of Nerthuz to the floor of her small house. I had not only drained her of blood, I'd consumed her heart. I had torn it from her body and consumed it like a ravenous beast. I looked out of her window to see someone with a torch in the distance rapidly approaching. I took a small bag from her table and escaped through the back door. 

I am a danger to those I care for most now. I flee my small tribe, having lost them forever. Better to allow my family to believe I was killed rather than to give them the truth. 

I have passed into the Darkness and have been awakened within it. 

Call of Cthulhu - Alone Against The Flames

 From The Journal of Erik Henriksson

July 12, 1924

    I arrived at the bus stop early. It's oppressively hot today and the sun seems to beat everyone underneath it in order to demoralize those who have the misfortune of having to walk beneath it. More so if one were, like myself, carrying these heavy bags. 

    These bags are heavy because they contain what remains of my worldly possessions. Everything I own in two suitcases. 

    I am keeping this journal because, I am, by trade, a journalist. I was born in Bergen, Norway, however, my parents immigrated to the United States when I was merely an infant. I am bilingual in that I am fluent in both Norwegian and English. That being said, I do not possess an accent as one might understand. I am, and have always been, to my knowledge, American. We settled in Providence, Rhode Island and lived our entire lives here. Until now, Providence was home. Everyone I know lives there. My parents, however, chose to move again, favoring the mainland to that of the island. So, it was Arkham, Massachusetts where I would be travelling. I had seen mistrustful faces everywhere and I may have appeared a sight. 

    I am short in stature, barely managing to reach a height of five feet and nine inches. Being educated in Rhode Island, I became keenly aware that, though I can also measure in metric, it is imperial measurements that reign supreme.

    I feel it necessary and important to point out that my career in journalism is centered around my own curiosity. It is insatiable. Seeking answers to mysteries and obtaining a full and objective point of view is why I spend my time in perpetual documentation of anything and everything that only I can verify at any given moment. Upon notice of my intentions to move, the local paper for whom I worked did me the service of sending word ahead to another paper in Arkham in an inquest to see if accomodation among their ranks could be met. There had been a bit of a waiting period until one such news publication had announced that they did, in fact, have room in their pool of fellow journalists for me and I would be able to find employment after I had settled in. I had written a note of thanks, personally, and assured them that it would not take long to settle in. For the moment, I would be remaining with my parents until I had secured accomodations of my own. The promise of being able to contribute within the home was of utmost import to me. Certainly, my mother and father would have no problem accomodating me, however, I insisted on remaining as independent as possible. 

    I had been fanning myself with my hat after putting my suitcases down. As I looked around and took in the scenery around me, a grey motor coach approached to bear me and my belongings via many bus and train trips, into Arkham. I put my hat back upon my head and picked up my suitcases again. 

    Two younger, sullen-looking men emerged from the bus and one of them looked me up and down, as though he were attempting in his mind to weigh odds of some type of outcome about me. The driver emerged behind them. He looked at me. His shirt bearing the bus emblem was stained and then he proceeded around the bus, only to cross the street to the tobacconist across from us. Though many of my peers smoked, I could not bring myself to adopt such a habit. I tried only once, as I recall, I'd become sickened by the smoke, coughing and, as the colleague stated, I was "turning green." Turning green was not ever a fate with which I wanted to revisit. Since then, I have politely declined offers of any further tobacco use. It simply does not suit me. 

    When the driver returned a few moments later, he asked me where I was heading. I showed him my ticket to Ossipee. 

    "Mmm-hm," he said as he finished rolling his cigarette and began reaching for his matches. He lit his cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke into the still air, directing it to his right, I presume, to politely keep it from exhaling it directly at me. He gestured to the back of the coach, "Luggage rack's up there." 

    I admit that the limit of my physical fitness is that I simply am not strong. To me, the cases were heavy and I did struggle to lift them. Carrying them was something of a task but lifting them, I could feel the sun draining my diminished strength. Out of my periphery, I did see the driver standing there, watching me while enjoying his cigarette for a moment before stepping over to me and aiding me in lifting the cases into the rack to secure them. 

    "Heavy bags for a small'un," he remarked. I remember thinking that his comment was rather rude. Being tired and ready to continue on, I simply thought better than to point out how offended I was and simply responded, conveying my thanks. I boarded the motor coach, thankful to be out of the menacing sun. Again, I removed my hat and began to fan myself. When the driver boarded, thumping the remainder of his cigarette into the gutter, I became aware, much to my relief that I would be the coach's only passenger. As the engine came to life under the driver's key and he began to drive, I watched for a moment as all that I knew and was familiar to me passed and became scenery and locale that would be but a memory, at least for the time being. 

    I watched it all for a moment until the awareness that the inside of the motor coach was becoming stuffy. The driver opened a window close to him. I changed my seat and allowed the breeze to run over my face with relief. I placed my had on the seat beside me. With every bend in the road, my stomach would lurch. I took several deep breaths and pushed away all the thoughts of how I didn't want to leave out of my head. I relaxed into the journey. I remember thinking that perhaps I needed a change and perhaps Arkham would supply such a change. What good is curiosity if it does not occasionally get the better of a man? It is the only way that truth is truly found, is it not? 

    We travelled with cornfields and small hamlets passing us until the bus slowed to a stop to pick up someone else. She was a heavyset woman who took a seat well away from me. She departed at the next stop afterward. 

      I had begun to doze off, sleep threatening to overtake me until there was a sudden and sharp turn of the coach. Immediately, any thought of sleeping for the duration of my journey had been interrupted in a manner most sudden and abrupt. There was the sound of someone yelling and I managed to grab the seat in front of me to keep me from falling out of the seat and onto the floor. As I pulled myself upright, I noticed the driver had arisen from his seat and was out of the door. I collected myself and stood to peer through the windshield to see what the trouble could possibly be. 

    What I had witnessed was a tractor that had broken down on the road. The driver had unleashed a litany of epithets in a tirade against the farmer who was doing what he could where he was. The driver's tirade was awful and, as I was about to depart the bus to offer assistance and hopefully stop the driver's verbal abuse of the farmer, the driver had turned and stormed back into the bus to continue the journey. Slowly, I resumed my seat and looked between the driver and the farmer. The driver slowly threaded the bus around the tractor and continued on. I could hear my pulse in my ears as I wondered if the driver had seen the tractor coming or if this was because, perhaps he hadn't been paying attention and had only looked to see the tractor, narrowly avoiding it. 

    I think the driver noticed my incredulity. 

    "Hey, look pal, sorry about all that before," he said. I detected a sense of earnestness in his apology, "That guy was dumber than a hog. I'm Silas, by the way, what's your name?"

    "Erik," I said, introducing myself from where I sat, "I'm Erik Henriksson. It's a pleasure to meet you, Silas." I didn't think it wise to point out that the near-miss was as much the fault of Silas as it was the farmer stopped in the road due to what I could only possibly assume was mechanical failure. 

    "Where you headed?" he asked me, "I mean where's your last stop?"

    "Oh," I said, "Arkham, Massachusetts. I'll be staying with family. I'm a journalist and I'll be working for a small publication,The Arkham Gazette, investigating stories and reporting on them." 

    "Arkham?" he asked, "Can't say I've been there. Went to Boston once but that place isn't for me. Too much hustle and bustle. Not much for city life, myself." 

    "Understandable," I said. I smiled to myself, "I find it's certainly not for everyone. It's been my observation that some are just acclimated to certain locales. For some, a city would suit them and others prefer a more rural setting. Then there are those who wish for a happy medium of a small town."

    "Yeah!" he said to me nodding as he kept his eyes on the road ahead, "The Townies! You a townie?" 

    "Yes," I replied, grinning and nearly laughing a bit, despite myself, "I suppose I am. At least, that is how I've grown up in Providence."

    "So what were you doing in Providence?" he asked. 

    "I was a journalist there but my stories were mostly whimsical stories and vapid society columns," I said, waving a hand dismissively. 

    "Bet you got to see a lot of parties with those, what did you call them?" he asked, "Society columns?" 

    "Occasionally," I said, nodding, "It was all formal attire kinds of things and what all the wealthy where doing at any moment. Sometimes, it was something as simple as an interview with a local philanthropist or business person whom had enriched themselves. I was, however, discouraged from truly investigating the veracity of their various claims." 

    At once, as we crested the hill of a road, not having made any stops since the incident with the farmer, I beheld a sight that stopped the conversation cold. With my own two eyes, I saw one of the most beautiful vistas I do believe that I've ever beheld. The treeline was simply magnificent with a river snaking it's way through those trees, parting them. My thoughts were immediately of my father and I fishing along those banks of that river, casting baited lines into the water and reeling great and heavy fish from them, preparing them with my mother and then sitting down to a dinner of fish filets baked with herbs and lemon juice afterward. There were white mountains in the background, their summit s disappearing into clouds that seemed to surround them. It seemed untouched by man, save for the road upon which we travelled. Not a single settlement anywhere could be seen, not even a cabin. Birds moved from treetop to treetop and, if I'm not mistaken, I'm certain I could have made out two white-tailed deer. 

    Even Silas had lapsed into silence. Though I wondered if I could have survived out here in the wilderness on my own, I had also wondered if Silas had also seen this magnificent view, himself.

    It was then, as the sky began to darken and the clouds began to display red and pink hues that we crested another hill and I saw a settlement ahead. 

    Was this Ossipee? I certainly did not recall the descriptions matching what I was seeing. Nor did it match the photos I'd seen. As I was contemplating whether or not I should attempt to convince Silas to stop so I could stretch my legs, it would seem that providence interrupted and did not give me the opportunity or perhaps it decided to be even more persuasive than even I could be. The engine began to stutter as we reached the top of the hill. He manipulated the gear shift and uttered something I couldn't seem to make out. He then began to wrestle with the steering wheel as he pulled and grunted, guiding the coach into a bay near some small buildings. These were low, squat buildings and he parked near them, stopping and then departed the coach, heading for the engine compartment. 

    After a few moments, I followed, curious as to what had occurred. I found Silas with both arms in the engine compartment. He seemed frustrated. He withdrew his arms and retrieved a handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his brow. 

    "Dunno what's wrong with 'er," he said, "Could be something with the oil pressure, I really couldn't tell you. It's getting dark, pal and I can't do anything with it until the engine cools. We're probably gonna be here all night. Won't see any help until morning." 

    "Oh," I said, a sense of dread coming over me. I don't think one day would harm anything but a failure in the engine could take longer than one day to repair. Even then, I'm not entirely certain because I do not possess anything in the way of mechanical aptitude. 

    "Listen," he said, possibly noting my dismay, "This is Emberhead. We're miles away from anywhere so, if you want, you can either sleep on the coach or you can head on over to May Ledbetter's place. She usually keeps a spare room for guests and the people here are decent people. May's place is up that alley, turn right and she's the first house on your left. If you're gonna do that, just be sure to meet me here at eight in the morning so we know where we stand."

    I nodded and took my suitcases down from the luggage rack. I made my way to May Ledbetter's house, following Silas' instructions implicitly. The home itself was unassuming, a nameplate hanging from the porch read "Ledbetter" and the sign hanging underneath it read "Lodging Room." 

    I knocked on the door. 

    After a moment I heard footsteps on the other side of the door. I heard a lock being disengaged and then the door opened and what greeted me was a woman with loose curls and a rough-looking house dress standing before me. 

    "Hello," she said greeting me, "Am I to take it that you're looking for a room for the night?" Her voice had a slight Irish lilt to it. 

    "Yes," I said, "I'm Erik Henriksson. I was directed here, what are your rates for the night?"

    "Oh you'll find them more than reasonable," she said, "Come in, come in, let's get your things put away and then get you some tea."

    Inside was a small, cramped house with a low ceiling and the aroma of tea filled the air. There was a small fire in the fireplace and the house itself was warm, almost cozy. 

    "Have you come to Emberhead for the festival?" she asked me. 

    This was the first I'd ever heard of Emberhead or a festival in it. Curious, I decided to press just a little by using a bit of cunning. 

    "Oh yes, Ma'am," I said, "I've been sent specifically for your festival but, I am afraid I don't know all that much about it. Would you be so kind as to tell me more?" 

    She filled our tea cups and we sat and sipped as she explained that there was a Beacon on the cliff. There would be a procession to that cliffside beacon and then it would be lit. It keeps the spirit of the town alive for another year, she explained. 

    "It's a celebration!" she said with a smile, her voice trailing off, "...a celebration. Oh you didn't come to hear me blather on about local affairs, did you?" she said, "Let's get you to your room." 

    When she quoted a rate as low as the one she quoted me, I accepted without hesitation. The room was small but dinner was a hearty stew that May had skillfully prepared herself. I hadn't expected such a modest meal to warm the soul as it did, however, I still had a couple of hours before bed. I decided to press a little more. I had to wonder if such a superstition was something that warranted a celebration on it's anniversary. 

    She spoke at length about life in Emberhead. 

    "My sister's always writing me letters asking how I could be in such a small town without being bored," she said, "She lives in New York City and writes about how she's afraid to walk home at night. I ask you!" 

    I spoke about my hopes of a new life in Arkham, however, it was almost as if she didn't hear me in the least. 

    "It's a small place here, yes," she says, "Everyone here knows everyone. Everyone works together. We have real community here, save for the ones that exclude themselves, of course. I don't think I could live anywhere else now."

    As the hour wore on, she seemed to become more reflective. 

    "It's not always easy. I'm a widow, you know. We have a little money, and of course I appreciate the custom of travelers like yourself. I know we’ll never starve as long as we live here. But I don’t see myself marrying again. I know every man in this village. I know them too well, if you see what I mean.”

    I nodded, understanding what it is she meant indeed. 

    She pushed a hand through her head and her mouth twisted briefly before she yawned.

    "Time for me to turn in," she said to me, "When would you like breakfast?"

    As May stood, I heard a clunk behind me. I looked over my shoulder but all I could see was a wooden door, securely closed. 

    May tutted. 

    “The young lady of the house," she said, "She’ll have been listening to us. Ruth! Come and greet our guest.” 

    There was a short pause, then the door creaked open. Two wide eyes peered at me from the gap, between tousled hair and a rough nightgown. 

    “What do you say?” The eyes blinked. “Pleased to meet you.” 

    “Now get back to bed.” The door closed again. “My daughter Ruth. Ten years this summer. She’s a delight and a torment all in one. Don’t worry, she sleeps in with me. She’ll not disturb you. Good night now.”

    I retired to the room. It was chilly, but I was too tired to worry about lighting the fire. The sheets were clean and the bed soon warmed up. The silence outside was strange after living in a town for so long, but I soon drifted off into sleep. 

Horde Wars: The High-Seas Horror pt. II

 Author's Note: I'm afraid I have come to you all this evening bearing terrible news. It would seem that my character, Drago, has met his end in this particular game of Horde Wars. Now, for the good news, I was able to roll up another character in minutes. Read on from The Ship's Log being diligently kept by one of our party members and to cap off this note before I post the logs from the past two sessions, I wanted all of you to know that you too can now play the game I've been playtesting for months! Simply go to this link at Big Geek Emporium Dot Com to get your copy of Horde Wars Basic d12 for only $5!!!

Day 18

We took the raft over to the pier and found a desiccated orc berserker drained of moisture collapsed over the other corpse.  He stinks terribly and his axe is freshly chipped.  It appears he was starving.

We took 8 hand mirrors, a wizard’s robe, mercenary leathers, unusual brigandine armor made from the scales of creature, a lash with silver thread embedded in it that is mercurial and cold, flint and steel, wool blankets, religious text, 2 antitoxins, 6 healing potions, 1 darkvision potion, 1 water breathing potion, Oswald holding: 2 scrolls of flight, scroll of edwin’s chime, a scroll of cloak of invisibility, 10 Crowns, 120 Marks, a heavy crossbow, and 15 bolts from the shop. 

Day 19

While attempting to return our bounty to the ship, we were attacked by an invisible creature. The creature grabbed them with two claws that froze them and their life was drained out. Oswald and Drago were harmed pretty badly.

Day 20

A bird slams into the mast of the ship and falls. We find a note in its container. The note says someone is trapped in a tower. There is a monster at the bottom of the tower. We send a new note with the same bird back the way it came. The bird slams into the sail, ripping it. The new note confirms that someone is passing notes with us.

We decide to use 3 Flight spells to survey the entire island. Sigfried comes out with the party and explores the island. He finds desiccated people. He then flies to the lighthouse, finds people hit with hammers dead. More shipwrecks all over the coastline.

I found a stone structured castle. There are knights that seem to be illusions or ghosts.This is a fabled castle ruled by a legendary king. The nation doesn’t exist on any map. The name escapes me. By the look of them, they seem to be very old/ancient. 3 miles inland and uphill from the harbor.  There was a ring of dead birds around the invisible wall.

I search around more, and find overgrown outbuildings, homes, barns. Orchards last longer than planted fields. More desiccated corpses, more dead animals are found. Nearly every corpse is desiccated except for the giants, and the birds.

Scroll: Hand of Regulus

Scroll: Lightning Bolt

Scroll: Shapeshift

X USED X Scroll: Disenchant (burst area)

Scroll: Shapeshift

While searching the tower, we were ambushed by the creature. I used the disenchant scroll to make it visible, revealing it to be a banshee. We managed to defeat it but angered the tower gargoyles in the process. Phillip and I got away and returned to the ship but Siegfried ran into the tower. His fate is unknown.

The rest of us crept towards the tower while Siegfried frantically tried to block the door between him and the Gargoyles. A bloody battle ensued at the top of the tower with the gargoyles. Drago died tragically from the wounds he sustained in his attempt to rescue Siegfried. We had no healing potions left. We searched the tower for items and found:

1 Treasure Chest: 300 Marks, 20 Crowns

1 Treasure Chest: 100 Crowns, 350 Marks

1 Decoration: Dragon Glass Obelisk with Elves and Nymphs dancing (300 marks)

1 Decoration: Crystal Platter engraved with a Tree and Seven Stars (750 marks)

1 Artifact Weapon: Enchanted Silver Battleaxe (1d12 slashing, extra die of damage vs. monsters, heavy, ignores displacement and absorption.

Drago was set upon a raft along with his weapons and personal effects. He was set out to sea after the raft was set

ablaze in accordance with what we believe to be customary for one such as him. 

Day 21

Another boat crept upon us in the middle of the night. We were awakened in the night to the sound of goblins. We emerged from our sleep, still tired and worn but alert enough that we were armed and ready to defend the ship. We overheard someone yelling in the distance but were unsure as to what was taking place. The Goblins attacked once discovered. During the fray, a yell could be heard and then a scream and a splash. We busied ourselves defending the ship and were making short work of the goblin attackers. 

A man entered the battle and aided us. Having lost Drago in battle, we weren’t sure at first as to whom the man was

that had boarded our ship. We were able to understand that he wasn’t here to harm us as he ferociously attacked

the goblins, displaying a particular distaste for them. When the fighting was over, we were introduced to the man that aided us. His name is Herger Baldursson, though we know little about him, he did aid us in our time of need. He also aided us in looting the goblin’s longboat. He took the goblin bodies, tossed them onto the longboat that the goblins had used as their pirate vessel and then used one of the goblins’ own torches to set it ablaze after we had pushed it away from us.     

Items found on the Goblin Longboat

Scroll: Elemental Shield

Scroll: Flight

Scroll: Shapeshift

Jewelry 1 - Gold Bracers decorated with Diamonds or Emeralds [3,500 Marks]

Jewelry 2 - Gold Earrings decorated with a Star Sapphire [1,000 marks]

Yogshnark was also discovered unconscious on the Longboat and brought aboard the The Knórr.

Magic Scroll: Elemental Shield - Maneuver

Scroll: Flight

Scroll: Shapeshift

Jewelry 1 - Gold Bracers decorated with Diamonds or Emeralds[3,500 Marks]

Jewelry 2 - Gold Earrings decorated with a Star Sapphire [1,000 marks]