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.