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.
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