The world around me melted away at that moment. The butler known as Jove faded into nothing before my eyes, and everything turned gray and cold. I had been put under a powerful spell, and my mind had finally broken its illusory chains. The room I had been sitting in looked abandoned now; no lush decor or furniture, the fireplace cold and in shambles. I had been sitting on a rotting wooden crate, sipping putrid eavesdrop water out of a cracked cup, alone in a dust-plagued basement, like a simple-minded child having a make-believe tea party. I spit out the residue and let out a lion’s roar. I had been made a fool again. None of this was real…
I smashed the crate against the wall, and began to make my way up the so-called secret passage, no a simple set of disheveled stairs. I came out into the main floor kitchen, seething with rage, and looking for someone to settle the score with. The rest of the house had been abandoned ages ago, like everything else, and I couldn’t detect any sign of life within. I moved to the second floor, searching, smelling for anything out of the ordinary. Something important occurred to me then, in a brief moment of clarity. The constable had betrayed me…the gray stranger had me in his palms again! For if not my nemesis, who could have concocted such a travesty? It had to be the scoundrel himself, no other answer would do. I felt positively livid at the prospect of having been so easily lead into another one of his traps. I would have to end this, one way or another!
A noise from outside! I glanced out the windows from the second floor, discovering to my great surprise that the coach was still parked out int front, horses and all. I disturbance I had detected turned into a rumble of hooves, and irate-sounding horses. The wolves had arrived for their feast, I gathered. I had delivered myself right into the hands of the enemy. A normal man would have felt terror and despair at his predicament, but I experienced pure adolescent anticipation. I had foul murder on the mind. I counted a score of men. They spoke a strange dialect of Mordentish, and looked like well-groomed gentlemen. Not at all what I had expected from a gang of assassins. I leaped up, pulling myself to higher ground, where I hid among the large wooden beams which kept the roof aloft. Using the shadows, I waited for a chance to get a closer at my persecutors. I saw the mob gather in front of the house, preparing to make their assault. I had seen this all before; it was like the opening of a familiar theatre piece. The leader hands out directions and encourages his men. He tells them not to falter in the task ahead, looking into their eyes like a proud patriarch. Every mob, in my experience, has something unique to it; a defining touch, if you will. Be it the use of innovative weaponry (burning pitchforks), to colorful uniforms that often involve a hood or cowl of some kind. It’s curious that people should become so festive when waiting for a collective kill. Perhaps I have more in common with men than I realize.
This group carried a distinctive approach as well, but not one that I have ever witnessed before, and I dare say that I am unlikely to ever see anything like it again. The first few thugs entered the building to lead the way, but not before undergoing, what I can only describe as a sickening transformation. It was intriguing at first to see them shed their clothes, stretching their arms like a couple of fencers warming up for a match. Things quickly took a turn for the horrific however, as the two men began to convulse and contort, their limbs cracking, their skin expanding and warping. Their jaws began to come apart, stretching out and merging with the tops of their faces. Dark, oily tufts of hair began sprouting everywhere on their twisted frames, while their nails hardened into vicious claws and their teeth became yellowed daggers.
Ratmen, Rat-Weres, Neotoma cinerea. Considered to be the most wretched breed of lycantrophe in existence. I say “existence”, but until that day, I had counted them among the typical fictions of Man’s perverse imagination. If what I had read about them during my captivity was based in truth, I was now facing a very real threat to my continued existence. The rodent varieties of lycantrophes (according to Tobias Beach’s Bloodlines and Curses, Volume Nine) were particularly known for their ability to infect their victims with a long range of ungodly diseases. I knew at that moment that I would not be able to confront my aggressors in my traditional hand-on fashion. A new strategy was required to handle this precarious situation.
The first instinct in combat is usually the correct one, but often the combatant neglects to carefully consider his plan for potential flaws. I had high ground (a good start), and a house full of rats, and my immediate instinct said “burn them all”. I wasted no time, emptying the fuel contents of my lantern, dousing the support beam that I was perched upon for cover. I could hear the creatures stalking up the stairs, making for my position; they had no doubt located me by scent. I struck a match and set the support beam ablaze. The flame was blue at first, dancing along the surface of the wood, but soon it took on the desired red and orange hue, and I knew that job was done.
I waited a little longer, to ensure my ruse would work, then dropped from my position in the rafters, and deftly swung my body outside of the house, through the open kitchen windows. The drop was negligible for one of my talents, and as soon as my feet hit the ground, I rolled with the inertia, and immediately ran for cover behind the parked coach near the villa’s gates. I looked back at the fruits of my labor with no small measure of satisfaction; the top floors of the villa had already caught fire, and I could already discern panicked howls from within. I murmured a curse in Luktar, a handsome dialect spoken by former-Gunderakites in Barovia, as I looked on with satisfaction.
I spotted something out of the corner of my eye, in the front entrance of the house. A triad of Ratmen had spotted my hasty retreat to the coach, and were now presumably communicating their intents to me in their native tongue. The game, as they say, was up, and I could no longer stay out of sight. The time for stealth had come and gone; a more direct action was required, something decisive and effective. I was outnumbered, and unless I found a way to best these rascals, and block off the villa’s exit, they would overwhelm me. I needed an edge, a way to make it clear to my adversaries that I was a real threat. A demonstration of power was in order.
I reached for the harness that tied the horses to the coach, and unclasped the latch. The horses realized I had set them free, and sauntered forward a few steps, making the crossbar fall to the ground. I anchored my feet near the wheels of the coach and wrapped my hands around the sides, securing my grip. I drew a deep breath, focusing the brunt of the weight on my legs, and lifted the cab over my head in a vulgar display of power. I tried to compliment my feat by grimacing and growling like a lumbering ogre, which lent much credibility to my actions, I think. The Ratmen simply stood their ground, frozen, paralysed, and no doubt suffering from disbelief (I do so enjoy that facial expression, even on abominations of Nature!).
I hurled the coach with all of my strength, letting loose a cry of defiance. The cab soared through the air, and landed quite decisively on top of the creature closest to me. The sickening sound of crushed bones and splintered wood did nothing to sooth their fears. I had now sent them a clear message, and they would have to ponder their retort carefully. The terror in their eyes, compounded by the sudden and violent death of the kinsman, added finally to the now resounding cacophony of shrieks and pleas for mercy, emerging from the blazing villa, allowed me to conclude the outcome of this confrontation. The pathetic beasts looked at each other, and silently agreed to make their retreat.
Before they could flee, I caught the attention of bronze-colored one, and gave him my best smile, pointing my finger at him in an effort to make him yield. I had the impression that he was willing to submit to his superior, but as Fate would have it, he would not get that opportunity in the end. Out of the cold dark night I saw a beam of pure blinding light pass over my head, and strike the Rat-Were directly in its chest. The creature exploded in a blazing fury, making sounds that I could not imitate. The lance of sun fire had come from behind me; finally, my rescuers had arrived. Symeon sat high on his horse (I can be terrible sometimes!), ending his incantations, as the beam of light ceased to exist. Petru was not far behind, armed and ready. I felt a kind of warmth inside me at that moment. Having friends, compatriots that are beholden to me, and care about my safety; it was all a bit much to handle, but pleasant none the same. There was still the matter of our last surviving rodent, but I attended to him. I caught up with him, and crushed his neck beneath my boots, watching the life seep out of his beady eyes. I was my old self again.
We took the time to regroup, sharing information, confirming our doubts about the so-called constable and his foiled plan to finish us off. This time we had turned the tables on the gray stranger, and we would press our advantage until his life was finally in our hands. Then, on that auspicious occasion, we would get a chance to redefine the meaning of retribution…