When you’re a child, even an abnormal one, by way of misfortune or accident, you are inescapably faced with learning one of the fundamental lessons of life and nature; he who mocks the flame will likely get burned by it. What they don’t tell you is that the lesson doesn’t nearly end there, oh no my friends. Very quickly as you leave childish things behind and enter the world of men, you realize that Fate will spare no opportunity to reiterate its teaching lest you come to your senses, or fail to survive the latest examination. Most chaps will convince themselves at one point or another that they are completely aware of their strengths and their shortcomings, and it here, precisely during these reoccurring periods of self-assurance and unquestionable arrogance that the Powers That Be see fit to remind you of your limitations. I thought myself immune to such petty human concerns, I believed that having been born an aberration, a thing with human features but otherwise disqualified from membership in the human race; I thought that one such as I would be above foolish notions of arrogance. After all, how could a monster be full of himself? How could a beast born of alchemical blasphemy and natural defiance be anything but aware of its nature; forthcoming and honest with what it is, what its capable of. This is delusion that I have allowed to creep into the cellar of my consciousness, and looking back on things at this juncture, one of many delusions that led to my brush with Hell in the misty confines of Barovia.
Symeon, Petru, Ephraim and I had resolved to stay behind and see to this nefarious affair involving the unfortunate Gregoire of Mordentshire, a disgruntled man on a path of vengeance that was cut short by way of some dark and cruel necromancy. We surmised by the few clues left behind that Gregoire’s death had been a bi-product of his meddling with forbidden lore, some from of occult source that was linked to the bizarre item we had been commissioned to recover from his possession. This mummified hand, wrapped in a wicked barbed twine, fashioned like Bloody Jack’s idea of a bedroom candle. This wretched thing that the Vistani sought so adamantly had robbed a man of his life, (perhaps long before he actually came to realize it), and would change the course of our own history in ways we, I of all, could never fathom.
We had come to an impasse in our involvement in the mysterious demise of Gregoire. The local authorities had been alerted by the innkeeper, and before we knew it the local constabulary was on the scene asking questions. Their captain was another one of those shrewd men with proud bearing and damn-your-eyes attitude. I naturally kept a low profile and observed things from the darkness, knowing full well the consequences of being seen in the company of my allies. I let them tend to particulars and observed things silently, trying to determine my next course of action. In the end my compatriots were ordered to house-arrest while the captain and his men reported back to their superiors. Things were getting a tad strenuous for our ensemble, and soon we would have to decide on an action to avoid further unpleasantness from Barovia’s finest.
We formulated a plan, or perhaps I should say that I presented an idea to my fellows that had the potential of delivering them and allowing all for us to put distance between ourselves and the cursed hollow of Vallaki. Greogoire’s atrophied body presented us with a unique obstacle; the guards suspected foul play, and in the absence of any other eligible perpetrators of villainy, they were in a convenient position to absorb blame for Gregoire’s untimely demise. I proposed to resolve this problem by introducing a perfectly willing, and decidedly more attractive culprit for the supposed murder - yours truly! It made perfect sense. The situation called for a scapegoat, a convincing one at that. I have rarely felt the call of duty like I did that day.
The ruse was simple enough. We would wait for the moment propice , make sure that a witness (the innkeeper) would be present; we would stage the whole thing like a poorly-rehearsed matinee piece from the Brightham-Colm Theatre. I donned an old mask that I had appropriated from the aforementioned establishment during my younger days as their unofficial Prompter (a story for another time perhaps). The harlequin mask, with its angry brows, wicked grin and elongated nose, was just the edge we needed to make me look the part of the fiend (irony, oh irony!). When the hour of action came, I stepped out of the shadows doing my best rendition of Xavier Herst’s antagonist, Eleones from The Dragon’s Breath, speaking in foreign tongues (the ancient dialect of clever-sounding gibberish that is) , and making a general ass of myself. Fortunately my amateurish acting skill was rounded out by my documented abnormalities, namely my gargantuan frame and ghoulish proportions, and so the deception had the desired effect on our poor unsuspecting witness.
Once terror had saturated the room, a few masterful performances from Petru and company succeeded in lending the necessary dramatic fuel to our fire. I gathered Gregoire’s remains and declared in a booming voice my intentions to spirit it off to my “lair in Hell”. I crashed through the nearby window, thus alerting the guard and inciting overall panic in the streets. As soon as I touched down on the main avenue, howling and snarling like a thing possessed, well, you can imagine how well the peasant folk adapted to the situation. I fled down the street, heralded by a chorus of high-pitched screams and gasps, eventually disappearing into the night like the Devil himself. It was all damn entertaining if I do say so myself. Herst might have approved.
It occurred to me then, in the heat of my passionate dash across the streets of Vallaki, that we had neglected to discuss with my colleagues, the exact circumstances of our plan. Particularly the part that detailed the lieu of our regrouping. A major oversight, no doubt about it. Overconfidence. I fled to the woods, throwing off my pursuers in the process, and allowing me the opportunity to see to the proper destruction of Gregoire’s remains (which we had decided to commit to the fire for security purposes). After some time however, I begun to question the wisdom of my direction, and began searching for a way back to the main road. My instincts told me that my allies would beat a hasty retreat to the town of Krezk in the North, where they would presumably await my arrival.
Being a creature of high-society, hailing from a grand metropolis like Paridon, I unfortunately lacked the direction sense and know-how to navigate out of the forest in a timely manner, and therefore found myself turning in circles like a blasted blinded rat in a maze for the better part of the day. When I finally touched man-made stone once more, I came to a most troubling realization; I had lost the daylight, and dusk was beginning to settle in. The feeling that I experienced then had the features and characteristics of fright, and I say this because the chill against my spine and cool beads of sweat on my brow had been somewhat of an alien sensation to me until that moment. I quickly began to understand that I was experiencing the symptoms of a condition I am normally accustomed to inducing to those around me. I realized I was afraid.
If the accounts that we had heard from the peasantry had not been enough to convince me to stay indoors in the late Barovian hours, the wolf cries that I began hearing from all around me clearly brought the idea home. I had failed to observe the cardinal rule of this land, and now stood several miles away from civilization and shelter. I was at the mercy of the land and its true masters. I felt numb, indecisive, incoherent; I needed to think fast, to find a way to survive. In the end, I did then what any man would have done in my stead: I ran with all the strength and endurance that I could muster, bound for Krezk. The howls got louder, followed by all the various and unnerving emanations of supernatural activity. Soon I could detect the scent of the predator in the air, a fragrance marked by a lethal and unwavering quality. For a moment I found myself wondering if I myself produced such a odor when I used to prey on my father’s enemies from the rooftops.
I ran, and I ran some more. My chest heaved like one of those steam contraptions approaching critical mass, my limbs getting heavier with every stride. I was only too aware of my pursuers and their increasing proximity, yet I pushed on, damning the limits of constitution and sanity. I must have reached speeds that would be considered unnatural, for even the shapes in the forest seem to exert themselves in the chase. If not for my mounting distress, I might have turned to make obscene gestures and offer them a few colorful remarks in their native language (which offers a surprisingly vast selection of expletives for those purposes), alas I was not in the mood at all for levity. I simply assumed that whichever merciless power was responsible for my present condition must have been properly entertained for the both of us, leaving me ample opportunity to contemplate my terror.
When my body began to surrender despite my will to guide it onward, I experienced another strange sensation, this one from what I suspect to having originated from an alterior origin. I heard what I can only describe as a whisper, a melange of whispers as a matter of fact, entering my brain by some kind of telepathy rather than by sensory input. I heard “it” calling to me, the thing, the artifact of corruption that we had lifted off of poor Gregoire. Before I could begin translating the contents of the message, I realized that I already understood its meaning. It was calling out to me, beckoning me to abandon my flight and face my assailants. I dismissed the idea at first for what it was: pure unmistakable folly. My burning legs and arms however urged me to reconsider the proposal and gave out from under me. My natural instincts responded fortunately, I rolled with the crash and found myself back on my feet. It was clear however than my journey had come to an end, and that regardless of the occult knowledge and evolutionary promise vested in me, I simply had to make my stand, this far and no further.
Something in me was compelled to retrieve the barbed candle-hand from its container. The prevailing theory in my mind was that it held some kind of power within its cursed digits. If this was indeed to be my final hour, I would not willingly walk into the light of the hereafter without pooling every resource, be it benevolent or sacrilegious in nature. I lit the wick as a tremor formed in my chest, then with burdened resolve I looked up to finally behold my tormentors in all their magnificent and terrible glory.
I counted a score of them, surging from the path behind me, hulking brutes with teeth and claws no less than twice that of the generic kind. Bulging sinew and alabaster fangs merged with razor-shaped black masses of fur to form creatures only reminiscent of wolves, but clearly of another unearthly origin. Their eyes, like lances forged from dying stars, fixed upon my flesh with resounding purpose. No, these were no wolves at at all; they were the feral legions of the night, the watchers of the deep, the unchallenged masters of this land. They did not prey on the foolhardy to assuage any desires of nourishment or territorial supremacy; they did it for their entertainment and predatory delight. I knew this because I had lived their life once upon a time, a skulking beast of fury, living only for the hunt and the sweet taste of my victim’s despair. These demons and I, we knew things about one another, we had sipped from the same cup of wine.
The situation was clear to me now. I was surrounded, too far yet to call on my fellows for the help I needed so direly. Yet in a strange way I was glad to be the only one trapped in this nightmare. I suddenly understood why when I summoned their faces in my mind’s theatre. They were my friends, my family. They were like little brothers to me, in need of my protection. To know that they were away from all this madness and horror did much to strengthen my spirits. They would have to press on in this wicked world without me, and that was alright. Tonight I would give the heavens a performance they would never forget. I would fight my last battle with such rage and determination that my final cry would knock the stars out of the shrouded sky. I took a deep breath and turned back my attention to my executioners, managing even an insolent smirk and a flare of the nostrils. “Have at you, you bothersome rascals! By all that I am I pledge to send you back to the putrid kennels of Hell from which you were set loose! Come now, the night is ours to paint with crimson!”
…
They came. Like angelic swordsmen on the Day of Endings they descended upon my mishapped form with deadly determination. I had set the unholy candle down on a flat stone a few feet away to let it burn unhindered, and opened my arms like a welcoming father to his beckoning children. What followed then, I cannot say with certainty. I know only that I fought. I fought with the zeal and vigor of hundred berzerkers when I should have only been able to muster that of a dozen or so. The devils afforded me no quarter, clawing and rending at me without a moment’s respite, yet for all their efforts my skin would not tear, my blood would not spill. Had I been aware of my unearthly condition, mayhap I would have fallen over and laid there in confusion, but I could see and hear only death and destruction. I clawed back, I tore at their contorted snouts. I pulled their jaws apart like wooden branches and dug my fingers into their eyes. I expected to falter soon, but the moment would not come, and so I forged on like the son of the Reaper, committing wholesale slaughter on them all. More and more came, but it did not matter. I killed them all and left no wounded.
When I came to my senses I discovered that I had been bathed in their blood and now stood atop their discarded corpses, triumphant. Disbelief collided with jubilation as I counted my victims - twenty-nine. Twenty-nine lay at my feet beyond all repair. It had all the makings of some Sithican myth, “Behold, Samael the Wolf-Slayer!” I was reeling from a kind of feverish exaltation from it all, that momentary madness that valiant heroes of legend conceal beneath their golden helms once they’ve pulled their blade from the enemy’s dead heart.
I had but a moment to recuperate before I felt a sudden jolt of violent pain from my abdomen. I began to wretch and convulse from some unknown anguish. I rolled to the floor screaming and gasping. My confusion lasted but a moment before I realized why this was happening to me; it was the blasted thing, the Devil’s Torch, the candle of foul corruption. It had shielded me from harm during my savage battle with the wolves with its cursed magics, and now it was exacting the price for its servitude. Never had I felt such pain in my existence. For a moment I began to believe that I had not survived my ordeal at all. That I had only imagined my victory, and now I actually lay near death with my enemies feasting on my innards. Just then the pain went away, and I could breathe again and smell the blood around me. I took to my feet, dazed and disoriented. By some instinct I divined the direction to Krezk and began to make my way toward it. I sealed the Devil’s Torch in its case out of some misplaced sense of ownership and made best speed for inhabited land. Here I was thinking that my trials had ended for the evening (and perhaps the year?), but, as I would soon discover, that the festivities were just beginning.
About a quarter-mile from the battleground I came upon a couple of fallen human corpses, a man and a woman. The male I recognized as one of the town guard, Ulian, I believe his captain had called him. He lay still now next to a waif of a woman, his wife perhaps. They appeared to have been the entree in the feast I had been supposed to serve as the main course (terribly sorry to disappoint chaps!). I entertained some notions of offering them proper burials, but my body and mind had other plans. Just as I turned from their presence I felt a stir from the corpses, and before I could compensate with my senses, both the man and girl were on their feet smiling at me with gleaming and prominent ivory fangs.
This was the breaking point for me personally, and I could only frown and tilt my head to the side in confusion. the man stepped forward and bowed to me mockingly. “A very good night to you sir, I am Ulian of Krezk and this is my lovely wife-to-be Agneska. Would you terribly mind if we tore out your throat and sucked it dry of its delicious contents?” Alright, perhaps he did not word his thoughts in this manner, but the blasted thing’s intentions were clear enough to send a battalion of heavy cavalry packing through the plains. Seeing no other choice, I took flight for the second time of the night, galloping like a wet rhinoceros down the road to salvation. I had spotted a light in the distance you see, a light that could not have been other than the gateway to Krezk, and so I made like a demon for the horizon.
Somehow, by means I cannot explain (perhaps leftover magical influence from the candle), I breached the rotting gates of the town of Krezk, arriving into the center street like a rolling boulder of bloodied flesh. I could only find the strength to yell with all my heart, “Symeon! Symeon! To me my friends! Misericordia!”. For the third time that night I witnessed a miracle as a window from a nearby window exploded and out came Symeon with Petru and Ephraim at his side. Symeon looked different from how I’d remembered him; he no longer stood slouched in his adopted posture of the humble pilgrim. His eyes glowed with a fire hotter than those of Purgatory, and his bearing was that of a divine smiter of evil rather than a reclusive heretic. These creatures, these Nosferatu that had chased me into the alleys were (I later discovered) his mortal enemies by design.
Next to him came another apparition in the form of Ephraim, standing tall with his armor gleaming, free of the rags he normally wore over them to conceal his might. Ephraim’s stance was that of a spiritual warrior, sword in hand (drawn out no less!) shield in the other, yet his face showed a kind of tranquil elegance, it showed grace and assurance in the power of his faith. Last but not least came my little Petru, the idealist. Like a jackal, foaming at the mouth he jumped from his vantage point, hurling insults and everything else within his reach. They were The Saint, The Knight, and the Madman, three cards that the Vistani Tarroka deck had not revealed to me, yet they stood there plain to me as ever. The battle was fierce but short. In the end we dispatched the female and gave Ulian a thrashing he would not soon forget, unfortunately the slippery bastard managed to flee from us by shifting into a mist-like state, leaving us all alone in the deserted street.
We decided to leave Krezk at once and return to the abandoned temple where we had first taken refuge at our arrival into Barovia. There I took the time to share my trials to a shocked but attentive audience, and promptly feinted into my bedroll like a slab of beef on the butcher’s table. The sleep took me in an instant, and I began to feel at ease for the first time in days, counting my blessings and lamenting my curses.
All in a day’s work, wouldn’t you agree?