The motivational forces of this world, be they gods of myth and scripture, or subtle fluctuations of cosmic influence, must undoubtedly be imbued with a wretched sense of comedy to have cast me into such a hopeless series of dreadful inconveniences. Many brave individuals, the sort that might openly label themselves adventurers and explorers, would have seen their lifetime’s appetite for excitement satisfied had they walked but these last 3 weeks in my admittedly large shoes. I had naturally anticipated a kind of perpetual state of restlessness and danger when I fled into the arms of the mists all those months ago, but had I been presented then with an appercu of what lay ahead, I might have considered staying in Paridon and reaping the proverbial whirlwind for my transgressions against the Circle. In the three months since my exodus, I have seen simple men walk through fire unscathed, rodents the size of hunting dogs, houses that operated themselves, demons in the guise of wolves, crazed vampiric apparitions, artifacts from the Devil’s own personal collection, and enough dead men to eclipse any records held by even the likes of Bloody Jack.
Our close encounter with the lecherous Nosferatu had left us in somewhat of a funk, and in dire need of relocation. Fortunately (or so we thought), Petru remembered having met in his past a number of sympathetic types, located a negligible distance away from the site the debacle with the undead soldier, and even further away from the site of my titanic (and supernaturally assisted) victory over a throng of bestial predators. We made our course to the famed fortress named Hunadora, the alleged seat of growing Gundarakite insurrection. These Gundarakites, Symeon told me, were the hardy and foolishly brave sort, convinced that their heritage and territorial legacy had been stripped away by the despotic machinations of the lords of Barovia and Invidia. Ironically enough these same Gundarakites are said to have lived like under the crushing rule of their very own tyrant (they breed them like sewer rats around here!) for more years than their own sages can remember, which make their fierce struggle somewhat noble and admirable in that impossibly naive human way. Whatever the case, Castle Hunadora was now reportedly occupied by a ragtag army of rebels and mercenaries, waging a desperate war on several fronts from atop their high walls. Petru assured us that we would find allies there, people willing to shelter even one such as I against the immediate dangers of the sprawling black forests. We had all agreed to make best speed bound for Hunadora, where we would be afforded the chance to regroup and rethink our strategy (and the particulars of our association). We certainly hoped to find a moment’s peace in which to collect our senses and attempt to rationalize some of the incredible events of the past week.
Looking back on things now, I should have payed attention to that itch on the back of my neck; that almost insignificant yet bothersome irritation that I often experience when something bad is imminent. Just as our destination came into our sights, I discerned the all-too-familiar high-pitched lamentations of a beast of burden, a mare in some rather considerable pain and suffering by the intonation and harmony. We broke out of travelling formation and converged on the source of the distress to find a lone rider attempting to engage a sinister adversary of his own; a creature that I must say complied with every feverish nightmare vision of the apocalypse that I had ever conjured up in my wildest fantasies. This thing, this mind bending, frightful construction of pure evil must have outweighed me by at least a hundred stone. Even now the terror that I experienced at the sight of it prevents me from giving an accurate account of its actual appearance; that and the shroud of dusk that fell over us like an opera house curtain in the final act. Its frame was easily twice the size of mine if not more, and its maw sufficiently wide to nearly engulf my entire body, a feature that I did not imagine existing in any being that roamed this earth or the next. If these hellish attributes were not enough to send a battalion of warrior-angels promptly packing, the fiend was also covered entirely in wickedly barbed scales of some sort; a sadistic perversion of Nature and more.
As most reformed bullies will testify (I certainly qualify, I think), there is nothing quite as misleading than being born with a physical advantage over the majority of others around you. Oh you certainly may get a chance to derive some form of pleasure or entertainment in tormenting your inferiors and reminding them of your prominent position in the food chain. You may even come into power by such means and live out your life unfettered by the petty concerns of personal safety. More likely however a bully will go through life unchallenged and therefore severely inexperienced with the humiliating circumstances of a sound and crushing defeat at the hands of a “bigger fish”. There’s always one of those somewhere along the line; more of that morbid humor from the powers we mortals regard as divine. Well here was a “bigger fish” if I have ever seen one, by Jove, and the blasted thing nearly made its supper with a single snap of its infernal jaws.
By some blind beggar’s fortune it surrendered its bite and shot back into the darkness, giving me the opportunity to flee out of genuine concern for my survival (for the 2nd time in my entire life). Meanwhile Symeon, Petru and Ephraim managed to salvage the wounded horseman who’s calls for help had brought us into the dark woods in the first place, and together we beat our retreat like a couple of Parliament members from a crumbling whorehouse. Our situations was of course greatly helped by the fact that Petru’s horse had experienced the devastating touch of that bloated porcupine and was going to meet its maker in the near future, to say nothing of the fact that for reasons that would only reveal themselves to our party later that night, a giant grey could of smoke could be seen pouring from the bastions of Castle Hunadora. Delightful!
Down the razor blade hill, into the alcohol river, as they say. I suppose it will surprise no one when I reveal that there was no sign of a grand encampment of valiant rebel troops, awaiting the fateful hour of their glorious liberation from the clutches of foreign oppression. No, no such luck for me and my chaps. What we came upon at Hunadora had more the likings of one of Derrick Salizar’s tragic poems about the slow and agonizing death of a once-dashing knight, stuck with a nasty case of consumption and acute leprosy. The castle grounds were decimated or at best, abandoned even by the vermin. A battle had raged here, a siege perhaps, but not in the traditional fashion by the looks of it. A blaze had torn through much of the fortress’ defences and ravaged it seemingly from the outside and in simultaneously. Strangely enough, there were no bodies or any remnants of the presumed fallen to be found anywhere in sight. A closer inspection (we pried the gates open and penetrated the castle grounds without resistance) revealed that the place had been almost completely deserted, safe for what we would find within the blackened tower at the heart of Hunadora, and the reinforced bowels of the infrastructure.
Above us in the soot-covered bastion lay one half of the culprits in this foul turn of events; a vile collection of ghostly spectres and vicious demonic entities that (as we uncovered later) had been unleashed by some traitorous party to cause havoc from within the headquarters of the Gunderkite rebellion. Below we uncovered the pathetic remains of the people’s revolution; barely three score of beaten and wounded men, women and children, led by a seasoned veteran of the sword and scabbard named quaintly enough, Lord Gundar. And I thought I was vain to adopt the name of an angelic creature who’s name translates in many old tongues as the “venom of god”. That saying about the bigger fish comes to mind again. Gundar’s rebellion was in shambles due to a series of twisted and unnatural occurrences in the past days. In concert with the sudden awakening of Hunadora’s deep and forgotten and nasty supernatural secrets, a mysterious force, thought to be the Lord of Barovia, set a number of those vicious creatures (such as our spiked iron-jawed friend from earlier) to besiege the castle from the outside perimeter. It had been, according to Gundar and his men, some sort of a diabolical double coup, that had successfully devastated the Gunderkite resistance and broken their fortifications beyond repair. Worse still of course was the fact that the restless spirits still roamed free in the palace walls above us, and we were basically forced to confront the whole deuced affair again like some kind of paper heroes from a penny dreadful.
We gave into our madness and curiosity as it has quickly become our tradition, and ventured into the belly of the beast no fewer than three times. The first encounter yielded no fruit and put our poor Ephraim in harm’s way by thrusting him in the path of a vengeful ghost that literally stole his breath away and nearly killed him. The second attempt again proved to be a failure apart from the hidden (and walled-in) portal to the source of the haunting at Hunadora. Our third attempt put us on the path of discovery, but before dousing our resident Apostle Symeon in a cloud of dragon’s breath that nearly left him in a pile of ash. The rest of that adventure however I’ll leave for my next entry, for fear of neglecting all of its painfully enlightening wonders.
Once more into the breach my friends, I think is the appropriate expression.