((
Music 1,
Music 2))
“Bring a vampire around, people start discovering religion.”
Tarkus snaps his book shut and spins around to face the leathery voice. An old man in a beaten gray cloak, his tan and wrinkled hands gripping a gnarled staff, speaks to him in a quiet voice.
“No need for alarm…I simply noticed you were browsing our collection.” He reaches a hand out and Tarkus gives him the heavy tome he was reading. “Spiritual hymns and rituals of warding? Hmm, I would not take you for the scholarly type.”
Tarkus frowns and moves to leave the private library of the Illuminary, already fearing he has outstayed his welcome.
“Not so fast” the man places his staff before Tarkus feet and gestures towards seats near the hearth at the center of the library. “Stay awhile and listen.” Tarkus narrows his eyes in skepticism but complies, his curiosity piqued to hear what this elder sage has to say as they both take a seat.
Stroking the wisps of cloudlike hair on his chin, the old man examines the tome in his lap, patting it lovingly for a moment before hefting it unceremoniously into the fire. “Wha-“ Tarkus moves to stand as embers sprout up to begin devouring the cover of the book. “It is lost my friend, let it go” the sage intones, and sure enough, the old pages are quickly turned to fuel as the hearth greedily consumes it whole.
“I regret to waste archived words of any kind but at times it must be done. The book you held is not one of a kind but one of many, one often copied from the writings of another, each more or less derived from the same source.” The sage procures a long, black pipe from inside of his robe and snaps his fingers, lighting it via some kind of magicks unknown to the half-orc. Taking a long draw, the elder puffs out a cloud of exotic scent, letting the smoke hang in the air a moment before continuing.
“Each tome of its kind perpetuates a dangerous form of misinformation regarding the creatures of darkness and places its reader in grave danger. In other words…” he takes another draw and looks Tarkus in the eyes. “They are comforting lies.”
Perhaps seeing some turmoil upon Tarkus face, the man looks apologetic and reaches out a hand. “My nights are sleepless as of late, and I see my manner has suffered. My name is Declan Kain.” Tarkus accepts his hand in a light shake and offers his own introduction.
“Tarkus.”
“A man of few words I see. Tarkus, I came to this land many years ago, lost in my own pursuit to return to my birth plane.” Sitting up and beginning to pace the room, Declan continues to speak, pausing only to exhale smoke regularly with a wheeze, like the chimney of a bellows.
“Regrettably, I could do nothing to prevent the suffering which devastated the human population of Ravenloft. Surviving with a meager resistance, it would appear now that our greatest hopes have come to pass in the reclamation of this fortress thanks to Ith and the light of Pelor.”
Tarkus coughs as some of the smoke wafts before his nostrils and fills his lungs with a strange, feathery sensation. Confused as to there being another who questions the longevity of the Illuminary’s plans the half-orc ventures a tentative question.
“Would appear…?”
The tone of his voice becoming authoritative and strong, Declan replies, his voice filled with admonishment.
“Vampires and their ilk cannot be warded off by mere prayers and songs. They represent beings whom the gods you know have forsaken…they serve darker powers. Even the light of this instrument of Pelor himself only serves to repel the struggling outcasts of the Vampire caste.”
Quieting down, Declan leans close to fix Tarkus with a wavering stare, his sleepless, weathered green eyes appearing bloodshot and worn. “And rest assured…the vampires you have slain so far are nothing but the remnants of those cast out from this place. The true dark lords of Ravenloft are much more careful, cunning and powerful than any you have encountered thus far.”
Shuffling back, the old man collapses into his seat, appearing several degrees more exhausted than he was moments ago. “Any illusion of safety here is short-lived. I fear the masters of Ravenloft will not abide by such an incursion and this fortress is shining like a beacon for the minions of darkness all around to see.”
Taking a final, shuddering draw of his pipe, Declan exhales slowly and extinguishes the embers with his thumb before replacing it in the folds of his cloak. “There is no conquering victory here, you see? This is about survival. And surviving in a land of darkness may require more sacrifices than you are comfortable to make…”
Closing his eyes and becoming still, the old man does not move for a long time and the embers of the hearth grow low.
Moving to leave, Tarkus illusions of leaving the man in his sleep are broken as he feels the rap of a staff upon his boot once more. “I will find a way out eventually. But if you want to survive long enough to escape and help the others, take this.” The man places what appears to be a small, stained journal into Tarkus hands.
“Some of the pages stick together at times…better you not question why.”
Looking upon the journal he makes out the title written in an elegant inked handwriting.
An inquirty on the vampiric
Tarkus struggles to find his words before managing grumbled thanks. “Will not forget your words.”
As he walks away, Declan’s voice calls to him one last time. “If you choose to not forget, remember this above all: Hold your soul strong, a stone against the tide of evil. Do not be ruled by terror, nor fall under the sway of hate. Stand strong against destruction and you shall find the path…”
- - -
'Three hundreds forty-one, three hundreds forty-two, three hundreds forty-three…'
His breath haggard and sweat dripping from his face, Tarkus moves with a measured chaos. As it always does, his mind becomes still, a clear pool of water amidst his physical struggle. Determined, the cobwebs of his slumber are rushed away by the familiar burn of his morning regiment. The piston movements of his arms in pushing up from the ground reaching their climax, his muscles coming alive in their strain, he cycles down his speed and concentrates on focusing his mind toward more pressing demands.
Suvne’s determined voice echoes in his thoughts, followed by Sarm’s measured clarification.
“It is a sacred task. Many were once human.”
The Paladin’s earnest face in his mind is replaced by Sarm nodding reverently.
“Whether they were born into this world bathed in the illumination of Pelor or as creatures of a dark purpose, from the darkness they now dwell we must deliver them into the light.”
Reflecting on the past few days, Tarkus is mindful of the mistakes they have made while recalling the sub headers in Declan’s journal.
No melee without implements of the light or the instrument of final delivery
His mind flashes back to the conflict in the cathedral. Tarkus recalls his widened eyes as his foe continued to claw towards him with a fierce, unholy strength despite the loss of torso and half its skull being smashed in.
'They fight more fierce and determined than strongest zombie'
He remembers the flurry of Val’s strikes, his rapier cutting a dervish through the hordes, often cutting down the same vampires again and again as the group was overwhelmed. Fresh in his mind is the realization that they were only saved by the providence of a stranger, their fates had she not intervened something best left unquestioned.
- - -
Those lost to darkness cannot be redeemed…for they carry the unholy power of their masters
Recollecting another encounter that began at the behest of the townsfolk, Tarkus slowly moves into a sitting position while his body cools off.
As the group had ventured out the next morning, they were beseeched by a young woman to find her family. They had gone missing merely a few hours before whilst scavenging near the outskirts of the Rod’s light.
“Please sires, it’s not been long, theys was a tough lot, theys may be barricaded against the blighters only waiting for rescue!”
Though Val appeared skeptical, Suvne looked genuinely moved by their plight and a contemplative Sarm placed a reassuring hand upon the shoulder of the crying woman while Quintus stuck his tongue out and made a cut-throat gesture that was fortunately unseen by the townsfolk.
Reluctant but resigned in their task, they found the family, not as vampires but no longer amongst the living…
Split into two teams, Quintus, Val and Tarkus cover one side of the dilapidated hospital while Sarm and Suvne cover the other. Hearing his name, Tarkus motions to Quintus and they both rush over to find Val. Pointing to a pile of broken wooden splinters covering the door to a room, he makes a kicking motion. Tarkus nods, kicking them down to allow entry.
Inside the ramshackle building are several prone figures. Quintus closes his eyes and begins to concentrate, focusing on contacting Sarm and Suvne using his magicks. Eerily laid out on the dirt floor inside, the bodies are lined up straight and still almost “Like doll...” Tarkus mutters unsteadily. Covering his nose at the putrid smell Tarkus walks forward as Val comments in an investigative manner.
“No sign of struggles besides the barricaded door...oh Gods…perhaps the mother, father and younger brother she spoke of...” Looking closer they are not the hideously decayed corpses Tarkus expected. However their flesh is nonetheless gray and sunken upon the bone like a wrinkled grape left too long upon the vine. The skin around their faces is covered in dark lines that cross and intersect around their eyes.
“Looks like black veins…”As he leans down to examine the boy closer, Quintus finally enters the building.
“They’ll be here soo-“
Upon seeing the bodies he immediately pulls out his spellbook, the looks of alarm clear even upon his unliving face. As the eyes of the boy spring open Quintus finally yells out his warning simultaneously:
“VAMPIRE SPAWN!”
- - -
The servants of darkness have many tricks and magicks of the night
Shivering as much at the thought of how they had to destroy the enslaved family as at the feeling of the cold water he is splashing over his body, Tarkus begins to don his armor when he brushes against a broken strap, remembering that it was torn off by his own hand.
- - -
Turning the corridor of another broken Keep, Val speaks to the group, a hushed but comforting break against the silence. “I overheard the Illuminary speaking to one of his aides after we left…he said a displaced matron stalks these parts…”
Walking further, their everlasting torches flicker a steady light upon a broken statue of which only the plaque is now discernible. Quintus reads it carefully.
“She was a countess in her time, cruel and unforgiving…bathed in the blood of 100 virgins…buried alive…Pfft, whatever.” The undead mage continues along the path, the light of his torch licking briefly against the moss covered statue before plunging it once more into darkness.
As it would come to pass, the group would not make off so lightly with the Countess. They found firsthand that the hypnotic charm of a Vampiress is a powerful thing, something which may even convince a stalwart Half-Orc warrior to surrender willingly and remove his armor, the only thing between himself and the fangs of a dark hunger.
- - -
Mindful of how close he came to becoming claimed by the very darkness they were set upon defeating, Tarkus clears his head of the memory. Eventually the group was able to subdue the vampiress but could not destroy her body with magicked fire or decapitate her and stuff her mouth with holy wafers as they had done to so many before.
No. Had to drag her body, staked in the heart, back toward light of Pelor. And once Countess body crossed threshold…
Shaking his head, Tarkus attempts to filter the piercing scream of the burning Countess from his ears.
“Tarkus. It’s time”
His reverie interrupted, Tarkus nods and leaves his room with the cleric to join the others.
- - -
Placing each piece into place, Tarkus briefs the others amidst breakfast as they prepare to head out once more.
“Slaying foe is only beginning. Need to ALL carry implement of weakness, only way to ensure vampire stay down.” He hands each member two carved wooden stakes. “Never too many.”
Pulling out a sheet of parchment, Tarkus begins to drawn diagrams next to the map of the area. “We need lure foe out on our terms. Too often we are surrounded or drawn into danger. By stalking and use of garlics and holy water, we can set traps for our quarry to push them into bottlenecks.”
He crosses his arms and continues. “Most of all, we must not let guard down against leaders of vampire packs.” Frowning, he reaches up to rub the bandaged wound on his neck. “We all know why. But we must find new ways how.”
Slapping Declan's haggard journal down upon the table he nods. “Believe we can face threat but we must arm ourselves like we never have before. Because now our task not just about saving townsfolk or escaping Ravenloft. We are in a fight for survival, and less answers we know, more dangerous it become.”
