Vârcola - A Dracula Styled Fantasy Story

Arnfried’s Journal Mart 30th

Arnfried’s Journal
Mart 30^th

I have arrived at Graugebiet shortly after the sun had risen, having left the day prior from Hafengelb. The village of Hafengelb was not far from my destination, which was something of a relief, after hours seated in a row-boat. Bent over the oars alongside four other men, I arrived safely (if at last!) in Graugebiet where the merchant sailors hastily prepared, their wares for the early shop-goers.

The first stall was occupied by a fruit merchant, preparing his odd, foreign orange fruits. As tempting as it may have been to try one, the price seemed fairly steep. The shopkeeper did seem rather approachable and understanding, despite my refusal. I told myself that perhaps I should return, after I come back from the west-isle. This quaint little village seemed rather lazy and quiet, in marked contrast to the busy life you are doubtlessly accustomed to in Grünmeer.

As the suns rose higher and higher in the distance, upon the horizon, and it was still morning, I took my time with my breakfast. You see, I had found a couple who had agreed to share some of their bread, and duck. The latter they boiled and simmered in its blood, and in a sauce made by grinding down and mixing red-peppers with the said blood. This sauce was delicious so that I had a second helping of duck, in all it had a delicious taste to it, one that reminded me for some reason of my now deceased mother (though quite why I do not know).

After this early breakfast, and my arms had properly recovered from the exhaustion inflicted upon them, after nigh on half a day of rowing, I took to the road once more.

The walk to the small temple of Orcus, the Lord of the Dead, was a pleasant affair with the suns high in the heavens, a great many gulls belting out their cheerful cries to one another. The local trees were big oaks, and ashes with thick trunks of an age that had long disappeared, from the world. They dotted the landscape throughout the village, with large green birch-trees crowding together near the western coast of the small island, so that there was a small forest there.

My destination lay to the south-east of the island just near the quarry, where the vast majority of the stones used to build the castle upon the neighbouring isle to the west that which was known as Teufelinselburg. It was there that I was meant to leave for, however the boat I had hired to transport me to Dunkeltrübinsel was not bound for there.

“I shan’t take you there, not when duty pulls us eastwards,” the captain of the small forty-man long-ship said in his thin, reedy voice.

As I wandered through the town of no more than fifty or so people, I found the houses to consist primarily of mud-wattle and simple wooden homes. The people themselves, were not of a rustic appearance, quite to the contrary they were charming and warm, as they greeted me. To which I eagerly returned their greetings.

Strangest of all, when informed of my destination after this island they all made the symbol of the lily, and hurried away thither, with frightened expressions on their faces.

Alarmed and confused by this, I soon put it out of my mind. Crossing over one of the smaller stone-bridged that bound the southern part of the island and the north together, I was just a little north of where the local temple was to be found.

The impression I received from the temple on my arrival there (as it was to the local head of that temple that brother Friedhelm had written to) was one that filled me with dismay. It tore from my lips a great gasp. The broken state, into which the poor temple had fallen into, filled me with such despair that I could have wept, for the fate that had befallen the temple.

My sense of loss and confusion must have shown on my face, a local walking past me, said with a sigh. “It was once a magnificent temple. It burnt down some fifteen years hence, and as the baroness did not wish to fund the rebuilding of it, we were left with this considerably smaller temple.”

The weariness in his voice conveyed the same sorrow that currently shook the whole of my slender frame. “What happened? Where is the douvard responsible for this shame?”

“Brother Reinhardt can be found therein the house, past yon temple. He does not like visitors. And who could blame him? He arrived here many years hence, from Teufelinselburg islet.” The manner in which he spoke now, was full of the sort of hushed fear, one might have reserved for an unwanted guest, rather than the village cleric.

After thanking him, I hurried up the path, past the temple to find, to my disgust, the most shoddy, run-down house that ever caught my eye. It was in such shoddy condition that the mere vision was enough, to inspire a fury that made me almost seek to grind down the individual planks of rotting wood that kept the house together. The door was half hanging by one of the hinges, with the wood in such utterly poor condition that it appeared as though it might break in half at the slightest touch.

The garden was vastly overgrown with ivy and weeds. Having spent a great deal of time helping Brother Florentin with the garden of lord Emmerich’s castle, this was to my mind, a travesty. Infuriated, and prepared to give Brother Reinhardt a piece of my mind for having allowed everything to have fallen into such shabby shape, I threw open the door. The door, when pushed, did not to my relief fall, but it let out a rather ominous creek, that put my teeth on edge.

By the time, I arrived; I was full prepared to give Brother Reinhardt a good and thorough thrashing, along with a few choice words. The good brother, for his part, was perhaps the most pitiable man to have ever been born in all the history of this world (or so it seemed to me). He was thin to the point of being gaunt, with a small beard that seemed as though it might have belonged to a mouse. His robes, which ought to have gone down to just below his ankles, were little more than rags that could, nary reach his knobby knees. What was more was that his eyes were the most haunted ones that I have ever gazed upon.

So gripped by pity was I that there was hardly time to take stock of my immediate surroundings or the anger that flared to life in the dark eyes of Reinhardt, who complained in a rather reasonable, bitter voice at my entering his home, uninvited. “Who are you to throw open my door and enter as though you were the master of this house?”

The rat-like man once calmed welcomed me into his home which, had for décor but a small rotten dark-brown mahogany shelf to the back of the room, with three moth-eaten books on it. To the right-hand side sat a hay-covered bed with two thin rough-hewn coverlets made from rough-wool, and at the centre of the room, sat a table which had much in common with the shelf. The table had a single copy of the Canticle, which was yellowed with age, and sat next to two plates, knives and three clay-goblets. Once I was seated, on a rather brittle chair that appeared thrice the age of its owner, he offered me some mulled wine so thick that it stuck in my throat. Not wanting to appear rude, I strove to hide my distaste for the drink.

Seeing through my shoddy attempts at politeness, he gave a tight if apologetic smile. “It is quite putrid, is it not?”

“I do apologize, brother.”

“There is no need for such formality.” Reinhardt assured me, the very image of forgiveness itself, his own drink as swiftly as possible. “We are both sons of the faith and brothers in arms sworn against the dark forces of heresy. Therefore, my home is yours for as long as you shall have need of her.”

So saying he procured paper and ink for me to write my letter, to the monastery of Eichbraun-Abbey at my request, delegating the task of delivering the message from the Archdouvain in this manner to a local merchant he had to run after. This done, and with a few more strokes of the pen, this time with a letter to the isle of Eschostinsel and its local lord, Reinhardt did not tarry and was to have the letter given over to a merchant headed to the eastern-isle. In this way, Eschostinsel was soon no longer a concern of mine, so that I allowed myself the relief of reclining by the chimney-fire.

I soon discovered that the douvard of the island was a surprisingly cultivated man, with an incredible memory for old songs and stories. Quite how he had come to know the song of Véritien the last Princeps was a mystery to me. Intrigued by the depth of his knowledge, I soon interrupted him mid-verse (the fifth to last of the first part of the poem, actually), ignoring as I did the arched look he gave me. “How did you come to know such things when there are no such books upon thy shelves?”

The look in his eyes was now one of a man at a complete loss. It did not seem as though he were lost for words, but rather for thought. Visibly shaken, he took some time to recover enough to properly answer me. When he did, he attempted to make it appear as though he could hardly remember. Somehow this did not seem likely, unable to pull the truth from him, I had no other choice save to let the subject be.

He is now resting upon a moth-bitten, flea covered bed, sleeping the uneasy sleep only the most troubled soul might. Listening to him, I could not help but feel a longing for home, and for your company Sieghild, which is why I find myself now seated hereupon one of his creaking chairs, penning my thoughts into this journal.