Bay 12 Games Forum

Quote from: Digital Hellhound on September 21, 2023, 02:30:27 pm

I also just realized one of the party has a devil they almost took up a pact with in their backstory. They'll definitely offer to sponsor the defense!

Get the best defence lawyer money can't buy!

For sure. They can get Sul Skewertongue, falxugon master defense attorney, to help them with their case. I'm going to try to re-enact this scene in an infernal courtroom. I've a mind to have him suggest the 'cheat at the trial (so we get corruption points on you)' thing - he'll immediately proceed to reveal the cheating before the court, but only to argue that such accomplished and daring cheaters should be embraced as the future pride of Hell and thus cleared of all charges for the time being. Because you absolutely should not trust your devil lawyer, even if they win you the case.

I might need to get my hands on the Fiendish Codex 2, since it appears to have very juicy stuff for our Hellish detour. Thanks for all the ideas!

But yeah, trying to figure out DnD cosmology in 5e is doomed to failure. The 5e books which talk about gods and timelines are Forbidden Realms-focused and even there not very detailed, but supposedly the universe is bigger than that. It doesn't help that the big wiki is extremely unclear and contradictory about everything. It tries to form some kind of coherent timeline across editions out of conflicting information for some godawful reason. Also, it's written in the past tense which annoys me immensely.

5e Spelljammer also made the decision to scrap the old lore for the most part and provide minimal explanations for its new setting. Do all planes exist in every Wildspace system/world? Are there separate Shadowfells and Feywilds for each world? Do the gods exist everywhere? What are these celestial domains drifting around the Astral Plane, where gods apparently live - except separate Outer Planes that you can enter through color pools also still exist? So many questions, absolutely no answers.

I've just stitched together my own version of how everything works (mixing 4e material, Planescape stuff, the barebones 5e Spelljammer lore and my own ideas). Definitely going back to full homebrew settings after this campaign, lol.

My players ended up breaking the terms of a contract with a devil in my Spelljammin' campaign, and I'm thinking the devil is going to get them the only proper way - by suing them in infernal court. The devil's name is Keresiar the Alchemist, and he's been waiting for a while to take vengeance for tricking him into giving them very generous terms.

So they'll soon return to their ship to find an imp there with a summons to the Hells to defend themselves in the court of devil law. If they do not comply within the allotted time, they'll be hunted by devil cops across the planes. They might choose to avoid it, who knows, but in case they do agree to show up and go deal with the infernal judicial system...

...what kind of awful and silly nonsense should they face? I want to create some terrible hilarious courtroom antics to throw at 'em.

Some context:

• Their contract stipulated non-aggression, neither party can inflict harm upon the other (physical, mental, spiritual)
• The party got themselves imprisoned, but seemed like they were going to clear their name - so the devil sent an infernal assault force to free them as a friendly gesture
• The intent being to frame them as being complicit in the attack and thus get painted in the worst possible light, ruining any chance of clearing themselves
• The devils attacking the place were acting all friendly and loudly proclaiming that they were there to help; the party still attacked them, because devils attacking innocents, we can't stand by
• They inflicted harm on the servants of Keresiar and thus broke their pact
• Additionally they destroyed a horrifying flesh abomination that was actually just an art piece of Keresiar's, so that's vandalism on top of the breach of contract

The charges they'll be facing will be, I'm thinking:

• Breach of Contract: As described above.
• Vandalism: Destruction of horrible flesh abomination in their path that was an infernal art piece, the philistines.
• Conduct Unbecoming of Mortalkind: Refusing to age (by spending most of this campaign in the Astral Plane), among other misdemeanors.
• Multiple Homicide: Killing several devils (though not in any permanent way).
• Hate Crime (Religious): Killing a devil-worshipper (which they merely enabled and did not personally commit, so easyish to disprove)

But I'm looking for other ones to add on there. The more bizarre and spurious, the better.

They'll be assigned an infernal public defender, who will appeal for lighter sentencing on grounds such as "Your Dishonor, they are ignorant and stupid mortals who cannot be expected to think for themselves." Directly defending themselves will be extremely difficult due to bizarre infernal legal customs, so the situation is stacked against them.

I'm thinking the potential defenses (hinted at with the appropriate checks) so far could be:

• Entrapment: Keresiar's unwanted rescue was fully intended to manipulate them into breaking the contract; witnesses can be found to support this
• Keresiar Broke It First: Claiming that they suffered mental or spiritual harm from the unwanted rescue and its dangers, so that the devil broke the pact first
• Divine Immunity: One of the party has the soul fragment of a long-dead god inside them, which may provide them immunity to prosecution on grounds of divinity (if only for that PC)
• Harm, What Harm?: Killing devils just sends them back into the Hells, thus no actual permanent harm was inflicted upon servants of Keresiar.

Of course, should the case go against them, they'll just have to break out of Hell. That'll be fun too.

I'm in general interested in any ideas on how to make an infernal courtroom as entertaining as possible! Throw me your wildest suggestions, if you have 'em!

That sounds like it has great ideas. Cannibalize it for parts and make room for a less railroady ending, perhaps?

I've been struggling with all the horrors and monsters of CoC feeling a bit... dull and conventional, I guess, so this sounds great. Everything in the bestiary seems to be gross and too terrible to describe, but in the end just big monsters without anything that would give me, at least, existential dread. Except for the guys like Azathoth, but my players roughly know their deal so it doesn't feel as impactful.

Not that you have to play them like that, of course. In the (sole) oneshot I did, there was a box which contained a flame of Cthugha (who gets very, very little description, so I just went wild) that compelled all those who looked at it to give parts of themselves to it.

Someone ended up sacrificing something more abstract and got a part of their background wiped from reality, so that's more up my alley. Mostly it was fun watching my players play hot potato with it while trying to evade other spooks.

I struggle to put to words what I mean, but I guess I feel disappointed by how sparse and mundane-feeling the list of horrors in the core book is. I guess that's on the Mythos authors, but the CoC people could have tried to give more hooks for what make them unique. Maybe I just don't understand the game, though!

Yes, I meant reinforcement of battle losses. It has worked just fine automatically in other games - I just use the Replenish button in the SHQ and create the needed amount and type of troops there, and it sends them to those who need them.

The SHQ sends supplies normally, just not replacements. The basic setting for it prioritizes supplies over replacements, but there's plenty of leftover LP in this case and forcing it to only send replacements just meant nothing at all was sent.

I hadn't considered the quality settings interfering. Will need to check that out. Suspect it could be a bug too, though, since it has been working before. Oh well.

Elio I Guerra, AD 1164-1179

Excerpt of Scene I, Act I of 'The Merry King of Tuscany', a 1848 banned anti-monarchist play by revolutionary author Giovanni di Canossa




(Curtain opens; we see DUKE GALEAZZO on his death-bed, accompanied by BONIZO, an advisor)

GALEAZZO: Oh God, verily do we feel the cold hand of Death upon our shoulder. Loyal Bonizo, how fares our noble Tuscany?

BONIZO: Well, Sire, it could hardly fare worse.

GALEAZZO (clutching chest): Oh Lord, They come for us. Only tell us we leave our young nation in safe hands, dear Bonizo. Where is our noble son, Elio?

BONIZO: Right there, Sire.

(ELIO rises drunkenly from behind the bed; GALEAZZO sees him)

GALEAZZO: Oh. (dies)

ELIO (shaking the body): Well, it was about time.

(ELIO pushes his father's corpse off the bed and lays on it; BONIZO kneels)

BONIZO: Long live Duke Elio of Tuscany.

ELIO: Longer than this one, I hope. Now, Bonizo, my happy little idiot. What's a Duke got to do to get a drink around here?




(BONIZO withdraws off-stage and returns with wine; others begin to enter: THE DUKE OF SPOLETO, DIONYSIA, NAWOJA, JACKANAPE, SERVANTS and SOLDIERS)

ELIO (emptying his cup): That does it. Bonizo, attend to me. Who is that boy?

BONIZO: I believe it is the Duke of Spoleto, Sire, son of your brother Federigo.

ELIO: Ah, Federigo! We loved him dearly. Were that he still lived to see this day.

BONIZO: Yes, Sire.

ELIO: What a handsome man my nephew is. (pause) Have him killed, won't you?

BONIZO: Of course, Sire.

ELIO: Dearly I also desire his lands. Oh, good God. More sweet wine to fend off ugly tomorrow. (drinks) And who is that, Bonizo?




BONIZO: Your son, Sire.

ELIO: My son? Why, so it is. What is he called?

BONIZO: Elio, Sire.

ELIO: Elio? Elio, like I, Elio? Stuff and nonsense. We cannot have two Elios. Let him now be Jackanape and Jackanape only.

BONIZO: As you say, Sire.

ELIO: Jackanape! Jackanape! Bonizo, why does he not heed the call of his father?

(BONIZO brings JACKANAPE to ELIO; with him come DIONYSIA and NAWOJA also)

DIONYSIA: How does the day find you, husband dear?

ELIO: It finds me a Duke, it does.

DIONYSIA: And I a Duchess.

ELIO: Ah! I suppose one has to follow from the other.



Excerpt from 'On The Virtue Of Cats', a treatise by Duke Elio Guerra of Tuscany, c. 1170

(...) The feline is an able companion; a scourge of vermin; an exemplar of cleanliness; cunning in its aspect, graceful in its form. It comforts us when we despair and delights us when we sit idle. What are these things if not the design of our Lord God, and how can the cat thus be anything but a godly creature? That there are wicked sides to the cat I do not deny. They may most cruelly torment their prey; hiss and scratch those who would only give them love and comfort; easily abandon one master for another. But these are the ways of nature, which God upholds for our education and benefit. The animal does not think or choose its actions. It merely follows the nature ordained upon it by God. Why then condemn beasts as we would men or name them wicked or impious?

I myself have always kept cats. Even as I write these words, I observe Paws the tomcat at rest. He lays by my side, purring in perfect contentment the like we me mortal men may only dream of. In his sleep, I believe, he hunts the mouse and teaches his kittens. I marvel at the unconscious delight in the kicking of his paws and the feline grin on his lips. He is of the most wondrous ebony shade, with his fur lustrous and clean. Before he was the most esteemed companion of my wise sister, Adriana of Lombardy, and she taught him a great sophistication of etiquette and affable behavior. All the lords and ladies of my realm are to have one of his little ones to guard their households in turn. This, I believe, is merely an expression of good and godly governance.

If we leave the common country cat behind, we may contemplate for a moment the lion and the leopard, those great felines of Africa and the Orient. It is not by happenstance that the King of Beasts adorns so many banners and coat of arms. One cannot praise the lion on one hand and scorn the housecat on the other. They are one and the same, only grown different by the peculiar weather and air of their native ranges. To show the truth of this, I present the spotted wild cat of Egypt -- (...)




(...) Lastly, I believe the cat teaches us of the necessity of cruelty. It stalks and hunts and pounces, leaving no chance for its prey to escape. It does not do this for the joy of it, as some ignorant commentators claim. Indeed, the kittens of the cat could very well starve if it did not practice its hunts and bring back its victim for their meal. In this manner, we men too must be ready to act decisively and ruthlessly when it is demanded of us. Only through merciless decisive action may we ensure the survival of our progeny and the prosperity of our line.

In this, as in all the good character I have presented, we may strive to be as the cat. God has placed all of nature upon this earth for our use and learning - indeed, it would be a grave fault indeed to turn one's eyes from the teachings of His creation, however fell they might seem at first glance. (...)




Excerpt of Scene IV, Act I of 'The Merry King of Tuscany', a 1848 banned anti-monarchist play by revolutionary author Giovanni di Canossa

(ELIO enters, returning home from the wars in Spoleto; DIONYSIA and a SOLDIER are roused from their bed)

SOLDIER: Do we satisfy our Lady?

DIONYSIA: You please us, but to satisfy - we would need a company's worth of you.

SOLDIER: That may yet be arranged, my Lady.

DIONYSIA (listens): Hold! What is this I hear? A cheer of the triumphant?

SOLDIER: I hear nothing. Come back under the covers, my little dove.

DIONYSIA: You fool! It is my husband, come back from the war! Hide, quickly!

(The SOLDIER hides underneath the sheets; DIONYSIA arranges the pillows to cover him)

ELIO: Ah, my wife.

DIONYSIA: Oh, my husband!

ELIO: Well, that's one more crown added to the pile. We are victorious.

DIONYSIA: Was it a mighty battle, my husband?

ELIO: As mighty as one might expect, when you are facing a six-year-old. Now move aside and allow me to rest my bruised backside upon these silk sheets, for the riding has left it quite tender.

DIONYSIA: By God! No, no. Allow me to embrace you first!

(DIONYSIA seizes ELIO in her arms; the SOLDIER rolls out of bed and crawls under it)

ELIO: What a queer smell there is upon you, my wife.

DIONYSIA: Merely a new perfume, my love, to please your senses.

ELIO: Well, it doesn't. Now, let me put my boots under mine bed and rest my weary feet for a while.

DIONYSIA: Oh dear Lord! Let me carry you instead!

(DIONYSIA hoists ELIO up in her arms unsteadily; the SOLDIER tries to avoid them as they turn and stagger around)

ELIO: Let me down! Let me down, you Greek wench!

DIONYSIA (holding tighter): First, tell me what news you bear!

ELIO: You are mad, woman!

(The SOLDIER manages to sneak off-stage; DIONYSIA drops ELIO on the bed)

DIONYSIA: Why must you call me such things, my husband?

ELIO: God loves an honest man.




ELIO: Well, enough prattle. What news? I tell you, we have met with His Holiness.

DIONYSIA: Oh, have you prayed together?

ELIO: Prayed, what nonsense! The man robbed me of my every last coin.

DIONYSIA: You received indulgence?

ELIO: I don't know what that is. We played dice.

DIONYSIA: Oh. What else?

ELIO: Ah, I made a profit in the end. Behold!

(ELIO pulls out a stained rag from his sack)

DIONYSIA: What is this vile thing?

ELIO: Ah, the papal standard. It has merely taken some wine. Will you clean it up for us, dearest?

DIONYSIA: For what purpose?

ELIO: We shall ride with it into Ancona. His Holiness has granted us claim to those lands.

DIONYSIA: More conquests, my husband?

ELIO: Idleness does not a kingdom make.




Excerpt of Scene II, Act II of 'The Merry King of Tuscany', a 1848 banned anti-monarchist play by revolutionary author Giovanni di Canossa

(BONIZO, JACKANAPE, NAWOJA, SERVANTS and SOLDIERS are gathered around a wounded ELIO on the battlefield)

ELIO: By God, by God, he has cloven my face right asunder. Be straight with it; how does it look?

BONIZO: In all truth, Sire, I cannot tell the difference.

JACKANAPE: But father, do scars not only refine a man?

ELIO: Oh Lord, what nonsense have I taught you!

NAWOJA: But Sire! Is true beauty in a man not found beneath the navel?

ELIO: For sure, at least I still have my sword.

BONIZO: It is a flesh wound only, Sire! Your nose shall grow back twice as mighty!

JACKANAPE: And it is no shame to lack so many teeth in your age, father!

DIONYSIA (enters, screams): Oh good God, what is that creature?

BONIZO: It is your lord husband, my Lady.

DIONYSIA: Oh, so it is. Was anything of value lost?

BONIZO: Well--

ELIO: To Hell with every last fool, harlot, charlatan and halfwit of you!



Excerpt from 'A National History of Tuscany', ed. Daniel Castaldi & Maria Visconti (Firenze: 1920)



(...) The new Kingdom was certainly born under inauspicious stars. The Duke had been grievously wounded and would spend the rest of his days with an iron mask holding his skull together. Years of war had exhausted Tuscany's levies and depopulated parts of the countryside. The golden age of Elio's father was for certain now over, but through this devastation a new, more powerful realm could be forged. In the year 1171, Elio I Guerra was crowned by the Pope in a grand ceremony as King of the Tuscans, elevating him greatly above his peers in Italy. While Elio had sought to be titled King of all Italy, the Holy Father was eventually persuaded into a compromise solution naming Elio King in Italy only. He would indeed not be the only such ruler so honored.



Scene IV, Act II of 'The Merry King of Tuscany', a 1848 banned anti-monarchist play by revolutionary author Giovanni di Canossa



(ELIO sits on his bed holding and kissing his crown; NAWOJA sleeps behind him; DIONYSIA enters with a SERVANT)

ELIO: Ah, it is good to be King.

DIONYSIA: And I your Queen.

ELIO: Mine and everyone else's, so I hear.

DIONYSIA: You lose me, husband.

ELIO: You make a cuckold of me, you wanton harlot!

NAWOJA (waking): You call for me, Milord?

ELIO: Not now, Nawoja!

DIONYSIA: Forget not it is I who has guided you here, oh King.

ELIO: She can guide herself out. Someone send for the Pope! I want a divorce!

(DIONYSIA storms off, taking the hand of the SERVANT; BONIZO enters)




BONIZO: I bring news, Your Grace.

ELIO: Ah, are the news good?

BONIZO: Why do you ask?

ELIO (searching for wine): You know I hate evil news on a dry throat.

BONIZO: I tell you now, Sire – His Holiness has declared the Duke of Verona a fellow King.

ELIO: What say you?

BONIZO: The Duke of Verona is now King, Sire.

ELIO: King of Verona? Absurd!

BONIZO: King of Romagna, Sire.

ELIO: But he does not rule in Romagna. I do. I think.

BONIZO: Perhaps he intends to some day.

ELIO (tossing away crown): Oh, dark day. What was the Holy Father thinking? It's no good. After all that I've done! He promised I'd be King in Italy and now He's gone and usurped me.

BONIZO: It is indeed very impertinent, Sire.

ELIO: And he owes me 50 ducats!

BONIZO: And a bottle of burgundy, Sire.

ELIO: And a bottle of burgundy. Oh, damnation. Have you no good news to give, dear Bonizo?




BONIZO: Well, no.

ELIO: Little use you are. How about a war or two?

BONIZO: I'm afraid not.

SERVANT (enters): Your Grace!

ELIO: Well, what is it?

SERVANT: Your sister Adriana calls you to arms, Your Grace. She is at war!

ELIO: Oh, splendid!

SERVANT: And here is a message from the Venetian Doge. He too goes to war!

ELIO: Ah, even better. Against whom?

SERVANT: The King of Romagna, Your Grace.

ELIO (standing): Aha! There we have it! I shall crush that usurper and bite his crown! Saddle my horse, Bonizo! To war!





Excerpt from 'A National History of Tuscany', ed. Daniel Castaldi & Maria Visconti (Firenze: 1920)

(...) Decades of expansion and easy victories had left the Tuscan leadership overconfident and complacent. The Romagnan War was expected to a short conflict, an easy victory against a numerically inferior enemy. This rosy picture was quickly shattered. The Venetians failed to open their promised eastern front, and well-trained and well-led Romagnan troops would triumph again and again over the Tuscan forces. King Elio's troops were hard-pressed to support both the Lombardians in the north and the Venetians at home.

Each new defeat would drive the King deeper into despair and desperation. Now the practice of leading from the front, common among the House of Guerra and the Tuscan nobility, would backfire in the most spectacular fashion...



Scene V, Act III of 'The Merry King of Tuscany', a 1848 banned anti-monarchist play by revolutionary author Giovanni di Canossa

(ELIO and the KING OF ROMAGNA face off with their SOLDIERS; the battle rages until only ELIO and the KING OF ROMAGNA are left on stage)

ELIO: Usurper!

KING OF ROMAGNA: Scoundrel!

ELIO: Thief!

KING OF ROMAGNA: Fornicator!

ELIO: Upstart!

KING OF ROMAGNA: Drunkard!

ELIO: Hold, now. What's so bad about being a drunkard?

(The KING OF ROMAGNA strikes at ELIO; the two battle, then fall down and crawl around chasing one another; THE KING OF ROMAGNA cuts off ELIO's leg and runs away with it)

ELIO: Damnation, that stings! What's this sort of business? In my time, kings and dukes didn't go around stealing one another's limbs. It's a wretchedly common thing to do.

BONIZO (enters running): Sire! Do you yet live?

ELIO: Seems like it.

BONIZO: Your leg!

ELIO: You are as insightful as ever, good Bonizo. How goes the battle?

BONIZO: Poorly, Sire. Our men are like wheat before the harvest-man.

ELIO: Do you suppose it'll turn around any time soon?

BONIZO: Sire! The earth is like rain-watered soil with the blood of Tuscan soldiers!

ELIO: Alright, what of the Venetians?

BONIZO: Sire, their mercenaries have switched sides, bereft of their pay. Truly have they sown the seeds of their own downfall.

ELIO: What a farmer the world loses in you, Bonizo!

BONIZO: Sire?

ELIO: Nevermind. Ooh, that hurts. I suppose it'll be King Jackanape, now.

(JACKANAPE staggers on-stage, pierced by arrows; he dies)

ELIO: Curses. At least we have a grandson somewhere.

(GEROLAMO enters, clutching his stomach; he dies)

ELIO: Typical. Who's that leave us with?

BONIZO: Sire, the next in line is young Marco.

ELIO: Young Marco? How young?

(The prop of a babe is conveyed on stage, i.e. dropped from overhead)

ELIO: Oh. (dies)




BONIZO: So passes Elio, great King of Tuscany. (to audience) And from these days has the noble house of Guerra ruled these fine lands with all the virtue, wisdom and valor of their ancestors. So shall they rule until the end of time, some say, which suits humble Bonizo just fine, since there'll always be a need for good council and honest bureaucracy. Perhaps the sons and daughters of happy Bonizo shall also live on through history to wait upon their beloved lords? It may be that there a Bonizo toils away even now at the right hand of the King.

(BONIZO picks up the babe and walks off-stage; curtain falls; end of play)



Some artistic liberties may have been taken by the play...

An interlude of sorts before we finish with Galeazzo.

An Account Of Our Ill-Omened Journey In The Lands Of The Vlachi, by an unknown author, allegedly c. 1146; generally considered a hoax or work of fiction by mainstream historians


This tale is written to serve as a warning to those who may come after. May you heed the many mishaps and errors of its protagonist, who I confess is in fact myself, the author of this tale, and avoid such tragedies that unfolded from there on. To begin with, allow me to illuminate you, my reader, as to my identity. It may astound you to learn that I am Mario Guerra, first of his name, the late Duke of Tuscany. I do not deny the fact of my death, which I believe to be widely known at this time. Such a Duke did, indeed, die, but in doing so gave way to a being I shall name the Wanderer. I write "being", for I can scarcely be counted among the ranks of humanity any longer. To be brief - I return from death as our savior once did, though I do not claim the means are as holy. As any man, I age, I hurt, I am injured, I fall ill - but each time my Death would take me, I am carried back to the place of my first, strangest death, to live a new life as a young man once more.

That is the truth of it, and I shall dwell no more upon the matter. This account begins where that of the Duke Guerra ends. Having expired from my grievous wounds - a most painful and upsetting death, at the time the worst I had known - I found myself living once more in the countryside of my beloved Tuscany. The place of my death had transformed from a barren field into fertile farmland, which I pridefully account to the peace and prosperity of my rule as Duke. I did not arouse any great suspicion from the local farmers, who would not have known the face of their Duke, certainly not as a young man. My condition and mind were greatly improved by my rebirth. The burdens of old age are a heavy weight to bear, and they sneak most cunningly upon you in the slow passing of years. I did not realize the depths of my infirmity until I was once more young and in my prime.

The restless spirit that had long plagued me still remained, however, and I now understood its purpose. I was not placed upon this world for comfort and convenience. My legs ached to roam and my senses to know new, unknown shores. It is with this in mind that I left my stay in beautiful Tuscany short, lingering only so long as to know for certain that my son Galeazzo had lived to claim his birthright. From Firenze - disguised as a peasant-boy of simple mind - I sought passage with a caravan headed for the city of Venice.




The Great Plague had not been kind to the Venetian Republic, but it endured still. I remember hearing of the merchant city's wealth and glory in the innocence of my youth. This Venice was a shadow of its past, stripped of the greater part of its continental possessions and much reduced in population. Even so, it proved a lively settlement, vibrant with voices and tongues from all corners of the Mediterranean. I conversed with Croats, Germans, Arabs, Greeks, Catalans and many others, to say nothing of Italians from all reaches of our native land. It was my intention to take passage to the Levant here - hoping, I confess, to witness the glory of Jerusalem as a pilgrim with my dreams of taking it as a crusader long since crushed. However, a dreadful twist of fate intervened. I happened to overhear a Greek sailor's tale of an undying lord reigning high in the Transylvanian Alps, in the lands of the Vlachs.

With less wine on my mind and a greater deal of caution, I might have stopped myself there. But I craved to learn more of my strange condition, and to hear of another like myself, however unlikely this story was? It caught me in its web in an instant. I pressed the sailor for more and in the morrow departed overland for the land the ancient Romans had called Dacia.

There is not much to say of the journey itself. It was at times arduous, but I was once more a man in my prime, strong and tireless, and so its obstacles challenged me little. I passed through the Croatian banates and into the tumultuous Hungarian lands, where I first heard of the vile Cult of Cain. The Magyars were good Catholics and held much hatred for the heretical movements they said abounded in the south. I admit many failings where it comes to my faith, nor am I so eagerly given to dismiss the beliefs of others with all that I have seen, but the stories of these Cainites appalled even me. They were said to delight in sin and vice - naming modesty and temperance evils, shamelessness and overindulgence worthy virtues. They copulated freely in maddened orgies and abused man, woman and child to sate their lust. They gorged themselves on food and overindulged in drink with little care for the example they set. This sprung from some troubling belief that the good earth was false and imperfect, a prison built by some cruel deity that kept us from reaching true Creation. From this they somehow postulated that only by experience even the most wicked things might they ascend to this higher place.

These tales would prove to be exaggerations, but what truth there was to them still troubles me. Perhaps it is not their gleeful wickedness that haunts me, though. Indeed, it may be their strange vision of the world. If this is indeed a flawed, terrible prison - what does it mean for me that I cannot escape from its grasp? Shall those around me pass into a purer kind of Creation where I am to be forever trapped in this world?

Forgive me. I have lost the thrust of this tale. Let it only be said that when I at last encountered these disciples of Cain, I was predisposed to greatly dislike them. It was with great shock, then, that I learned where the origin of this cult lay. It had sprung forth many years ago among the mountain peoples of the Transylvanian Alps, the very place I was seeking. Moreover, the people named it the work of someone they named the Lord Dragon - the Dracul, in the Wallachian tongue. The more they spoke of this man, who was said to never age and to be most strange in his manner and power, the more I was convinced that they spoke of another immortal like myself. Naive and hopeful as I was, I discounted the more evil rumors attached to his name. Had only I believed and departed then, I would have been spared much anguish.




Winter had come by the time I reached the mountains. It was an unkind, bitter season, with cold that bit into your bones and drained out any warmth you gained from fire or meat. I often heard wolves prowling the night, though I was far too strong and healthy for them to take an interest in me. I pitied even the wolf on those black nights. I had set out to travel alone, but regretted it greatly in the vicious solitude of the darkness. When I at last caught sight of the keep this 'Lord Dragon' was said to dwell, I would have accepted any degradation if it meant shelter and company.

In fact, as the grim-faced guards at the door told me, I would have more company than I could have expected. There was to be a wedding that night - all the high lords and ladies of the realm were in attendance and a great feast expected. I passed myself off as a poor knight errant in search of employ and was welcomed within with open arms. In retrospect, the eagerness of the guards to see me inside should have concerned me, but I was merely glad for the warmth and shelter.

I did not expect much from the lonely mountain keep, and so the richness and finery of its furnishings left me quite impressed. There was something from every corner of the world, or so it seemed. I caught sight of Persian rugs that would have fetched kingly sums at the Venetian markets; fine arms of Damascus steel that I would gladly have wielded myself; amber from the north-lands; the furs of enormous beasts from the lands of the Rus; masks and works of art from the lands of the Nubians; golden idols from a land beyond the Pillars of Hercules; even ornaments of finest jade and ivory from some far distant shore. Evidently the family that held this keep was astonishingly well-traveled. I was seized by the need to follow in their footsteps then, the restless spirit making itself known. I fought the most powerful urge to leave at once and travel for these exotic lands. I wish I had done so, but I suspect I would never have been allowed out of the castle.

I had arrived just in time for the wedding ceremony itself. The household staff - dour, thin, dark-eyed fellows all - shepherded me most insistently to the castle's great hall where the happy event was to take place. The high chamber was packed full when I entered, though so captivated I was by the sight of the lord of this place that I scarcely noticed anyone else.




He was a tall man, of strong build, yet with a terrible pale cast to his skin that left me uneasy. I thought instantly of the pallid cadavers of the plague fields and wondered if he were perhaps afflicted with some terrible disease. I discounted this possibly when I glimpsed many other such faces in the crowd, with an undeniable familiar likeness between them. I thought then they were an unfortunate lot, to be cursed with such sickly appearance from their bloodline. All waited intently on the lord, who I took to be their patriarch of his House. Others in the crowd were of much more ordinary disposition, though there was a nervous energy in the air that put to mind a cornered animal seeking escape. It was unlike any wedding I had myself witnessed. Yet there was nothing to do but to take my place in the crowd.

I remember still the cruel amusement in the voice of their master when he spoke. It was him, Ioan, Lord of Transylvania, that the common folk had named the Lord Dragon. He spoke in perfect Latin, which I followed with some difficulty. I do not know how many of my fellow guests understood half as much as I did.

'I am delighted that so many could be here for our feast,' the Dragon spoke. 'So many given to our care this night. Such loyalty in my subjects, for them to send their own sons and daughters, wives and mothers, cousins and wards... to enjoy my hospitality.'

It was then that I noticed the bareness of the tables laid out across the great hall. If this was a feast, it was a poor one. A guest should not be made to wait for their meal and drink. I could see I was not the only one so troubled. My stomach growled after my long journey and poor fare.

'It is not every day that one sees their son wed,' the lord of the keep said. 'And to such a young and vital bride.'

From behind him stepped forth a young man and a woman. The man had the wretched pallor of his father and a tight grip on the arm of his wife-to-be. The bride I could see little of under the rich dress she wore for the occasion. They joined the father before the crowd to the laughter and applause of their kinsmen. The reactions of the rest of the crowd were much more muted. The unhinged merriment seemed very out of place for such a sacred occasion.

I was feeling increasingly on edge at this stage. By my side was a scarred old knight who caught my eye and, to my astonishment, grinned and lifted his cloak to reveal two short swords strapped to his back. The guards had disarmed me at the gates - I had acquiesced, trusting in the guarantee of my host's hospitality. This man evidently had not.

I intended to question him about the weapons, but at that moment events began to outpace me.

'Enough talk. I see my children grow hungry. Let it not be said I am a poor host. We are all gathered. Waste not the opportunity,' the Lord Dragon said, his powerful voice stilling all attempt at conversation. 'Let us feast!'

At those words... The horror of it haunts my dreams still. In such nightmares I know very well what is to happen, but I am powerless to stop it. The scene is burned into my mind.

The son moved first. With inhuman alacrity, he snaked his hand into his bride's hair and pulled her head back with painful force. She cried out, but the sound was cut short. The groom seized her face in one hand and plunged his teeth into her bare, exposed neck.

We watched in mute horror. When his head came back up again, the pale face was red with blood, and gore-drenched fangs gleamed in the light. The lifeless form of the bride toppled to the ground, her fine silks stained black with her life.

The others descended upon us then. The cadaver-white sons and daughters of Dracul unveiled their true natures and fell upon the crowd. Monstrous fangs and taloned hands bit and cut into flesh, each of the terrible creatures seizing their prey and yelping with animal glee as they drained them dry. Blood sprayed high into the air and covered the plain high tables. They fell into a killing frenzy, driving the panicked crowd towards the middle of the hall from all sides. There would be no mercy for man, woman or child there. Those that evaded the encircling horrors scrambled for the entrances, but were seized from behind as they banged uselessly on the shut and locked doors. Others sought shelter under the tables only for the creatures to drag them out laughing and tear into them there on the floor.

For my own part, I recovered swiftly from the shock. I took a step towards the nearest door but got no further. One of the murderers leapt for my back and tore at my shoulder with her bestial fangs. I am not a weak man - indeed I am stronger and hardier than most - but the strength of the woman took me by surprise. She moved with preternatural speed and agility to stay on me. It took me a great effort to at last regain my footing and throw her off me. She bounced back almost at once, snarling in a manner that had nothing human in it.

It was the old knight that came to my rescue then. He was, I understand, a Serb in the service to the Duke of Rashka, though given the circumstances we had little time to exchange pleasantries. I was later told his name was Sir Mihajlo and that he had been sent to investigate rumors of Lord Dracul's infernal nature. He was a renowned knight, a master swordsman and the guardian of the Duke in his childhood. When I met him, he was a fresh widow, with five living children and a modest estate by the sea. That is all I have been able to learn of him. I write these things here as a memorial for a good, fearless soul who did not deserve the fate waiting for him.

Mihajlo stepped in the monster's path and slashed his blade for its throat. The sword cut pallid flesh but drew no blood. It was the sudden resistance than any true harm that sent the creature scurrying backwards, I believe, but what it accomplished was to give us a moment's respite from their attacks. Mihajlo placed his other sword in my hands and inclined his head towards the figure of Duke Ioan at the other end of the hall. He had not joined in on the slaughter - instead, the Lord Dragon surveyed the scene with an air of cool satisfaction. To this day I wonder if he truly expected to reach the master of the keep there and single-handedly strike him down.

'What are these things?' I asked, though it soon became apparent we did not share a language. He understood the thrust of my question regardless.

'Vampir,' the knight said, in his native tongue, gesturing wide with his sword, 'Dracul.'

Then they were upon us once more, now in greater numbers. We turned back to back and began a stalwart, desperate defence. My long life had allowed me to master the sword, but Mihajlo performed just as well, and he evidently had some experience with these monsters. I am sorry to say it did not help us a great deal. These things felt the pain of our blows, but they did not tire and they would not die however grave the wounds we inflicted upon them were. Only when we struck them through the heart did they cease their struggles, but some dark power reanimated them as soon as we withdrew the blades. In short, it was a battle doomed to failure.

I tell you we fought to the end. The other guests, unarmed and helpless as they were, dwindled as the moments drew on, slaughtered so much like cattle in an abattoir. As they ran out of prey, they congregated more and more upon us. Soon we were the only living men still standing in the hall. It did not appear we would stay that way for long. I had the certainty of my resurrection, but I wept for Mihajlo, who would surely die a final death.

I was wrong on both counts, as it turned out. The vampires began to grow bolder, cutting and bleeding us more and more, and I could tell we were only moments from death. At that moment, the master of the keep rose and called out for his children to stop.

They did so at once, snarling and whining like cowed hounds. Dracul strode across the hall and came to study us with his bloodless lips stretched in a cold smile.

'He has fought well,' the lord said, pointing at my companion. 'He is not prey.'

The vampires wailed and hissed. I began to feel hope that Mihajlo might yet live through this.

'Would you care to live forever, sir knight?' Dracul said instead, his smile spreading, revealing those wicked fangs. 'Would you care to join my family?'

Sir Mihajlo spat blood on the floor in response. He hefted his sword with wavering, exhausted arms. I felt such admiration and love for the man then, to see him choose certain death with no hesitation. Alas, Dracul would not give him even that. The immortal lord moved so fast I could scarcely follow. He darted forward, slipped inside Mihajlo's guard and plunged his fangs into the old man's neck. The knight turned limp in his grip at once, his blade crashing to the ground. I leapt to his rescue then and swung for the inhuman Duke's neck - but he turned aside the blow with his arm only - flesh and threw me flat on my back with a mocking jab of his hand.

'And what do we have here?' the lord said, letting the body of my companion fall to the floor. 'I smell your blood, little cousin. I smell your gift. Oh, the joy you have brought me...'

I should have taken the sword and cut my own throat then. I do not know why I did not. Perhaps I thought, foolishly, that I might yet escape. I did not fight when they seized my arms and carried me away, down into the lightless cell of the castle dungeons where I would spend many years to come...