The Red Water and the Wine
From the Journal of Bartholomew Harkett
The 45th day of Fall’s Last Breath, 209
I rush to Lord Ryven’s side with great haste. For nigh on a month those who find themselves honored to consider him a friend have heard no word on the state of his mind or body. While hardly unusual for him to prefer solace, most often he makes this wish known verbally, not through an utter lack of communication. Nevertheless, on a skiff of questionable buoyancy I cross the narrow expanse of the Desani River to his Lordships manor. Having only seen him at social gatherings, I can’t help but feel honored, as I know few, if any, who have ever graced his home.
Winter is nearly upon us, so close that I made all haste in departing, as per his Lordships request. The water here flows slowly – seeming almost idle at times – leaving it prone to freezing over in these harsh northern winters, isolating the island from civilization. This concerns me not, for I have been invited to remain in his Lordships company for the winter’s entirety! I departed with such haste that I failed to notify anyone of my departure, though truth be told, who is there to notify? Since Johanna’s death I have had no close friends, merely passing acquaintances. I doubt any but the maid will notice my absence, nor do I care. This is a dream! And amongst the thick fog that surrounds me it feels even more surreal…
… I can just begin to make out the coastline of Polidori Isle. Even amidst the fog, the hulking form of his home can be seen. As I draw closer I will relate more detail…
…My, what a dreary place! No wonder Lord Ryven has requested my accompaniment during the months to come. Surely solitude in such a disconsolate place would drive the soul from a man. The cobblestone towers interlock and twist as a gnarled sycamore does with a neighboring tree. The manor itself seems to be reaching upwards, attempting to escape some set of earthly restraints. I am ashore, I must stow my journal as I proceed up the slick path to the manor doors.
-- Polidori Mansion - Foyer
Hells, this cold seems to emanate from my very bones! I almost wish I had more than one bag and Johanna’s locket to carry; the exertion would have been a welcomed heat as I approached the manor. Lord Ryven has assured me any of my personal effects would be delivered before the river freezes, at no cost to me. The man has such a big heart, mine swells in admiration just at the thought.
I feel the fool for being so ignorant, but I must ask Lord Ryven how old this manor is. The wood is like nothing I have ever seen before; dark auburn planks standing to attention one after the other, not even iron banding holding them together. I let myself in and anxiously await to be greeted in the foyer now that my thawed blood is free to seep through my veins once more. I feel myself dreadfully rude for letting myself in, but I could not stand the cold another minute.
--Later
How Lord Ryven snuck up on me I can’t possible fathom, but as I scribed my last entry he spoke with such abruptness that I spilled ink all over the bottom of the page. My account of the evening is as follows:
“I am relieved to see you have made the trip intact, and so speedily as well.” Lord Ryven spoke with an even timbre and little bodily emotion, but I assured myself that he was, in fact, relieved.
“Yes, please forgive me for the intrusion, the cold -”
“Nonsense, we wouldn’t want to freeze you would we? It would take all winter for you to thaw, and who will sate my appetite for company then?” His voice was always so even, as if nothing, not even the bitter cold, could shake him.
“Of course, you’re right My Lord.” No matter how many conversations I’ve had with this man his piercing eyes never cease to amaze and unnerve me; those grey orbs, colder than the winds.
“Why don’t I escort you to the dinner prepared for you? You look dreadfully famished, and I know this feeling, above all, to be one of the most debilitating curses set upon us by flesh.” Lord Ryven offered.
I followed him through the winding hallways of the mansion. Most hallways were dank and bare, so dreadful that light seemed to shy away from them altogether – I couldn’t help but be unnerved. Yet, upon entering the dining room my worries immediately dissipated. My, what a feast! He must have garnered a dish from nearly every region and kingdom, and each was more delicious than the last. The Lesten steak was a succulent masterpiece, its juices spilling over to the smashed potatoes in a marriage so perfect, a priest of Impalus would bless its union with all the usual tidings. The spiced horseshoe crab was as exotic and zesty as the coasts of Pharaté (Or at least as I imagine them to be.) The basted chora root from Palmire seemed to disperse its famous fog into my mind, relaxing it considerably. Oh and where each dish excelled the next only surpassed it. I felt fit to burst. The wine has eased the ache; so sweet, with only the faintest metallic bitterness.
“So…” began Lord Ryven as he beckoned me towards a great armchair by an empty hearth, frost creeping through the cracked mortar.. I plopped into the overstuffed throne with a resounding grunt.
“Now that you have sated your stomachs yearning, let us assuage my yearning for conversation. At the moment I am rather gripped with the practice of fasting.” Lord Ryven began, a new goblet of wine in his hand.
“Like the monks practice? I always believed it to be a poorly disguised ploy to hide their inability to afford food.”
I laughed at my own jest, but quickly silenced. After all, Lord Ryven rarely – if ever – laughed; and without the support of the usual accompaniment of Lords and Ladies my laughter shriveled alone.
“On the contrary, I relate with these monks quite closely. You see, I have always been fascinated with the body’s need for sustenance, and, how in extreme cases of survival, it can go without it.” Lord Ryven swirled his goblet in his left hand, his eyes never leaving my own.
“I see. Many such stories have crossed my ears, of men accomplishing extraordinary things to survive.” I gulped down wine under the heavy stare.
“Yes, but it is not solely an accomplishment of men. Before there were men there were beasts, and they will outdo a man in terms of survival a hundred to one every time. You know of the Càvet Wolf? It can survive for nearly two weeks between meals. Imagine, not having a scrap to eat for two whole weeks…”
“I can imagine, and with a stomach as full as mine, I can hardly bear the thought!” I offered a smile with my lightheartedness, but could pull no reaction from my Lord.
“Yes. Though your feelings are not unnatural to the beasts of the wild either, are you familiar with hibernation?”
“I’m afraid the term is unfamiliar to me.” I admitted sheepishly.
“You see, instinctually knowing there will be a lack of food during the coming winter, some animals will gorge themselves on as much nourishment as possible – and then sleep through the winter entirely.”
“I sure hope to eat more than this once during the winter!” I chided. Lord Ryven smiled, and the contrast between that expression and his dead eyes was more unsettling than I’m sure the Lord meant it to be.
“You are no beast my friend, but a man. I would not ask this of you.”
Relieved, I excused myself from his company, the wine having made me a bit woozy. The feeling continues as I write, the letters dance on the page befirme.
The 50th? day of Fall’s Last Breath, 209
Dear Johanna,
My love, it seems foolish that I write to you, not only because of you passing, but because of the hopeless situation I write you from. Ryven is a monster, a demon from hell and I am his hapless victim. I awoke after dinner in a pitch black cave. Groggy and confused I crawled on my hands and knees along a stream until I emerged into what I would come to know as my prison in the last five days. When I emerged into the lighted room I thought that nothing could have been more ghastly than the discovery that I had been crawling through a stream of blood – I shudder to know that I was wrong. Above the bubbling mouth of the brook a stone slot has been carved, a ramp of sorts that leads upwards to a solid wall of cold stone. Strapped to the ramp was the shriveled husk of a woman, gray and crumbling, black bracelets around her arms. I lost consciousness at the sight, and when I awoke I found the world inverted before me.
Strapped to the ramp I came to see, to feel, that the bracelets were in fact cuffs of sharp black stones which cut into my wrists and freed my lifeblood to trickle down the ramp, down small and winding grooves to the stream below. I saw him then, that bastard with his cold gray orbs, filling a jug from the bloodied stream. For once Ryven smiled, his sharp canines revealed at last, his rotten gums and maggot infested molars glimmering in the gloom. I lost and regained consciousness more times than I can remember. Sometimes Ryven was there, sometimes he was not. Which each new appearance I noticed the change in his girth. Once a slender, almost skeletal man, he now seemed rounder, plumper. He would fill a jug, kill me with his smile, and I would fade into darkness once more. When I last awoke I found myself slumped against a wine barrel. My love, oh my sweet Johanna, I knew his wine was watered down but I never could have guessed with what.
My wrists are bandaged tightly, I fear that if I remove the bandages I will slip into death, into your arms. I know not why I fight it. I only know that I hold your locket close to my heart with each passing second. I hear footsteps approaching. There’s nowhere to hide. I stashed your locket in a wine barrel, perhaps one day I will walk free of this place and fish it out. The scratch of my quill is drowning in the clangor of bolts and chains being thrown.
From the Journal of Drake Greysing
The 3rd day of Winter’s Heart, 452
I have been to bad dinner parties before, but this one takes the cake. There was always something sinister about Polidori Isle, or so said the locals, and given the current economic climate in my profession I figured there might be some gold in checking it out. I didn’t expect to be crashing a dinner party. I didn’t expect Lord Ryven, a peculiar man who I had been told to avoid, to welcome me so graciously, if not warmly, into his home. I didn’t expect the food to be so good. I did expect, however, for people to die, as I’ve found that generally this assumption can be made with relative clemency. If you’re wrong, horah, no one is dead, if you’re right; you get to say I told you so. I told you so.
Lord Ryven had his act together, I’ll give him that. Vampyre’s are rarely as patient, intelligent – and may I add impeccably well dressed – as his Lordship was. He had me going until the very end. When I found him he was a bloated mass of flesh. Mounds of his cold slick skin folded over one another, and blood oozed from many of his pores. His ears too, along with his nose and eyes. I’m sure there were other orifices bleeding, but I didn’t squat to check. I wish I had killed him, I really do. I found him next to a cask in the basement, a goblet still clutched in his hand; his massive bloody form slumped over a small skeleton. I found a journal on the skeleton’s body, and a silver locket at the bottom of the wine barrel. Maybe he added the silver for a little extra punch to the aging, a subtle burn perhaps? Looks like he overdid it. I’m taking Ryven’s head with me for good measure, nothing says payday like the still bleeding head of a monster.
