COMPLETE! The Wasteland. A woman screams in the night. Spotlights flash on a pile of dust in the desolate patch of land that lay just beyond the tall crosses that picket the boundary of Encampment R-34. A group of curious students leave their bunkho...
Log Book #1 belonging to the Knight James Woislaw, Castellan of Glogau
August 25th 1684
A development, strange though it be, has taken place here in the most unassuming of locations. Not of war, but of demons. It involves an old Sclavonian, myself, a warrior from the nearby lands, and a considerable amount of the family's finest wine.
I have met many interesting folk here whilst I heal to a mutilated mask, but none so enjoyable as the old Sclavonian. Over much wine, we shared tales of voyages and adventures. I gave particulars on the most hellish battle in Vienna. He told much of the splendor in that New World across the seas. By bottle's end, we were quick friends. Heeding it all from a table nearby was a strange fighter of the east, who I had seen on more than one occasion paying for a goblet without caring to drink it down after hours of sitting. This unknown figure listened to our yattering for a time before going away.
I know not the why, but I was rather concerned with him, be it from the wine in my eyes or the moonlit gleam in his.
"Hold, you stony stranger," I said. "You have hitherto done nothing but listen, and have not even emptied your cup. Now you shall take your turn in telling us something amusing, and if you do not drink up your wine, it shall produce a quarrel between us."
The old Sclavonian agreed with a smile and, laying an innocent hand on the stranger, was sent across the room with a furious shunt. As the largest figure of the lot, I caught the stranger by the arm and heard my iron hand contracting. I had not a mind of my own strength but knew his bones would surely be crushed under the tension of the mechanism within. Rather than wail, this warrior looked steadily into my eyes and spoke something I shall ne'er forget.
"Let me go from the grip of your fist," he whispered like a summer's wind. "I see you are my brother, therefore do not hinder me from seeking my bloody nourishment. I am hungry!"
These words so befuddled me that I released him and he was gone. When my Sclavonian friend heard of this heated declaration, he brought me out of the taproom to confess his association with the Holy League, and that this warrior was of the sort he was meant to pursue. A member of the Draculesti, he was. That is to say, the militia of after-death. The stranger from the taproom was of an unearthly sort called Wampyr.
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