Jarek Von Carstein,, Home

[silvix nightblade]

The book you've found is written in very elegant script. The words reading much like a story. While the writer spends little time describing himself, the reactions of others, and his own thoughts are expressed in livid detail.

There are no date's recorded.

First Entry:

The wind whipped across our battlement. Lightening lighting up the sky, the hoard of men approaching us. They wore their lavish, foppish uniforms. My men, little more than the armor that served them for centuries. Thunder rolled, lightening lighting up the land again. The men’s faces, they where filled with fear, the air nearly toxic with its stench. The army stopped, within firing distance, yet, no arrows flew from the keep. A single warrior, a priest by the robe on his chest, the fool white hammer emblazoned on it, strode forward. He did not stink of fear. No, he could have been a good man, could have been a great one had he not given himself into the war-lust of his petty god. He was grizzled, an old warrior, yet one with all the vitality of youth left. His eyes, steel grey, shallow, cold, unforgiving.

He spoke, his voice, filled with courage, with power, “You’re damned life is forfeit. Surrender, and you will be given a quick death, fight, and you will be killed slowly.”
I could have respected this man, perhaps, even come to accept him as my ally, yet, no. He had come, a fool, bringing sheep to the butcher, asking for them to be slain. He was, through religion, or pure foolishness, Laying his own grave stone. At least he comes to face it, his head held high, more than many men I have met.

I replied, “You come to my home,” I gestured to the castle around me, it is not a large castle, but it is one none the less, a keep more than a castle, “Demanding my life. You, a priest or not, have no right to demand such a thing.”
I looked out to his men before once more looking at the priest, “Leave now, do not forfeit the lives of so many. I do not wish to spill more blood than is necessary tonight.”

The priest seemed taken aback by my words, filled with more hate than before. His kind are foolish ones. They see nothing but the white fury of their god, and the corpses of those who do follow their path.

He spoke, “Your kind are sins, daemons, unfit for this world. You will burn, your body turned to ash.”

I was disappointed, not surprised, but disappointed none the less. “Let us finish this like those before the time of your god. Single combat, your men will not be harmed, and will be returned to the edge of my lands without harm.”

His brows raised, surprise written across his face. “A selective butcher,” His posture was regained, “Yet a butcher none the less. I will fight you, though you are found wanting of a fair fight.”

I replied, “Meet me, by the front gate, do not attempt to enter my keep.”

The walk down was a short one, the black gates opening before me, revealing the priest, standing twenty paces from the front gate. I moved forward till we were fifteen paces apart.

He spoke, hefting his god-marked war hammer, “My men will leave unharmed, with me at the head, and your head, in my purse.”

I was silent. He was confident, the stench of fear still not on him, perhaps this would be an interesting fight.

He charged me, his hammer held high, calling out to his god for strength. His god did not answer. I moved to the side, his hammer slamming into the ground beside me. My blade flicked out, though the priest deflected it with the haft of his hammer before countering with a left handed jab. I rolled off, the jab connecting with my shoulder. There was power in the man’s hands.

We went back and forth, each of us attacking, and parrying the other’s blows, my blade, its finesse against his hammer’s brute strength. His men watched on worried, shouting encouragements. Mine, stared straight, their eye sockets as hollow as the day they rose again.

He was perspiring, weakening, his resolve slowly being chipped away as fatigue set into his bones. His steely eyes always watching me, but, they where faltering, focusing, and un-focusing slightly, he did not realize it.
He spoke, the words of his undoing, “Hmm, you put up much more of a fight than the last one.” He smiled, bared his teeth in a sneer at me, “She was easy, the way she slept. A beauty, even though she was one of your kin. When my stake pierced her breast, brightest green eyes, I’d ever seen.” He paused relishing the memory, “And her scream… so, delicious.”

I heard his words, their bite, shocking. It felt cold, cruelly painful. Then, I felt it start, the change in my bones. My jaw, elongating, canines pronouncing grotesquely. I dropped my sword, my nails thickening, turning talon like. His face, his eyes, the air, it stunk of fear now. Fear, and rage. He would pay, for his insolence. His blatant disgrace of my kin. It was he who killed my blood sister. He who staked the most innocent among us. His life, was now, truly forfeit.

I let out a roar, and charged him, fury flowing through my veins with my tainted blood. His hammer haft barely deflecting my strikes. I raked his face, blood gushing from the wounds. I could taste it in the air, his blood, his terror. He was praying, praying as he fought desperately. His god granting him some final strength. His eyes glowed. Too late though. His time for the ravens here. Where prayers spouted a moment ago, blood gurgled out. His eyes, losing their glow as he slowly looked down, a bloody hole ripped into his armor. Blood rushed from the wound, the man’s flesh paling. He looked at me, at the beast. His eyes registering what I held in my hand, his heart, still beating. He died.

My bones returned, slowly, the beast once more calming itself. “Leave!” I roared to his men. The men, their fear rank in the air turned and fled. The priest, I left for the wolves. My hand rested on my amulet, her amulet. The gates closed behind me.

The heavens wept for weeks.

[silvix nightblade]

Second Entry:

She was the first I sired, and the last. The first of my line, the line that now, once more ends with me. I am not a father, yet, a father of sorts. A father should never see their child die; it is not natural. Natural, what a mockery of a term. What is natural? Am I a beast? An aberration against nature? No, it was through nature, though magical, that my kind where sired. We are, the wolves. The short lived ones our sheep. As we, are their sheep as well.

Her flock, grazed outside the keep every morning. I would watch, from the balcony, watch them feed. They were not like the birds. The sheep, they where tame, calm in their feeding. The birds, where violent. Each one stealing food from the next. It was survival, basic instinct. They fought, or they starved. It was a dance. The birds should have more scraps, I shall order the cook to toss more out tomorrow.

She was not like the birds, or the sheep. She was, a peasant Sheppard. Leading her flock to the fold, feeding them. She did not fear me, not like the others. No, she seemed… curious of me, of my nature. Perhaps, it was that curiosity I saw in her eyes, the same look in my own eyes, that led me to invite her to the keep.
She had been dressed well, as well as her peasantry family could dress her. To them, she was a tool, the count had taken interest. They were like the birds. She wasn’t, she just was. Not a bird, or a sheep, she was just there.

She was not enamored by my court, by the lavish nature of my estate. No, her eyes were searching for more, more than the tangible. She sought knowledge, understanding. She learned quickly, my teachings in the arts, the ways of nobility, always, she picked up quickly.

I began to tutor her, nightly. We would walk the ramparts, speaking of life, and of death. It did not scare her. It fascinated her. Things that fascinated her: they did something, something to her eyes. The bright green iris’ would light up, the fires of youth burning brightly. Yet, there was always the temperament of the flame that came with age, with wisdom. She understood me. She knew me better than I knew myself, knew my… tics, she called them.

Her family was ecstatic, the amount of time their daughter spent at my keep giving them great hopes, and greater mouths. They would receive nothing. People where not used in my court, women even more so. It takes a coward to use a woman, a fiend to force the fair hand.

The sickness came, soon after her twentieth winter. The fevers, the chills. She could not sleep, fever conjured dreams plaguing her. Doctors came, and went. None could do anything. I felt…

Churigons, priests, holy men, witch doctors, none could do anything for her. She knew of me. Of what I was, they all knew. What she wanted, what she asked of me. I could not give her. I would not curse her to the life I live.

This curse, this blood draining curse of hell. The long lost kiss of sunshine, the feel of the cold winter air, stinging one’s face. I long for it, I long for it so.
I could not give her that, burden her with its weight.

The night of her death came. We both knew it was the last night. It was bitter sweet, engaging in our last debate of life, and of death. The subject taking on a twisted, laughing ironic form. She caught my gaze in hers, her voice, breaking from the fevered cough spoke.

“Please.”

A single word. How can a single word destroy everything of ourselves? Such a simple, little word, that travels so far. It tears through the very barricades we put up against it, effortlessly. She begged me. Implored me to grant it to her. To allow her more than a life time to quarrel with me, to debate, to learn, and to understand birds and sheep.

I could not say no… I bled her, I filled her request. Her blood, tasted of silver, copper, life. Yet…

My lip, was split. Lips pressed to hers, allowing my tainted blood to mingle with hers, giving her the life that flowed through me. Damning her.

I will never sire another.

She was my first, and she is my last.

[silvix nightblade]

Third Entry:
The pages are matted in some area’s the ink blurred.

The cattle, are much more than cattle. The others do not understand that. Through their eyes those of short life spans are to bed fed from, and cast aside. They know nothing of the world of the short lived. They lack the understanding of what they where, what they still are. Death has warped them, changed who they are.

Some speak of darkness, like it is a lover. The kiss of the moonlight, gentle caress of shadow. They accept the darkness, pull it into themselves with more hunger than they feed with. Power, power and blood, that is all they crave.

The human’s find us so different, yet, they crave for the same things. They crave to own land, own the lives of others. They crave the flesh, to blood of war, the blood of their enemies, but above all they crave power.

We have power.

That is why they hate us.

She understood, she felt the fears of the people, felt the dreams, the desires of the people. She was kind in life, kinder in death. My people loved her. To them she was the countess, in heart, though not in position.

There seems to be a pause, a pooling of ink on the page. The next section of writing has a different scrawl, the same writer, but there’s an underlying tremor of fury.

It is my fault she is gone. My fault she was taken from this world. I cannot excuse this; I cannot forgive myself for bringing the fate of my kind on her. The curse, the bane of my kind, took her from me. It was my blood, my lips that sealed her fate.
She begged it of me. Wished it, and like a fool, a selfish fool, I gave it to her. Not for her sake, but my own salvation. For my own enjoyment, for separation, was not something I wished to experience again. I did not want to deal with it, to live without life beside me. I granted her, her wish, I gave her this cursed existence. I pulled her from the gates of death, only to condemn her to never cross the gates.

There is another pooling of ink, the words once more calm.

It is what she wanted. What she requested of me in her hour of need. I did it for her. She wanted me to. I did it for her, not for myself. I did not want to give it to her. I did not want to curse her. But… it was her eyes, the imploring nature. I could not say no to her. I never was able to.

She shall be the only one, no more shall suffer from my cursed line.

[silvix nightblade]

]mostly wireframes of entries, that will be filled out soon]

Fourth entry:

there seems to have been a long laps of time between the writings seeing as how the ink was a deep scarlet now, and seemed to come from a different pen, slight differences in the writing style also noticeable, the pages are also more colored, showing more exposure to the sun.

I’ve left Drakkenhoff, forever if I can help it. It can burn for all I care.

Life… Death is funny… it changes people, always… The best of the sheep become the worst wolves… slaves to their hunger. No, I am done with that.

There’s a good amount of space as if the writer was distancing himself from the first few lines.

The sun feels good. It has been to long since I’ve been able to focus enough to walk through the day… I missed it. Alas night will be here soon. Well, such is this world, the things you love can only last so long. I met a priest on the road today, they were hurt, torn tendon in their leg. I don’t think they knew what I was. Or perhaps they accepted it since I was helping them… but I didn’t smell fear. Ah, what does it matter. Nice old man he was, directed me off towards a small town I could head to if I wanted a new start. Perhaps not all men of gods are fools… or maybe he was just a little more oblivious than others.

The town, Dederia, he said it was. It sounds pleasant. Perhaps they are not as foolish there.

Entry five:

Rain, all day. I rather dislike the rain… makes it grey. Two days journey from this town I have been told about.

Entry six:

I made a friend today, young boy, four, maybe five. I was sitting on a low wall, watching the sunset when he sat down beside me. “Mistah Purple” he called me, I found it entertaining. He was missing his left front tooth, on the top. Blond hair and little, nearly black eyes. He was always grinning, his joy in life infectious, as I soon found myself laughing at his little antics and stories. Even the sad stories he told, he turned into good things.

I wonder, why we all can’t do that. Live through everything with a smile on our faces. Why must so many of us be drug down into the gutters of life… Perhaps we can all be like him…

He was killed by a merchant’s cart as he ran across the way.

The page is faintly matted at the end of the entry.

Entry seven:

I’ve reached Dederia, and am currently residing in the tavern. They are… interesting here. Varied to a great extent. Some are more… intriguing than others I have to admit. There’s a noblewoman here. Isabella. Feline origins it seems. A pleasant lady, easy to talk to. Though she’s a little to formal for my tastes sometimes. Yet, I always enjoy my chats with her.
There’s a priestess here, I’m not sure about her, shall check into it.

Entry eight:

The priestess has a name. Tolita. Seems friendly enough… though I think she’s hiding something. She seems unaware of what I am, nor does she want to, something about learning secrets puts her off. I spent the night at the infirmary, partly under her request. She seems alright, for a priest. She’s a rather stressed out individual, as I discovered when speaking to her about Isabella and a friend of hers, one of my kin, though not a close one. She seemed to panic a little, but calmed slowly with tea and a massage. Very tense. Will probably have to give her another one sometime. She slept on the bed, myself on the floor, keeping watch.
I still seem to hold that protective habit, hopefully it won’t get me in trouble.
I also met another male, similar to myself I suppose, Siric, it seemed that many knew what he was and where accepting. Perhaps there’s hope for me here.

Entry ten:

I have met a drow, Riveda. She seems to be a good enough friend. A little grumpy when waking up, but, over all rather pleasant to be around. She offered me something, I was unsure at first, but eventually agreed. For now, I feed off of her when she’s around, seems to give her a reason to stay, at least that’s what she says. She understands I cannot be a lover.

Entry eleven:

Well… I encountered a young woman today, middle teens probably. Pretty. Sitting on the dock with my lute, and singing to myself when she came up behind me. We sat for awhile, talking about some random things. I gave her a riddle to figure out what I was, not comfortable telling her straight out. So, I gave her a riddle, and a hint. I let her have my lute, I have another.
Entry twelve:

Her name is Sirin, she figured out my riddle. Seems rather pleased by it, interested in me, what I am. I am unsure about how I feel about her interest. It reminds me of her, of the one. I fear… I do not know what I fear.

Perhaps, it is I fear getting attached to her, fear holding her close. I fear that what I am will stop be from being with her, or those like her. She is young, has plenty of life ahead of her, yet… I will live, and she will die. Unless… no, I will not.

Entry thirteen:

She has feelings for me, I believe, her cheeks flush so often around me. She asked me a question. A question I am not sure I can even answer to myself.
There was a pooling of ink, where the pen had rested on the page.

Damn, she is so much like… no. She is rather pretty, age is such a bother. I was playing softly again, it seems many of life’s, death’s, happenings come to me at such times. She asked me if she was older, would I consider it, consider her. I replied truthfully, as truthfully as I could. It wasn’t a question of if. But a question of when. It made her happy, blush, she is very cute when she blushes.

I will describe her… for when… when she is no longer around.

The page shows sign of water damage here.

She has silky red locks, as vibrant and beautiful as her eyes. They are a rarity, red, not muddled, but a true, deep, endless red. She is of canine decent, wolf in all probability. Though not fully wolf. She dresses nicely, flowered pattern, not risqué as many young wear today.

[still in progress entry not done]