Fifth Monarchy
12-04-2008, 07:55
”They Will Bleed…”
The Domination of Castilione
Preface
” No man knows till he has suffered from
the night how sweet and dear to his heart
and eye the morning can be.”
– Dracula, Bram Stoker’s Dracula
- - - - - - - - - -
The sun rose quietly from the East, breaking just over the peaks of the Valois Mountains of the rural countryside of the Castilione. Sun flicked rays of light from the still-glimmering, melting peaks of the great spine of Nordska. Though beginning to melt as the great, warm release of Spring was dawning, the Valois Mountains still offered their majesty to the people of the Principality. Situated just south of Callisdrunian-occupied Altar-Rang, the Castilions were accustomed to peculiarity and queer occurrences in the deep, mountain passes of the adjoining range; yet, through the small chapels and monasteries that dotted the landscape, a new rumor was beginning to flourish. Just as the glacial fields of the far-north of Amaranthe were depositing their nourishing melt onto the thankful farms and pastures of Castilione, so too were the musings of strange sightings of queer abnormalities that men and scribes in distant lands wrote of in their many scrying sessions, communing with their Watchers or Guardians in an attempt to gain the knowledge of the universe. Yet, these were not benign ravings of aged sheikhs or alchemists of old, often polluted through their spirit by their many flights through the astral planes. No, these were rumors founded in facts – albeit askew facts, spoken and passed only through the corrupting tongue of human mouths. However, even with these corruptions taken into account, an air of foreboding was taking its grip on the northern communities of Castilione. An air – an icy, dull air – that resembled the first, frantic grasps of Winter, seemed to be consuming the souls of the rural men and women.
It all began as many catastrophes do: with a simple loss. An elderly, Bulgar-Castilion farmer, just south of the Vorasi Pass – a common path between Altar-Rang and the Principality – was awakened in the early morn – even before his accustomed arousal to tend to his livelihood – by the sound of bellowing beasts-of-burden and the eerie screeching the likes of which he dare not further describe. Fearful that his flock was being decimated, the shepherd-farmer rose – still in his sleeping attire – and quickly grabbed his rifle and a thick parka. Rushing from his modest abode, he ran the best a man of his age and wisdom could, spying the gutted remains of several of his sheep as he did so. Determined to discover the source of the disastrous occasion, he continued to listen for the daemonic screeching the followed the bellowing of his herd. Finally, upon further pursuit, in the light of the early-morning sun and the faltering light of Luna and Sirius, the elderly peasant spied – just his distance of the Pass – the staggering, tattered, shambling form of a vaguely humanoid façade. Determined to end this massacre now – even as the beast feasted on the fresh cadaver of one of his final flock – the farmer took careful aim and fired. The grooved bullet careened from his barrel, impacting the cretin in his torso, immediately staggering him further. In response, a high-pitch scream – resembling that of the Baba Yaga or some equally-horrorsome banshee – resounded from the jagged jaw of the wounded animal.
Unsure of himself, the shepherd took careful aim down the iron-sights of his armament, meeting the now angered beast in the eye as he completed his supposed death-knell. To which the Bulgar-descendent described as a horrific travesty the likes of which God Himself most certainly would have condemned to a horrific death in the desolate fires of Hell. “For his face resembled that of a human,” described the old gentleman, “But that was the last of which did. His eyes resembled more a serpent’s than anything else – and even that is a stretch of the imagination. His lips were withdrawn and torn, revealing grey-brown teeth that protruded in a grotesque fashion from his bleeding gums. Beneath each tooth lay rotting, decaying flesh – of, what I assume, was my flock. The beast stared at me down the sight at which I aimed to take his life most-assuredly. Yet, as his eyes pierced my own, I was suddenly struck by such a terror that my blood ran frozen and putrid in my veins. It was only now – struck by fear – that I was able to examine him in greater detail: from his skeletal and sunken face, to the flesh that seemed to hang from his bones. All of it being such a horrific sight that I pray I never lay my eyes upon it again.” At this time, he continued, the beast quickly turned, pressing its legs into the scarlet-soaked soil, and leapt from the ground to one of the many frost-stricken trees that lined the Pass, before too disappearing into the early morning light just beyond the view of the Bulgar-Castilion shepherd.
Yet, of the most horrible of things, the aged man’s testimony of “the Beast from Beyond the Pass” went un-reported for nearly three months. For, his final prose did not seep from his whimpering jaw or his quivering lips until he lay, miraculously ill and decaying on his final resting pad. Speaking to a Father from the Vorasi Monastery just beyond the pass, the farmer described his terrifying experience. The Father would have dismissed it merely as “death-bed dementia” had it not been for his continued recitation of incidents which persisted the three months passed. As the Father described later – though breaking the elderly farmer’s confidence as he viewed it pertinent to his neighbors’ safety – the old man described a period of time plagued – not only by more, almost continuous visits by “the Beast” – but also of dreams and lucid hallucinations that plagued his heart and mind to the breaking point. He described strange, archaic and disturbing scrawling on the outer-walls of his cabin. He continued to cite points at which he could not differentiate between his dreams and reality, stating that “It was in both.” Yet, much to the dismay of the poor, inexperienced priest, the old man then mentioned the sighting of them in numbers. “Numbers?” was the only, the priest later recalled, thing he could speak. To this, the shepherd continued – only in a much more quick, rambling state, most-assured that his time was nigh as he continued to note that They were now with him in the waking hours, too – to describe the last few weeks before he was struck by his mysterious illness.
In his final moments, the dying sheep-herder described the most horrific of times he experienced in the three months leading to his apparent passing. In a much, much more diluted form, the priest later re-uttered the vile tale, telling of the shepherd’s experience in “a court of the living dead”. As the good Father continued, describing the old man’s ramblings in as much discernable detail as he could, for even he – a man of the clothe, supposedly accustomed to daemonic possession and the temptations of Legion – was said to be “physically ill” after the tale was spoken. He stated that, in the “court of the living dead,” the old man was called upon as a criminal – an “accused homonoth”, the old man had said – by a judge and jury of men, adorned in intricately woven, ebony and burgundy garments. He stated that he was accused of “attempting to destroy Sanguinasc life”. Unsure of these terms, the two sat puzzled momentarily as the shepherd composed himself. Continuing, the Father said, he went on to describe hours of intense interrogation – a tortuous experience that including anything from whippings to scratches by “unseen claws” – culminating in a verdict handed down by a single, cloaked man. “Guilty.” To this end, the elderly man told, he simply “awoke” from his supposed “dream”, sweating to such a degree that droplets of blood pooled at his orifices and openings, tainting the flooring of his simple home to such a degree that he was forced to burn much of it, leaving him to sleep chilled on his permafrost floor.
It was within hours of this, according to the shepherd – but also noting that his sense of time was greatly distorted – that he called for the priest from the Monastery, stating that within moments of “awaking” he was struck with a desire to lay still, alone, and simply expire. He requested the presence of a single priest, dismissing members of his neighboring community that had known him as a kind, gentle soul, in favor of telling his story to a single Man of God. Yet, even with his request for solitude, it is said that nearly twenty men, women, and children gathered around the shepherd’s homestead, praying for his passage into Heaven. However, within an hour of the procession, strange noises echoing from the Valois Mountains and the Varosi Pass in particular, forced the faithful crowd to take notice and wonder. Yet, the final straw that forced the praying souls to flee occurred in the final moments of the hermit-farmer’s life; for, as they knelt, stood, and groveled at the feet of Saint Peter to allow the poor shepherd’s soul to pass into Heaven, guttural cries reverberated from on-high, resonating from the belfries of the Varosi Monastery, only to cascade in an eerie collection of echoes down the mountainside. However, the young Father – at this time – knelt before the shepherd, blessing him in his passing in the final moments of his life. Yet, as the cries of the praying outside echoed, the elderly hermit rose with renewed force, grasping the priest by his collar, and – as the priest described vividly – in his final moments, whispered, “They will bleed…” After which, the hermit-shepherd fell back, expiring, leaving the young priest in shock, only to be awakened from his catatonia by the continued screams of those praying outside, and the sound of fleeing hooves.
The Father, now forced to combat things which his mere Doctorate of Theology could not cope, fled from the small cabin, leaving the man’s cadaver to sit. As he exited the home, his eyes flew skyward, peering to the large plume of black particulate that smoldered to the sky from the general proximity of his monastic home. To which, the young priest ran, his cassock flailing, Bible in hand as he ran through the Varosi Pass, climbing-up the steep pathway to the Monastery that sat upon the mountain peak overhanging the mountain valley. Upon arrival, the Christian acolyte found his beloved home a blaze, a fiery consumption of shadow and flame. He quickly ran through the toppled, oaken doors of the religious retreat, running through the main chambers of the abbey. He ceased almost the moment he crossed the threshold, noting the presence of dismembered appendages of his fellow acolytes, and the presence of copious fluids that drenched the floor beneath his feet. Yet, the most horrific of sights was yet to be beheld, for as the good Father’s eyes rose, repulsion gripped him as the sight of his abbot, his remaining franchise hanging from the inversion of the sacred crucifix that had hung from the arched roof of the nave. Plagued by this revulsion, his knees buckling, toppling him forward onto the fluid-soaked stone, sending his regurgitate particulate onto the blackening marble, before he rolled to his back, releasing a horrific cry as he spied the strewn limbs and organs that, atop various ornamental spires, had been pierced into the very architecture of the building…
Discovered and rescued moments later by members of a nearby community, the Father was said to have rested for several days before awaking from his coma-like sleep and immediately requesting stationary to send to Dortier (capital of the Principality) and Prince Maximilien IV – sovereign of Castilione – and his Council of Peers. Mostly due to the remoteness of this community, telephone communication was virtually unheard of as even electricity was scarce. Yet, the young Father prayed with all of his heart that the letter would reach Dortier before it was too late. As such, in an elegant scribbling, the former priestly-monk scrawled his tale and warning that “something was amiss” in Castilione. Within moments of its completion, the good Man of the Clothe called for a messenger to be sent to the capital to deliver the message personally in a fitful hope that his warning would be heeded and taken into account.
Yet, the young messenger boy would never arrive in Dortier…
۞
Chapter One: The Conspiracy
Prince Maximilien VI sat in his bed chamber, tiding over the last remaining bits of his daily duties. His bedroom – compared to the monarchies of Europe – lacked much of the gilded luxuries one would assume a princely sovereign would hold. Yet, this was not due to lack of wealth, but – unlike his father, and his father before him – the twenty-two year-old, idealistic Maximilien de Orleans-Castilione VI desired less for the wealth and status that his predecessors had, and cared more for the standing of his people. As such, within the first years of his reign – which began when he was merely eighteen – he had stripped much of the Palais de Dortier of it’s gilded facets and marble faces, redistributing much of the profit from such goods onto the population. Yet, even with this massive, charitable force, most of Castilione was still less-than-wealthy; having only one in three households having a television or telephone, many would consider the small, princely state in the north of Nordska as backwards. Even so, most of the Castilions live happy lives – whether from the carpenter and tradesman to the noble and lord. Yet, even with this overwhelming sense of prosperity and happiness, Maximilien could not shake the feeling that something dark, something dreadfully malign was stirring not too-far-off. Though, much to the young Prince’s displeasure, even if some great superpower was preparing for an invasion of the small state, the Principality could hardly consider itself able. Much of the military was under-equipped and under-trained, having – at best – weaponry from the late Seventies to early Eighties. Though, even then, being a member of the military – a member of the Défense Vigueur de Castilione – was still considered an honor, and a first step to becoming a member of the upper-class – albeit much of this elite lay in a lecherous, decadent slum of its own aristocratic stench. Though, some of the noble families still held their support of the Prince and his seemingly-futile attempt at reform.
Maximilien sighed, setting aside his final duties of the evening, flicking off the last remaining lamp in his room, and climbed slowly into his bed, pulling back the curtains of the massive, ornate structure once within its dwelling. He did possess a Chamberlain; yet, he mandated that he was not required to dwell in his chamber as the Prince did require some level of privacy. Yet, on this evening, his privacy was quickly interrupted as, just as he was beginning to fall into a daze of slumber, the door to his chamber flew open. Into his chamber and pulling aside his curtains was the Master Chamberlain and various lords of the Council of Peers. “Your Royal Highness,” announced the Master Chamberlain – a man by the name of Louis Michael de Roumbier, “There has been an incident in Northern Castilione.”
“What has happened?” Maximilien questioned, rising from his bed and quickly dawning some attire to make himself presentable.
“Your Highness, I believe you better follow us,” Roumbier retorted, helping his regent dress quickly while preparing him for something that none of them had expected.
The Master Chamberlain and several Peers escorted Prince Maximilien to a small room allotted to Privy Council meetings. There, the Prince was met by the whole Council of Peers and his Privy Councilors, all of them gathering around a small piece of parchment at the center of the table. “What is going on?” requested the royal sovereign, to which one of his advisors ushered the letter to him. Maximilien opened the letter, unfolding it carefully as he took note of the copious amount of a dried, deeply red fluid that had stained the hemp paper. As he opened he read:
”Your Royal Highness, Maximiliean IV, Prince of Castilione,
“It has come to my attention that some sort of thing or things has began to lay siege to your country and its people. Four days ago (April 6, 2008, in the Year of Our Lord God) I gave the Last Rites to a man who claimed that he was attacked and plagued by some sort of beast. Initially I dismissed him as mad, but as he told his tail, I was compelled by God Himself to believe him. And just as he was telling me, They struck once more, burning my home of Vorasi Monastery to the ground. I found my kinsmen and my abbot mutilated in ways I care not to describe. As such, I have been cared for by the wonderful people of the village of Vorasi – a town just south of the Castilion-Altar Rang border– a region heavily patrolled by the Callisdrunian Monarchy. Until today, I have been comatose and unable to inform Your Highness of the happenings in your country. For this I am sorry.
“Several villagers have proclaimed that these beasts are known as the ‘moroii’ by townspeople. Apparently, these beasts are similar to ‘vampires’ and are a common sight in Altar Rang and are even considered citizens – equal to humans – in Callisdrun. It is my belief that this pagan kingdom is harboring ill-will with us and is attempting to subvert us and occupy your Principality.
“My Lord, I request that something be done about this before something worse – something far worse – occurs.
“Sincerely,
Father Jules Cartes de Vorasi”
“Your Highness,” interjected one of the advisors, “There are reports of these attacks spreading farther south than Vorasi. This letter was found outside of Il-de-Curie amidst the remains of a fourteen year-old messenger boy. Il-de-Curie is merely one hundred kilometers from the capital, Your Highness.”
“I am fully well-aware of that, Councilor,” Prince Maximilien shot back, taking a seat at the table. “But what is to be done? If this truly is Callisdrunian paganism – or mischievous Altar Rangians – then we stand no match for their might.”
“I know, Your Highness,” a Peer piped in, “But we cannot appear to be weak, for if it truly is the Callisdrunian moroii, then we know that to the very last man, the Castilions will fight for their people, their country, their Prince, and their God.”
Maximilien sat quietly, contemplating what exactly was occurring. Vampires? he pondered, I assumed such things were mere myth – fantasies children told one another to scare and frighten. But, my God, if we were all wrong. He sat patiently, neglecting to listen to the arguing Peers and advisors, merely keeping himself to his own thoughts and proclivities. Yet, even he know something must be done…
+ + +
http://img144.imageshack.us/img144/186/maybeprincipalityam9.png
Principality of Castilione
To the King of the Constitutional Monarchy of Callisdrun,
It has come to my attention that, near the southern border of your occupied territory of Altar Rang, encroachments have occurred into the dominion of my Principality. Now, as we retain a fairly open border – and always have – with our neighbors, I would be the last of individuals to proclaim any sort of wrong-doing. However, over a week ago, an elderly hermit in the village of Vorasi – a border-community just south of the Valois Mountains – was attacked by an unknown “humanoid creature”. That incident ultimately lead to his passing. However, it is not entirely explainable, as his description of what struck him greatly fits that of a sub-species of humanity that holds high-accord in your nation: they are called the moroii, I believe. Advisors have informed me that these “individuals” are of vampiric and cannibalistic nature, consuming the blood of their kinsmen and that of human alike.
As such, I must insist that you retain your population to within your borders. I will not allow for rampant, pagan heathens to be flooding my country and attacking my people. I will, by any means, forcibly cease this encroachment of sovereignty and the mounting cases of murder undertaken by your “moroii”. If necessary, I will not hesitate to use aggressive action to enforce this mandate.
In God’s Trust,
Maximilien IV
Prince of Castilione, Sovereign of the Principality of Castilione
- - - - - - - - - -
(OOC: Basically, this is semi-open. If you wish to get involved please contact me, but you're free to leave OOC comments. However, those that are immediately invited are Callisdrun, Magdha, Wanderjar (Rhodesia), and Royaume Francais.
Thank you.)
The Domination of Castilione
Preface
” No man knows till he has suffered from
the night how sweet and dear to his heart
and eye the morning can be.”
– Dracula, Bram Stoker’s Dracula
- - - - - - - - - -
The sun rose quietly from the East, breaking just over the peaks of the Valois Mountains of the rural countryside of the Castilione. Sun flicked rays of light from the still-glimmering, melting peaks of the great spine of Nordska. Though beginning to melt as the great, warm release of Spring was dawning, the Valois Mountains still offered their majesty to the people of the Principality. Situated just south of Callisdrunian-occupied Altar-Rang, the Castilions were accustomed to peculiarity and queer occurrences in the deep, mountain passes of the adjoining range; yet, through the small chapels and monasteries that dotted the landscape, a new rumor was beginning to flourish. Just as the glacial fields of the far-north of Amaranthe were depositing their nourishing melt onto the thankful farms and pastures of Castilione, so too were the musings of strange sightings of queer abnormalities that men and scribes in distant lands wrote of in their many scrying sessions, communing with their Watchers or Guardians in an attempt to gain the knowledge of the universe. Yet, these were not benign ravings of aged sheikhs or alchemists of old, often polluted through their spirit by their many flights through the astral planes. No, these were rumors founded in facts – albeit askew facts, spoken and passed only through the corrupting tongue of human mouths. However, even with these corruptions taken into account, an air of foreboding was taking its grip on the northern communities of Castilione. An air – an icy, dull air – that resembled the first, frantic grasps of Winter, seemed to be consuming the souls of the rural men and women.
It all began as many catastrophes do: with a simple loss. An elderly, Bulgar-Castilion farmer, just south of the Vorasi Pass – a common path between Altar-Rang and the Principality – was awakened in the early morn – even before his accustomed arousal to tend to his livelihood – by the sound of bellowing beasts-of-burden and the eerie screeching the likes of which he dare not further describe. Fearful that his flock was being decimated, the shepherd-farmer rose – still in his sleeping attire – and quickly grabbed his rifle and a thick parka. Rushing from his modest abode, he ran the best a man of his age and wisdom could, spying the gutted remains of several of his sheep as he did so. Determined to discover the source of the disastrous occasion, he continued to listen for the daemonic screeching the followed the bellowing of his herd. Finally, upon further pursuit, in the light of the early-morning sun and the faltering light of Luna and Sirius, the elderly peasant spied – just his distance of the Pass – the staggering, tattered, shambling form of a vaguely humanoid façade. Determined to end this massacre now – even as the beast feasted on the fresh cadaver of one of his final flock – the farmer took careful aim and fired. The grooved bullet careened from his barrel, impacting the cretin in his torso, immediately staggering him further. In response, a high-pitch scream – resembling that of the Baba Yaga or some equally-horrorsome banshee – resounded from the jagged jaw of the wounded animal.
Unsure of himself, the shepherd took careful aim down the iron-sights of his armament, meeting the now angered beast in the eye as he completed his supposed death-knell. To which the Bulgar-descendent described as a horrific travesty the likes of which God Himself most certainly would have condemned to a horrific death in the desolate fires of Hell. “For his face resembled that of a human,” described the old gentleman, “But that was the last of which did. His eyes resembled more a serpent’s than anything else – and even that is a stretch of the imagination. His lips were withdrawn and torn, revealing grey-brown teeth that protruded in a grotesque fashion from his bleeding gums. Beneath each tooth lay rotting, decaying flesh – of, what I assume, was my flock. The beast stared at me down the sight at which I aimed to take his life most-assuredly. Yet, as his eyes pierced my own, I was suddenly struck by such a terror that my blood ran frozen and putrid in my veins. It was only now – struck by fear – that I was able to examine him in greater detail: from his skeletal and sunken face, to the flesh that seemed to hang from his bones. All of it being such a horrific sight that I pray I never lay my eyes upon it again.” At this time, he continued, the beast quickly turned, pressing its legs into the scarlet-soaked soil, and leapt from the ground to one of the many frost-stricken trees that lined the Pass, before too disappearing into the early morning light just beyond the view of the Bulgar-Castilion shepherd.
Yet, of the most horrible of things, the aged man’s testimony of “the Beast from Beyond the Pass” went un-reported for nearly three months. For, his final prose did not seep from his whimpering jaw or his quivering lips until he lay, miraculously ill and decaying on his final resting pad. Speaking to a Father from the Vorasi Monastery just beyond the pass, the farmer described his terrifying experience. The Father would have dismissed it merely as “death-bed dementia” had it not been for his continued recitation of incidents which persisted the three months passed. As the Father described later – though breaking the elderly farmer’s confidence as he viewed it pertinent to his neighbors’ safety – the old man described a period of time plagued – not only by more, almost continuous visits by “the Beast” – but also of dreams and lucid hallucinations that plagued his heart and mind to the breaking point. He described strange, archaic and disturbing scrawling on the outer-walls of his cabin. He continued to cite points at which he could not differentiate between his dreams and reality, stating that “It was in both.” Yet, much to the dismay of the poor, inexperienced priest, the old man then mentioned the sighting of them in numbers. “Numbers?” was the only, the priest later recalled, thing he could speak. To this, the shepherd continued – only in a much more quick, rambling state, most-assured that his time was nigh as he continued to note that They were now with him in the waking hours, too – to describe the last few weeks before he was struck by his mysterious illness.
In his final moments, the dying sheep-herder described the most horrific of times he experienced in the three months leading to his apparent passing. In a much, much more diluted form, the priest later re-uttered the vile tale, telling of the shepherd’s experience in “a court of the living dead”. As the good Father continued, describing the old man’s ramblings in as much discernable detail as he could, for even he – a man of the clothe, supposedly accustomed to daemonic possession and the temptations of Legion – was said to be “physically ill” after the tale was spoken. He stated that, in the “court of the living dead,” the old man was called upon as a criminal – an “accused homonoth”, the old man had said – by a judge and jury of men, adorned in intricately woven, ebony and burgundy garments. He stated that he was accused of “attempting to destroy Sanguinasc life”. Unsure of these terms, the two sat puzzled momentarily as the shepherd composed himself. Continuing, the Father said, he went on to describe hours of intense interrogation – a tortuous experience that including anything from whippings to scratches by “unseen claws” – culminating in a verdict handed down by a single, cloaked man. “Guilty.” To this end, the elderly man told, he simply “awoke” from his supposed “dream”, sweating to such a degree that droplets of blood pooled at his orifices and openings, tainting the flooring of his simple home to such a degree that he was forced to burn much of it, leaving him to sleep chilled on his permafrost floor.
It was within hours of this, according to the shepherd – but also noting that his sense of time was greatly distorted – that he called for the priest from the Monastery, stating that within moments of “awaking” he was struck with a desire to lay still, alone, and simply expire. He requested the presence of a single priest, dismissing members of his neighboring community that had known him as a kind, gentle soul, in favor of telling his story to a single Man of God. Yet, even with his request for solitude, it is said that nearly twenty men, women, and children gathered around the shepherd’s homestead, praying for his passage into Heaven. However, within an hour of the procession, strange noises echoing from the Valois Mountains and the Varosi Pass in particular, forced the faithful crowd to take notice and wonder. Yet, the final straw that forced the praying souls to flee occurred in the final moments of the hermit-farmer’s life; for, as they knelt, stood, and groveled at the feet of Saint Peter to allow the poor shepherd’s soul to pass into Heaven, guttural cries reverberated from on-high, resonating from the belfries of the Varosi Monastery, only to cascade in an eerie collection of echoes down the mountainside. However, the young Father – at this time – knelt before the shepherd, blessing him in his passing in the final moments of his life. Yet, as the cries of the praying outside echoed, the elderly hermit rose with renewed force, grasping the priest by his collar, and – as the priest described vividly – in his final moments, whispered, “They will bleed…” After which, the hermit-shepherd fell back, expiring, leaving the young priest in shock, only to be awakened from his catatonia by the continued screams of those praying outside, and the sound of fleeing hooves.
The Father, now forced to combat things which his mere Doctorate of Theology could not cope, fled from the small cabin, leaving the man’s cadaver to sit. As he exited the home, his eyes flew skyward, peering to the large plume of black particulate that smoldered to the sky from the general proximity of his monastic home. To which, the young priest ran, his cassock flailing, Bible in hand as he ran through the Varosi Pass, climbing-up the steep pathway to the Monastery that sat upon the mountain peak overhanging the mountain valley. Upon arrival, the Christian acolyte found his beloved home a blaze, a fiery consumption of shadow and flame. He quickly ran through the toppled, oaken doors of the religious retreat, running through the main chambers of the abbey. He ceased almost the moment he crossed the threshold, noting the presence of dismembered appendages of his fellow acolytes, and the presence of copious fluids that drenched the floor beneath his feet. Yet, the most horrific of sights was yet to be beheld, for as the good Father’s eyes rose, repulsion gripped him as the sight of his abbot, his remaining franchise hanging from the inversion of the sacred crucifix that had hung from the arched roof of the nave. Plagued by this revulsion, his knees buckling, toppling him forward onto the fluid-soaked stone, sending his regurgitate particulate onto the blackening marble, before he rolled to his back, releasing a horrific cry as he spied the strewn limbs and organs that, atop various ornamental spires, had been pierced into the very architecture of the building…
Discovered and rescued moments later by members of a nearby community, the Father was said to have rested for several days before awaking from his coma-like sleep and immediately requesting stationary to send to Dortier (capital of the Principality) and Prince Maximilien IV – sovereign of Castilione – and his Council of Peers. Mostly due to the remoteness of this community, telephone communication was virtually unheard of as even electricity was scarce. Yet, the young Father prayed with all of his heart that the letter would reach Dortier before it was too late. As such, in an elegant scribbling, the former priestly-monk scrawled his tale and warning that “something was amiss” in Castilione. Within moments of its completion, the good Man of the Clothe called for a messenger to be sent to the capital to deliver the message personally in a fitful hope that his warning would be heeded and taken into account.
Yet, the young messenger boy would never arrive in Dortier…
۞
Chapter One: The Conspiracy
Prince Maximilien VI sat in his bed chamber, tiding over the last remaining bits of his daily duties. His bedroom – compared to the monarchies of Europe – lacked much of the gilded luxuries one would assume a princely sovereign would hold. Yet, this was not due to lack of wealth, but – unlike his father, and his father before him – the twenty-two year-old, idealistic Maximilien de Orleans-Castilione VI desired less for the wealth and status that his predecessors had, and cared more for the standing of his people. As such, within the first years of his reign – which began when he was merely eighteen – he had stripped much of the Palais de Dortier of it’s gilded facets and marble faces, redistributing much of the profit from such goods onto the population. Yet, even with this massive, charitable force, most of Castilione was still less-than-wealthy; having only one in three households having a television or telephone, many would consider the small, princely state in the north of Nordska as backwards. Even so, most of the Castilions live happy lives – whether from the carpenter and tradesman to the noble and lord. Yet, even with this overwhelming sense of prosperity and happiness, Maximilien could not shake the feeling that something dark, something dreadfully malign was stirring not too-far-off. Though, much to the young Prince’s displeasure, even if some great superpower was preparing for an invasion of the small state, the Principality could hardly consider itself able. Much of the military was under-equipped and under-trained, having – at best – weaponry from the late Seventies to early Eighties. Though, even then, being a member of the military – a member of the Défense Vigueur de Castilione – was still considered an honor, and a first step to becoming a member of the upper-class – albeit much of this elite lay in a lecherous, decadent slum of its own aristocratic stench. Though, some of the noble families still held their support of the Prince and his seemingly-futile attempt at reform.
Maximilien sighed, setting aside his final duties of the evening, flicking off the last remaining lamp in his room, and climbed slowly into his bed, pulling back the curtains of the massive, ornate structure once within its dwelling. He did possess a Chamberlain; yet, he mandated that he was not required to dwell in his chamber as the Prince did require some level of privacy. Yet, on this evening, his privacy was quickly interrupted as, just as he was beginning to fall into a daze of slumber, the door to his chamber flew open. Into his chamber and pulling aside his curtains was the Master Chamberlain and various lords of the Council of Peers. “Your Royal Highness,” announced the Master Chamberlain – a man by the name of Louis Michael de Roumbier, “There has been an incident in Northern Castilione.”
“What has happened?” Maximilien questioned, rising from his bed and quickly dawning some attire to make himself presentable.
“Your Highness, I believe you better follow us,” Roumbier retorted, helping his regent dress quickly while preparing him for something that none of them had expected.
The Master Chamberlain and several Peers escorted Prince Maximilien to a small room allotted to Privy Council meetings. There, the Prince was met by the whole Council of Peers and his Privy Councilors, all of them gathering around a small piece of parchment at the center of the table. “What is going on?” requested the royal sovereign, to which one of his advisors ushered the letter to him. Maximilien opened the letter, unfolding it carefully as he took note of the copious amount of a dried, deeply red fluid that had stained the hemp paper. As he opened he read:
”Your Royal Highness, Maximiliean IV, Prince of Castilione,
“It has come to my attention that some sort of thing or things has began to lay siege to your country and its people. Four days ago (April 6, 2008, in the Year of Our Lord God) I gave the Last Rites to a man who claimed that he was attacked and plagued by some sort of beast. Initially I dismissed him as mad, but as he told his tail, I was compelled by God Himself to believe him. And just as he was telling me, They struck once more, burning my home of Vorasi Monastery to the ground. I found my kinsmen and my abbot mutilated in ways I care not to describe. As such, I have been cared for by the wonderful people of the village of Vorasi – a town just south of the Castilion-Altar Rang border– a region heavily patrolled by the Callisdrunian Monarchy. Until today, I have been comatose and unable to inform Your Highness of the happenings in your country. For this I am sorry.
“Several villagers have proclaimed that these beasts are known as the ‘moroii’ by townspeople. Apparently, these beasts are similar to ‘vampires’ and are a common sight in Altar Rang and are even considered citizens – equal to humans – in Callisdrun. It is my belief that this pagan kingdom is harboring ill-will with us and is attempting to subvert us and occupy your Principality.
“My Lord, I request that something be done about this before something worse – something far worse – occurs.
“Sincerely,
Father Jules Cartes de Vorasi”
“Your Highness,” interjected one of the advisors, “There are reports of these attacks spreading farther south than Vorasi. This letter was found outside of Il-de-Curie amidst the remains of a fourteen year-old messenger boy. Il-de-Curie is merely one hundred kilometers from the capital, Your Highness.”
“I am fully well-aware of that, Councilor,” Prince Maximilien shot back, taking a seat at the table. “But what is to be done? If this truly is Callisdrunian paganism – or mischievous Altar Rangians – then we stand no match for their might.”
“I know, Your Highness,” a Peer piped in, “But we cannot appear to be weak, for if it truly is the Callisdrunian moroii, then we know that to the very last man, the Castilions will fight for their people, their country, their Prince, and their God.”
Maximilien sat quietly, contemplating what exactly was occurring. Vampires? he pondered, I assumed such things were mere myth – fantasies children told one another to scare and frighten. But, my God, if we were all wrong. He sat patiently, neglecting to listen to the arguing Peers and advisors, merely keeping himself to his own thoughts and proclivities. Yet, even he know something must be done…
+ + +
http://img144.imageshack.us/img144/186/maybeprincipalityam9.png
Principality of Castilione
To the King of the Constitutional Monarchy of Callisdrun,
It has come to my attention that, near the southern border of your occupied territory of Altar Rang, encroachments have occurred into the dominion of my Principality. Now, as we retain a fairly open border – and always have – with our neighbors, I would be the last of individuals to proclaim any sort of wrong-doing. However, over a week ago, an elderly hermit in the village of Vorasi – a border-community just south of the Valois Mountains – was attacked by an unknown “humanoid creature”. That incident ultimately lead to his passing. However, it is not entirely explainable, as his description of what struck him greatly fits that of a sub-species of humanity that holds high-accord in your nation: they are called the moroii, I believe. Advisors have informed me that these “individuals” are of vampiric and cannibalistic nature, consuming the blood of their kinsmen and that of human alike.
As such, I must insist that you retain your population to within your borders. I will not allow for rampant, pagan heathens to be flooding my country and attacking my people. I will, by any means, forcibly cease this encroachment of sovereignty and the mounting cases of murder undertaken by your “moroii”. If necessary, I will not hesitate to use aggressive action to enforce this mandate.
In God’s Trust,
Maximilien IV
Prince of Castilione, Sovereign of the Principality of Castilione
- - - - - - - - - -
(OOC: Basically, this is semi-open. If you wish to get involved please contact me, but you're free to leave OOC comments. However, those that are immediately invited are Callisdrun, Magdha, Wanderjar (Rhodesia), and Royaume Francais.
Thank you.)