Author Topic: A Tattered Journal, stained with blood.  (Read 768 times)

HunterMonster

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A Tattered Journal, stained with blood.
« on: May 24, 2019, 11:17:54 AM »
Scattered stains of blood coat the pages of the journal, raked by claw marks and holes. But words can be made out, the script in clear but somewhat shakey Bavorian.

I suppose someone found this, and if you have it better be from my dead body. I have some coin, if looters did not take it off me, in a pocket behind the left dagger hilt under my left leg trouser. If it’s still there take it, and if you are a good soul, or at least cause you’re life before you take this and anything else on my body you will fulfill this last request.

Drive a silver stake into my heart, sever my head and toss it into a river and set fire to my body and toss the ashes onto a crossroads. If I come back as some abomination of the night you who did not fulfill this wish will be the first victim.

But you wonder who I am or was and why I ask this, since these words are probably my last I will write down my tale. Perhaps it will mean more for you then it did for me.

Blood drips on paper in spots almost obscuring words

« Last Edit: May 30, 2019, 07:40:14 PM by HunterMonster »

HunterMonster

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Re: A Tattered Journal, stained with blood.
« Reply #1 on: June 06, 2019, 12:50:55 PM »
*The tattered pages, old and crisp, still maintain a healthy visage of ink that is still legible.*

I suppose what drove me to my life was where I was raised.

I was a foundling child, left to die in the woods save for the timely intervention of a local woodsman. He found me just before the moon rose, and in Verbrek you never want to be out at night.

We Verbrekers are a close knit sort, though we are wary of outsiders. If I could grow up to be of use to the community, it did not matter if I was my fathers child by blood or not. He and his wife took me in among two other siblings and made me part of their family.

Jaoven was the name they gave me, names for my fathers father. I had a good life. I remember my father teaching me and my siblings to fight, chop wood and the gestures needed to ward off evil, especially werewolves. Mother taught me herbs and how to cook, setting bandages and mixing potions came easy to me; like a second nature.

Our farm was one of a number around our village. And each night we brought the goats and cows in, locked the doors and prayed the wolves would not take us. But always the wolves came. Howling and clawing, tearing apart any creature or man unlucky enough to be caught outside at night. Like many I grew to fear the wolves, and hate them.

One day my mother had gone out to barn to settle the animals. It was a full moon, but the barn was close and if she had to she could lock the doors and sleep there for the night. We slept, but woke to the sounds of crashing and screaming animals.

My father went to check, and came back pale and freight ended.

My mother was never seen again.

When my mother was taken, I felt anger. That those monsters had taken someone from my family away. I wanted revenge, and one day I spotted a lone wolf prowling in the woods.

What guided my hand I can’t remember but before I knew I had taken the shot and the beast was dead. I skinned it and tore it apart with my hatchet and left it out. A message perhaps, that I wasn’t afraid.

For the next seven days I would go out and hunt for wolves, and kill any I could. Always leaving their torn apart bodies for their pack and others to see at night. My way of resistance I suppose. I felt powerful. How foolish I was.

On the night of another full moon, the werewolves came to the farm. Somehow they had managed to undo the lock of the reinforced door, and began tearing apart my family. I managed to survive by....I am ashamed to say, hiding in a barrel of fish. I hid like a rat, while my family died. I watched it from the kitchen through the door; peeking from a hole in the barrel.

When it was done the home was torn to pieces as were my father and siblings. And then a great yellow eye stared at me.

I still shiver of the memory. But the werewolf stared, then left.

And I was left alone, amid blood, death and fish.