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{if Start Game = True}
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The rain was coming down as though a bucket brigade from heaven was being emptied into a strainer above the Inn of Ten Dragons at Thurston's Crossing. The lightning struck so constantly that the night was transformed into day by the flashes and none within could hear themselves think, let alone hold a good conversation over the din. Out of that downpour and cacophony road a single stranger, into the inn's coachyard, atop a dripping and bedraggled white steed, whose head was stooped and who clearly wished to be out of the rain this very instant at least as much as their rider.
The traveler dismounted, opened the door to the stables, and handed the reigns of their mount off to the stable boy that they somehow knew would be there without a second thought. Then went to the inns' main doors.
They entered the common room and all atmpts to shout conversation over the peeling thunder fell silent instantly. Under the simple brown cloak and hood they wore, hem spattered with mud and brim pulled down over their face to keep off the rain it was impossible to tell what manner of person, or even gender, the individual was.
However, as every eye in the tavern followed them to the bar they found themselves looking at a set of well-worn boots made from the hide of a pyro-hydra and at once they realized that, everyone knew this was perhaps an individual capable of challenging the curse under which the Counts Barsotti who ruled hereabouts had labored for the past three generations...
The Counts Barsotti, (specifically Lord Marcus Cesario Familious Barsotti II, great-grandfather of the current count,) had angered one of the old gods somehow and been cursed for their indiscretion. Upon reaching the age of 33 they turned into hideous monsters that had to be locked up in the dungeons beneath Castellari Barsotti: demons, so it was said, and could never again see the light of day.
Year by year the curse grew more severe, monster attacks were on the rise throughout their realm, and the peasants talked of calling upon the INQUISITION for help. But everyone knew, calling the Inquisitors was a last resort, for the INQUISITION, was as much of a nightmare as the monsters they destroyed, and when they were done ferreting out 'sin' among your populous you would be both destitute and ravaged of all your skilled laborers and treasured heirlooms. Better far to hire a band of mercenary heroes to quell the problem, or even just a lone wanderer...
The stranger reached the bar and fished a coin out of a hidden pouch beneath their cloak. As they tossed it on the countertop the observers got their first clue as to this newcomer's identity from their hand and the edge of their sleeve, which marked them as a...
{else}This story is meant to be read in game mode only: failing to do so can lead to all manner of problems and assorted things which won't make sense, such as chapters for which you don't meet the conditions and missing blocks of text from if statements. Please turn on Game Mode now...
On a dark and stormy night, a rider comes to the tavern. They are dressed in a cloak but you can tell they mean business. They might be someone to help Lord Marcus and his plight.
The plight of Lord Marcus is his own. Years ago when he was a young man, he angered the Celtic Gods and they cursed his blood. Now he and his flesh become Diablo, a daemon on earth. {endif}
Virginia
- 26.02.2020
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