Harold Saves Her Husband Part 03 and Last
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Transylvania. 1861.
Humanity's mettle is tested again at the brink of an irrevocable new technological age, with the warring dichotomy of what is right and what is easy.
Far and removed from these secular conflicts stands an ugly and ominous monument to the wretchedness of human nature. The castle beckons to the heavens like the many, shapeless appendages of a monster scraping its way upwards against the sky. It is the shadow of its former glory, for at several points throughout history, this mighty fortress was not the jumbled collection of crooked structures and damaged edifices that it stands now. This enigmatic gauntlet lies in ruins like a wounded beast, a few remaining towers dangling high like stray thoughts, but no longer as dense and imposing as they once were. The entire citadel perches on a squat plateau, surrounded by a tall expanse of forest that acts as a natural buffer between the nefarious keep and the rest of the surrounding world. This blasted woodland seamlessly jettisons hapless wanderers between the secular existence of neglected countryside and the slumbering enmity of violent superstition given flesh.
A nameless village stands amidst the woods surrounding this castle, evidently abandoned by its residents, decades ago. Trees jut forth like giant lance wounds impaling the roads and even a few of the houses themselves. Not a building is untouched by time's gift of nature, overgrown with dark greenery beneath the somber canopy of the timberland.
Nevertheless, this land is not unoccupied. A hearth has been lit in one home, something akin to a small manor or tavern, which is one of the few buildings to remain that offers anything towards an adequate albeit temporary shelter. Cobwebbed furniture is strewn about the wide entry hall, casting frantic shadows that dance disproportionately over the walls, projected by the crackling flames. The occupants have company.
The most prominent figure of three is of a standing woman with medium skin, her dusty hair braided into two long, thin tails in back. Her face is symmetrically curved with solid cheekbones a flush of pink color. She's clad in what appears to be an iron breastplate and a protective collar, with the rest of her outfit consisting of light, blue-dyed clothing beneath padded light armor over her abdomen and limbs. Her expression of her thin frown and azure eyes lacks any traces of amusement, which is appropriate given the pending situation. She brandishes a leather whip that is currently coiled around the forearm of a second figure.
This man is kneeling, prostrating himself before her in submission. His attire is dark and inconspicuous. Loose clothing shrouds padded light armor, with belts and bandoliers keeping it from loosening. Clawed gauntlets adorn the backs of his forearms, bearing short silver spikes. Despite their sharpness, they’re incapable of slicing through the mysterious whip which has entangled his limb so perfectly that he can scarcely pull back an inch. The past few seconds had been a heated berth of battle, and he’s glad that it should be over, given the precarious pincer he was now caught between. “No need to get rough, ma’am,” he says (or at least, this is the rough English equivalent, given the time and place). He holds up his other arm with an open palm as if to indicate he has no further weapons at the ready, and he slowly draws back the hood which masks his face. He has something of a hardened expression, with defined dimples and a narrow chin. His dark hair is just long enough to tousle, very nearly black with a faint brown tinge that appears greenish in the low light. He can’t seem to keep his eyes on the woman, because he’s all too aware of the third figure behind him. “Maybe you can call off the kitty cat, huh?”
This third being is not human, but more than that, he verbally objects to his given moniker. “I’m no ‘kitty,’” he says, his voice light but grizzled, as if every word trundled across an uneven growl to be spoken. “I’m a familiar, not some mindless animal.” To the layperson, he looks like a fully grown panther, but his fur is not so dark as to render his black spots unnoticeable. Far more noticeable are his prolong jaws hidden behind his twitching whiskers, his furred ears folded into a threatening look, his elongated claws that tap against the floor like an indecisive diner poring over the menu, and his tail which lashes in a stirred fit of aggression. He looks across the man and up towards the woman who returns his gaze. At this, as though responding to some unspoken command, he sits upon his haunches and backs down. The woman jerks her whip once, unraveling it from the man’s arm with such force that he’s thrown to the ground. At any rate, a real fight has been averted.
In a few moments, the pair of humans are sharing a meal and discussing their purpose here, in this forgotten village, in these haunting woods, at the foot of this forbidden castle ruin. “I was taught of the monsters that lurk in the dark from my father,” says the woman, who introduced herself as Kathryn Graves. “He’s hunted them in this very castle, back before it collapsed. He’s seen more creatures than most demonologists are aware of. In the event the world needs my services, I’m one of the few people alive today who can hunt such evils.”
“So few you wouldn’t recognize another if you met him?” The man gives a cocksure laugh. He’s introduced himself as Abram Kischine. “Lady, I think I’ve been around these parts a lot longer than you. My own family has some experience with castles and monsters, and I know skills they don’t teach in this corner of the world. No offense, but my great granddaddy knew famous vampire hunters. Not that I doubt your ability.” He chuckles, then slurps up the remainder of his stew, holding the wooden bowl up to his face. “Mmf. Great grub. These bitter herbs have got a tangy after-kick.”
The talking panther eyed Abram with a look of disdain. “Funny how I’m the one with the best eating manners here,” he remarks in spite of his inability to grasp a spoon. “Fame is no substitute for skill. This castle is a place of life and death.” He laps at the back of a front paw in a derisive gesture while Abram glowers at him from behind his bowl.
“Leopold, I have no qualms with him journeying to the Count’s castle. He’s responsible enough for his own actions.” Kathryn wipes the stew “moustache” off of her upper lip with the back of her hand, and lets out a tiny expulsion of a belch.
“Tch. ‘Leopold’? You kiddin’ me? You named your pet cat ‘Leo’?” Abram grins broadly at the sapient feline and presses a palm to his raised knee. Leopold responds to this offense with a breathy hiss that can be described as “catty” in both senses of the word.
Kathryn interrupts before the two males can lapse into another argument. “But I won’t go in with him.” She sets her bowl down and stands up. “This quest isn’t just for me to polish my ‘skills’. Tonight, I have business to attend to.”
Abram struggles to pay attention, yawning into the back of his hand. He shakes his head as he tries to keep it held up to watch Kathryn, but it ends up hanging low. He sees the blurry figure of that damn cat smirking at him.
“Please don’t think me cold. I truly wish no harm to come to you.” Kathryn’s business-like tone sounds far-off and fading fast.
Abram blinks once and she’s already halfway across the room. “Hey, wait,” he mumbles, his jaw feeling too tired to let the words pass through. He blinks again and she’s gone. Dammit, she drugged him? That seemed pretty low, even for her. “That was completely uncalled for,” he says, but it’s an effort even to flap his tongue. The comfortable darkness of a mild sleep claims him, and she’s long gone by the time he awakens to the dying embers.
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