"You know that gut feeling that clenches your stomach muscles, compelling you to seek relief, thinking the only solution is to go número dos? Yeah, I'm pretty sure I should've heeded it instead of, you know... going número dos- No, wait. Numarul doi!" I jest with the pair of Familiars, two decent-looking guys clad in office suits, as they suspend me upside down, chained, though sadly not in a kinky manner.
Beside me, Dumb Perv Cutie Pretty Boy finds himself in a similar predicament, albeit unconscious and already undergoing the draining process – also, regrettably, not in a kinky way.
Seems like the middle of a story? Well, as an avid JB's fan, and while the two lawyer guys contemplate my positioning, I'm inclined to rewind and be kind.
...
Perv Cutie Pretty Boy had arranged the flight through his personal connections, and I've got to admit, private planes are the bomb! I never knew there was an option to trade regular seats for padded coffins. Note to self: Very surreal. Also... Best. Nap. Ever!
I feel the plane descending, signaling our arrival at our destination – a private estate owned by humans affiliated with the House of Dobroutes, as per Perv Cutie Pretty Boy's information, near Bran, Romania. That's Europe, baby!
Than again, so is Frank's Drink Till You Drop…
As we step off the plane onto an airstrip enveloped by trees, greeted only by the sight of a rustic mansion, my hopes of a welcoming reception swiftly fade. So much for my expectations.
Perv Cutie Pretty Boy remains remarkably stoic, though I can sense it's merely a façade. The dynamics between Cursed and Descendants are akin to oil and water, and we're a mere dozen kilometers from the progenitor, or rather, patriarch of all Cursed. Meanwhile, PCPB is but a freshly baked First Level Metamorphosis.
"There's a barrier encircling Bran. Any attempt to breach the town through The Gray will alert The Impaler," he informs me.
"Material Dimension it is," I respond with a shrug.
Since this isn't an assassination mission, I dare say I feel somewhat relaxed. Furthermore, it appears there's a wide array of items that could pass as a "sample of The Impaler". Essentially, anything infused with his Magick for approximately forty-eight hours or less suffices. Meaning, getting close to him entails either vying for the full experience or settling for something from a gift shop.
I accelerate to full speed towards Bran, then ease into half speed, followed by a quarter, before slapping PCPB to accept the piggyback and accelerating once more to full speed. Do I need to go full speed? No – evil smile. Do I enjoy the feel of firm buttocks in my hands? Yes – eviler smile.
Frankly, I'm not one for tourism. Bran is just another stop on a long list of destinations for me. It's midnight, and the moon casts an eerie glow over the Carpathians. The place is steeped in legends, and the eerie allure of the night only adds to the mystique. But I don't have time for sightseeing; my interests lie in darker corners.
In this moonlit hour, the castle's imposing silhouette against the Romanian sky is both grand and haunting, like a shadowy fortress guarding forgotten secrets. The throngs of tourists, nestled in their quaint lodges and fast asleep, remain oblivious to my presence as I linger in the shadows. The architecture is undeniably impressive, yet it's the enigmatic secrets concealed within these castle walls that truly captivate me.
Perv Cutie Pretty Boy, now standing on his own feet, exudes a guarded demeanor the moment the castle comes into view. I mirror his caution. As we approach the domain of a being whose power surpasses our measurement, the realization that its capabilities can exceed even a Third Level Metamorphosis adds to the weight of our mission.
"Lead the way to the firearm," I interject, setting aside my usual banter for the time being.
Silently, we navigate past the castle walls, detecting a distinct flavor in the air, one that eludes regular senses – Blood Magick. It differs from Perv Cutie Pretty Boy's own; his is sleeker, more refined, though lacking in potency. The Impaler's, however, evokes memories of brimstone and sulfur.
We exchange no words, relying solely on hand signals to communicate. The downward gesture indicates our next move, and he guides us deeper into the castle. Employing his own expertise, he deftly circumvents potential alarms, deftly manipulating locks and mechanisms to grant us access. Within the castle's confines, we traverse its corridors and passageways in silence. I steal glances at various items on display – some intriguing, worthy of further investigation, yet not pertinent to our current objective or to the progression of our endeavors. They serve merely as intriguing diversions, to be explored on a day when I am confident that my metaphorical scythe can harvest The Impaler's legacy.
The Magick thickens in the air as we bypass "under construction" signs and arrive at an open door leading to a sealed chamber. Adjacent to its wooden frame lies a heap of chains, and beyond its threshold awaits a descending stairway.
My trust in PCPB extends only as far as the gap between his fangs, so it raises a red flag that our sole path forward is through a solitary sealed passage. While I could conceivably breach its walls to make a swift escape, the same opening could serve as an entry point for The Impaler to pursue me.
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PCPB discerns my hesitance regarding the mission's viability. He descends a step on the stairway, extending one hand while using the other to gesture a line across his neck – an unmistakable signal that I should end his life if things take a turn for the worse.
His unwavering gaze serves as a reminder of his assurance concerning The Impaler's current condition – a morsel of information from his enigmatic pocket of information. Allegedly, The Impaler's present state vacillates between a Vampire marginally stronger than an average individual and a Cursed Vampire nearing the Second Metamorphosis. The mechanics of it remain murky to me, and I harbor reservations about fully embracing this intel. It all seems too convenient, and in life, convenience often betrays orchestrated designs, a realization I find myself confronting far too frequently of late.
"What's one more, right?" I muse silently, declining his hand. There's no need to keep him close for the purpose of dispatching him. We continue our descent in silence.
Strangely, the scent of blood dissipates the deeper we descend, while the temperature plummets, accompanied by a musty odor.
PCPB hesitates at the threshold of the underground foyer, a castle within the castle – a distinctly gothic ambiance that resonates more with my sensibilities than the sanitized version catered to tourists.
The real castle of The Impaler – or whatever he has become – greets us with a grandeur that unsettles even PCPB. My footsteps echo softly on the polished marble floors. Above us, the vaulted ceiling, adorned with intricate, cobweb-covered chandeliers, emphasizes the depth of our descent, casting elongated shadows across the ground.
Heavy tapestries line the walls, their dark hues and macabre scenes recounting tales of a chilling past. Torches flicker uselessly, their light barely penetrating the darkness. Such illumination would serve no purpose for a First Level Metamorphosis, indicating that they are meant for others – likely those who have unlocked the door to the stairway.
"This is him…" My gaze fixes on a portrait of a formidable figure adorning the front wall, his piercing eyes seeming to meet mine.
"This way," PCPB's voice resonates, manipulating sound waves for my ears alone, and I understand the reason why. The Impaler's Magick extends its grasp over everything outside his true castle. Down here lies his sanctuary.
We traverse broader expanses beyond the foyer, navigating through multiple staircases, long and short, along with a labyrinth of corridors punctuated by both closed and open doors. With each step, we move with a sense of ownership, as if the castle were ours to command.
"How far?" I inquire, employing my own technique to modulate sound. We've been walking for two kilometers, meticulously mapping out every brick and tile in my mind. Up to this point, we've encountered guest rooms, exhibition halls, staff quarters, and even three kitchens, all devoid of any signs of life.
"It should be one floor beneath the east garden," PCPB responds. "Our route is designed to avoid areas saturated with The Impaler's Vampiric presence. You can only sense it as a Vampire. I'm not deceiving you."
I refrain from argument, but my silence demands precision.
"Minutes," he concedes, and for now, I acquiesce.
We finally come to a halt beside a corner wall. PCPB turns to me, and I anticipate that whatever he's about to say will likely irritate me.
"That's the spot," he confirms.
"Where the firearm is located? Inside the wall?" I seek clarification.
He nods, and a smile plays across my lips, noting his reaction.
He visibly shrinks back, and I decide to humor him by extending my hand. "Who knows," I jest, "maybe it's a bad night for The Impaler. You might have a chance."
With a swift kick, the wall yields, and my leg effortlessly breaches the barrier. I pull PCPB along with me into the small, formerly sealed chamber, where we find nothing but a tall, standing wooden crate.
"If that were Him, if He were inside, he would've emerged by now, right?" I speculate.
"It's not a Vampire's coffin," PCPB asserts, taking the initiative to open it.
A cascade of soil spills forth, accompanied by a rattling sound, revealing a headless skeleton clothed in worn-out garments, perhaps from the 18th century. Peering through a tear in the upper garment, I spy a bullet embedded in one of the ribs.
"There," PCPB declares, tearing away the skeleton's attire to unveil the source of the rattling – a broken flintlock pistol.
My initial reaction is a blank stare, followed swiftly by a stir in my Pool of Magick Ions upon reading the inscription on the grip. An out-of-control discharge ensues.
"Giliotenza!" I manage to restrain my voice, though I verbalize the branded inscription aloud, finding it identical to the engraving on my long-barrel semi-automatic pistol.
Fucking divine interventions – I had a feeling!
I care little for the "how" and only partly for the "whom", merely for the purpose of adding them to my personal kill list.
My Giliotenza disintegrates into black and light blue Runic metallic components, while a foreign Magick emerges from the older Giliotenza, which breaks down into red and yellow Runes of wooden components.
As my Giliotenza and the older version intertwine, the old infuses the new, rendering it stronger and more potent. Yet, I find myself incapacitated, unable to lift a finger, rapidly depleting my strength. I scream within as my remaining energy fades, my Pool of Magick Ions nearly exhausted, and the world around me begins to fade to black.
…
And thus, we find ourselves here. Shit.
"Seriously, guys, I'm all for civil discussion," I attempt to draw the attention of the two suited lawyers.
Unfortunately, I find myself immobilized, my movements restricted by chains too formidable for even my top-notch First Level Metamorphosis Fitness to overcome. Ironically, it's my weakest attribute. Surprisingly, a good portion of my Magick has recovered, despite having lost enough to render me unconscious – a second occurrence in my life! DPCPB is also incapacitated; the stake driven into his chest has dealt him a serious blow. My poor Seven Tenets...
But I can't afford to give up. If I do, soon the one who shall not be named- I mean, The Impaler might show up. Time for the second round of distraction, commence!
"You know, something funny happened to me just the other day. I swear, it's so absurd you'll die laughing, not because I'd kill you. Honest to Dracula-"
"Voivode of Wallachia!" interrupts the one with slick hair and glasses, barking out the correction.
Gotcha!
"I didn't mean to offend," I add hastily, and success! One foot breaks loose. The impending pain is sure to be a motherfu- Nah, I'll save the curse for later.
"Hey, four-eyes, could you adjust me? All the blood rushing to my head is making me nauseous," I request, noticing him positioning himself beneath me with a hook to pull the chain.
"As for the guy next to me... Yes, yes, the cute dumbass who got me into this mess... You won't believe what he calls the great Voivode of Wallachia," I continue, feeling a surge of excitement as I delve deeper into my improvised performance. "He says- no, scratch that, I say – Deadly Silent Footwork!"