To Sultan Mehmed II, from your loyal servant Basarab Laiotă: Today I avenged myself upon the usurper Vlad Tepes III, in honor of your compassionate greatness for giving me this opportunity after the madman traitor stole the justly-won throne of Wallachia from my the year prior. Delivered to your august court is the head of the madman, recovered following the battle, and kept in honey so that you may gaze upon the dead face of the man who so greatly disrespected you these past thirty years.
It was my intention to deliver the entire corpse to your august presence, but after the horses finished the only part that was still whole was the head. Unfortunately, some of his loyalists managed to escape our ambush along with their dead, but we shall hunt them down and deliver those we capture as gelded slaves to your court, for your pleasure.
In Your Grace, Your Servant, Basarab Laiotă
I throw the turban into my camp chair, disgusted by the feel of it, while my second chastises me, “My lord, you MUST stop doing this! Others can spy upon the enemy camp without the risk, we CANNOT lose you should any discover your true nature!”
I am so tired by this SAME argument, EVERY time…it is like a dance whose steps have become so frequent that I wake doing them, “Oh, is that true? You know of a man who speaks the Ottoman tongue like he was born to it? A warrior who can give an aura of command, one strong enough that none DARE question his presence in the camp? Who knows the organization of the enemy enough to blend into it, as if he came to this land WITH them? No? I thought not.”
“But…but…your grace, to disguise yourself as an OTTOMAN slave warrior is such a great disrespect to your august peerage!,” Janõs wails. Ah, so it is THIS tune he wishes to dance to, tonight.
I drop into my command-tents resting couch, to let my wearing and sore bones stretch and relax, “Ah my good Janõs, but that is what I am…or at least WAS. It took years of teaching them to fear me, before I was able to fool them into my freedom. So I beg your forbearance, if I find it a balm to my soul to use the very things I learned FROM them to now KILL them.”
He is silent long enough to realize that, after the same argument we’ve been having for years now, he is not going to defeat me in a war of words. “
I roll onto my aching shoulder so I can look my most loyal of retainers in the eye where he kneels across the tent, “Even the mightiest warrior cannot defeat the river of time, my friend. That is only the domain of the most foul sorcerers, and those who beseech the hideous blessings of the darkest gods…and I am FIGHTING them, not JOINING them. I think this is the final campaign that I will be able to pull this trick, so in the end…you have won our little ongoing argument.”
“So shall I throw out your chest of…special…clothes, my lord? I can have it burning within the hour!,” he says with the happiest smile I have seen on him since the birth of his son.
“
***
Of COURSE this would happen NOW!, I think while trying to fend off the lashing branches of the vine monster with Dragon’s Fang, my father’s flaming longsword. My steed already weakening from the vines wrapped around his bleeding legs. Poor thing, I don’t think he’s getting out of this alive. By the powers of hell, >>I<< might not!
As another vine reaching down for me is severed, the smoking edge of the stump curling back up into the branches of the trees above me. Then I’m pitched forward OFF the stallion’s back, as one of the vines finally takes out one of his forelegs, and am pitched into the same undergrowth that is trapping him as well. Stunned as I lay there, the breath knocked from me while the shrubbery wraps around my body and limbs, I can’t help but think, NOT the best camping site I ever chose.
As life returns to my limbs with the breath I gasp desperately for, my wild gazes falls on my enemy. It is a cluster of leaves and vines, pulsing like some still-living heart ripped from a giant’s chest, latched on to the BACK side of a tree beside the trail I was moving along. No surprise I failed to see it.
I grip Dragon’s Fang tight once more, igniting the flames on the blade which burn off the grasses that were wrapping around it, giving me the chance to lever my sword arm free. I hear my loyal mount collapse the rest of the way to the ground behind me, its failing life leaking out along with the blood drawn by this twisted creature’s toothed vines. Gritting my teeth against the pain I manage to free myself by wailing abut with the flaming blade, cutting and burning both myself and the undergrowth its magics allowed it to bend to its will.
Like a monster myself, with a savage cry to help propel my lunge, I bury my blade…into the tree bole besides it. I feel fresh vines lash out from it to wrap around my body, spines digging into my flesh wherever it finds a gap in my admittedly-cheap Ottoman armor. Grunting, I try to pull Dragon’s Fang from the tree, but the vines pin me to the tree and I cannot get enough leverage to do so.
Another vine lashes at my head, but I manage to release my grip on the blade in time to catch it, and feel its spines dig into my hand. The other end keeps flailing around, trying to reach my head, so I grab it as well and with savage anger I ignore the fresh pain to BITE the thing between two rows of spines! In a handful of tearing chomps, I manage to tear it off, its vile ichor making me grateful I had yet to eat that evening.
After the creature whips the remaining vine from my hands, leaving my palms torn and bloody inside my shredded gloves, I can lean back far enough to shove a hand under my cuirass, and pull out one of the daggers I hid inside. Gripping a branch above me as tight as my rage-fueled muscles allow, I pull myself aside far enough to reach the thing, and start forcing it to impersonate Augustus Caesar. Once it is a shattered dripping mess, the vines loosen on me, and the grass returns to its normal non-violent state.
I collapse to the ground panting as the vines around me release their grip, giving my head time to cool and think. These kinds of monsters have become ever-more frequent, after that Ottoman bastard Basarab Laiotă stole the Viovode of my homeland. Even after I ran him off, the foul taint of the Ingram’s sorceries remain to haunt my homeland…yet ANOTHER reason to keep them off my people’s backs!
Once I can move my limbs after the exhaustion of such a brutal fight, I pull myself to my steed’s body, it having died somewhere during the end of the battle. Poor creature, rest well, I am sorry that I could not save you. I rummage in my saddle bags for the bag that Janõs always insists I take, grateful that I did and that this is the first time I needed it. Pulling out some of the clay vials I apply their contents to my bleeding hands, hissing with the sting of the flesh knitting back together until my hands are hale and strong once more. This lets me unbuckle and remove my armor and undershirt, so that I can then apply the contents of the flask inside to all my many cuts, seeping once more as the cloth peels off of them. The bleeding stops, as does the sharp burn of the wounds, thanks to the soothing power of the alchemist’s concoction. Damnation, most of the emergency bag is gone, only three vials remain. So I slip them into my belt after putting on my bloody clothes and armor once more, No point carrying an entire bag for a handful of elixers.
After condensing what I will need to make the two-day hike back to my men into one pair of saddle bags, I soak my stallion’s body in oil before walking away and throwing a flask of alchemist’s fire on it, letting it rest in dignity and also igniting the copse of trees I sought to use as a secret camp. It will insure that nothing of that creature remains in there to grow back, and eliminate my own blood’s remains. I don’t want the risk of it being discovered and used by some foul magus in the Ottoman’s employ!
With that I set myself to start my walk under the growing moonlight, pushing myself back to my men fast as may be, and setting up my camping pallet between two tall tree branches later that night to avoid dangers as I sleep.
I come upon my men later in the morning a couple days after leaving them for my self-imposed spying mission, nearly having to fight my way past the guards until Janõs shows up to inform them that I was a spy of theirs and NOT the enemy. I can see the satisfied smirk trying to escape to his face as he struggles not to point out how he was correct, and admit to him that it is too risky to keep doing these long-travel spying missions. So…I will just have to satisfy myself with interfering with them once our forces clash, instead!
***
“Yes my lord, there was some commotion in the Ottoman column when they saw your…works. But whatever it was ended, and the force turned to march north into the mountains, instead of going on to Bucharest. But the back-most square instead turned and went back the way they came, I do not know why,” the scout reports while kneeling before my camp chair, helm in his arm.
Janõs speaks up at that moment, “My lord, I believe that they are seeking to return to Ottoman lands without further conflict, thinking to sneak through the mountains while we follow the smaller force.”
“
“What next steps?,” he asks puzzled, with a familiarity I allow only him as my must trusted advisor. “The enemy is FLEEING the field of battle, and LEAVNG Wallachia…the season’s war is over, is it not?”
I turn to face him, standing so that he understands the FULL weight of my words, “Was it over when I chased that pig-fucking bastard Basarab Laiotă out? No, he came BACK and ravaged HOW many Wallachian villages in his attempt to steal back my throne. Was it over when I took back the throne from the usurper installed by that rotten backstabbing traitor John Hunyadi? No, and how many innocent Wallachians died in THAT fight? What about when he installed Vladislav? Or in the ongoing Ottoman conflicts LAST year, when the Voivodes came to BEG me to retake my birthright?”
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I see the falling humor in his face, as his skin goes increasingly ashen with every question. Stepping towards him as men start to come into my command tent, I give him what comfort I can, “YOU lost a brother in that last war, remember, my friend? Would you lose another to NEXT year’s war? What about your son’s life in the Ottoman war ten years from now?”
I turn to the now-full tent, to address my most trusted followers, “No my friends, we will NOT continue to live like this, under constant threat of the Ottoman lash! We should just LET these rats, who have spent weeks ravaging our homes and killing our people, just…leave? WE should be polite to THEM, to let them retreat and rebuild for NEXT year…forever? I say NO, by all the powers of hell and voices of grace, I say NO!”
It starts with my bodyguards, voices raised in cheer drowned out only by their bare blades to clang against their shields, then spreads to my lieutenants, before I hear the voices of rage and defiance coming from without the tent as the army catches the battle-fury. After a couple minutes I move around to step outside the tent and address them, shouting loud enough to be heard from atop my hillock, “SHUT UP YOU BASTARD SONS OF WHORES!,” before coughing and rubbing to soothe my aching throat as the word of my order spreads, and silence along with it. “I KNOW THE FIRE IN YOUR HEARTS DEMANDS THE BLOOD OF THE OTTOMANS TO COOL IT, THAT YOU ALL HUNGER FOR VENGEANCE MORE THAN FOR FOOD OR WOMEN. I PROMISE YOU THIS, YOU WILL GET YOUR CHANCE, BUT ONLY IF YOU ARE QUIET ENOUGH FOR US TO PLAN IT!,” once I can see that they will keep their voices low, and their spirits are high from the whispered jokes and jackanapes, I head inside to live up to that promise.
As my eyes are adjusting to the dim candle light inside my tent, I feel somebody push a water skin into my hand, before taking a deep draught from it to put out the fire and regain my voice.
“My lord, was ‘bastard sons of whores’ REALLY the phrase a Voivode should use to address his men on the eve of battle? It doesn’t seem to have the right…gravitas. The men must look up to you as their pillar of certainty and strength, not think of you as just another foul-mouthed infantryman,” Ah, young Ferenczy again. I can hear the scribe in the corner scratching away at his desk, recording the day’s events for his report to Rome, Shit, I forgot that Church spy would have come in with the lieutenants. I’ve seen WIND more visible than that whisper-quiet grey-robed squirrel excuse for a man.
I shake my head and address him in passing as I approach the map table, now that my throat feels like mine again and my night eyes have come in. With a mind on my words, knowing they will be repeated this autumn in the courts of Hungary as well as the Holy City, “And yet, for years, I WAS a simple armsman, just like THEM…and they know this. Seeing that I still talk like one of them lets them know that I understand their problems, and gives them the confidence of a commander who will not throw away their lives for simple reputation. They did not climb over a thousand steps each to join me, and march out from Poenari Fortress all this way in defense of Bucharest, because I am the rightful Prince of Wallachia. They did it because I am a man they can understand, a voivode who DOESN’T think his shit smells like roses, and who KNOWS the brutal life their families lead. You talk to me about gravitas and appearance? I say, let my works be my appearance, and the screams of Wallachia’s dying enemies be my gravitas!”
The tent is quite after that, and Ferenczy’s face as blank as his eyes are wide, before Janõs’ cough breaks the silence to draw everybody’s attention to the campaign map. I guess it is time to plan some of those actions I was just bragging about.
***
“I hate this my lord, why must I wear your armor and ride your steed, while you take my arms and WALK into these mountains?,” asks Fredrik from atop my favorite stallion as it turns to nuzzle my shoulder.
I pat its nose and feed it an apple, “Sorry my boy, but I’m not riding you today.”
“Pardon lord? I would expect you to ‘ride’ me never!
“Know you ANOTHER guard the same size as me, with as impressive a lip-cover, who could wear it in your place? If so then speak their name, and you can take your place digging shit-holes for the column.”
He looks at me in confusion, “Pardon lord? But I am your GUARD, not one of the army’s forerunners,” then realization hits him like a falling star. “Ah, you are just screwing with me.”
I can’t help but laugh, grateful to be able to enjoy this kind of rough camaraderie with my men, “For somebody not wanting to be ‘ridden’, you probably shouldn’t keep talking about me screwing with you.”
“
I can’t help but laugh, one which he soon joins in before returning to his inquiries, “Yet you have not answered my concern, my lord. WHY do you not stand here at the head of the army, and instead walk beside it?”
It takes me a bit to put my thoughts into words, but eventually I do so. Fredrik deserves to know, “Because I am at the HEAD of the army, my friend. My task on the march is to be SEEN by the men behind me, to give them a PERSON to follow and not just a banner. Yet I must know what the rest of the army is enduring, so that I can solve any problems that might come about, BEFORE we camp for the night. It is hard to do that from the head of the column, and to be honest…one backside in gleaming armor is as recognizable as any other.”
“But what about the column’s forerunners, my lord? Even if nobody can tell my arse from yours, THEY will see my face as the go by, and word will spread that you are not here! Would that not cast shadows in the army’s hearts?,” bless his heart, Fredrik’s only care is for the men, and their view of me.
I really want to pat his leg in satisfaction at his loyalty, but hold back so as not to be seen as overly-familiar with the apparent-Prince, “THAT is why it is YOU, with such a similar face as mine. At the distance the runners will be seeing you, they will just see a helm with a mustache ALMOST as long as my manhood, and think it me.”
He can’t help but chuckle at my joke, and reply with his own, “ALMOST as long, my lord? I’ve heard your Ilona’s wails the night before we left Peonari…from the camp OUTSIDE the fortress! I’m amazed she wasn’t buried come dawn.”
As much as I object to him making merry with my wife’s name, I can’t help but laugh at the truth of it, “
He just looks aside at me, “
“
After I tie my breeches back together and return to the back of the column, I find out the first complaint is about just that. The rear-most men detest having to endure the stink when voiding their own bowels, and fear it would put them off their midday meal. Easy enough a fix, just have the forerunners dig extra reliefs. Damnation, I will need to add MORE forerunners to do that…do we have enough spades?
Of course there are the usual complaints as well. Such as the poor quality of the food, lack of campaign women to soothe them without their wives around, lack of the camp women being there to tempt them FROM their wives, and it goes on. THESE complaints can mostly be ignored as just soldiers grumbling that the sky is blue.
And with that, I reach the front of the column just as we reach the forerunners who have been boiling stews to feed the marching column. I sit there eating my own bowl and collecting the juices with a hunk of bread, staring out at the approaching mountains, the fire in blood at the coming slaughter beginning. Outnumber us they might, but that means little when the BACK of your column is ravaged in unfamiliar territory. I expect our injuries to be significant, but overall light, and MAYBE a quarter of the Ottomans will escape…
***
I thrust Dragon’s Fang over the Ottoman’s shield and through his neck, careful not to ignite it, while holding up my breeches. Fredrik is a short distance away, atop my horse, shouting my name to draw me to him and the rest of my bodyguards, in the savage melee of that snake Basarab Laiotă’s ambush. Damnation, I should have KNOWN that they might be planning on luring us into an ambush…but hitting the column while I am taking a shit HAS to be some god’s bad idea of a joke!
I managed to get my shield on my arm when I saw the wave of enemies emerge from the woods on the mountainside, having just begun scraping my shitbox with a handful of wet grass, but my quickly-knotted belt slipped when I was halfway to my banner. After pulling my pants up I saw the banner-bearer fall on the tip of an Ottoman lance, and then I was facing THIS bastard that had circled around the front of our column. It is good that Fredrik is shouting for me, otherwise I would not be able to find them in the chaos of all the horsemen fighting one another!
I see a soldier curl up from some monstrous bush conjured by the Ottoman priests, his shield still on his back as he curls over and falls to one knee. Taking the opportunity, and with a silent apology to the dying man, I run up his back to leap INTO an Ottoman horseman’s side. As I fly over the flailing branches of the creature, the Ottoman turns his head at my battle cry, and takes Dragon’s Fang straight to the face. Unfortunately, my plan to get a steed of my own is foiled, as he falls sideways off the horse and takes ME with him!
Once I catch my breath I stand up, yanking on Dragon’s Fang to pull it from where it imbedded into the ground through his skull, and of COURSE at that very moment my breeches choose to fall AGAIN. Leaving one hand on my blade, an instinct long drilled into me by these very same Ottomans as a child, I crouch to yank UP my breeches. Looking up as I grab them I see Fredrik take a blade to the back of his neck just below my helmet, my armor already battered and bleeding from where he is surrounded by Ottomans. I stand up and drag my breeches to cover my manhood, shouting the loyal man’s name, only to jerk and look down at my own chest.
At the arm’s length of lance emerging from it, just below my chest. So THIS is what it feels like, is my last thought as with a foot on my head and a brutal jerk, the lance is pulled from me. I try to clasp at the wound, falling to my knees, attempting to keep the life’s juices inside my body. I fall to the ground, my vision failing, and the last thing I feel before the blackness takes me one final time is the rough grip of Dragon’s Fang in my death-locked hand.
NAME: Vlad Tepes III
RACE: Human
AGE: 45.2 years
HIT DIE: 6
ECL: 6
XP TO NEXT LEVEL: 19,200 / 21,000
SIZE: Medium
SPEED: 30 ft.
ERA: Renaissance-Era
ABILITY SCORES: Cha 16, Wis 10, Int 12, Dex 10, Con 13, Str 12* [* lost 2 from Decrepitude]
FAST ACTION: 10%
DURABILITY: 6
SAVING THROWS: Fort +13 (10), Ref +1 (0), Will +8* (6) [* Booster +1] [+1 vs. being disabled]
ARMOR CLASS: 18 (+6 Brigandine, +2 Large Wooden Shield), flat-footed 18, touch 10
ATTACK: Base Attack Bonus +6, Melee +8, Ranged +6.
* Dragon’s Fang +9 melee (1d8+3 Slashing, 19-20/×3, plus 1d6 Fire) [flaming longsword +2, Serrated, Lever Grip ×3]
SKILLS (+3 to Social skills and NPC Attitude checks, –3 instead in enemy territory):
* Charisma-Linked (+2)
* * Bluff +5 (0)
* * Diplomacy +6 (0)
* * Gather Information +5 (0)
* * (Wildman) Handle Animal +10 (4) [+2 from Animal Affinity]
* * (P) Intimidate +12 (9)
* Wisdom-Linked (+0)
* * (Stalker) Listen +5 (4) [+1 from Stalker]
* * (P) Profession (manager) +8 (7)
* * (P) Sense Motive +9* (9) [* +1 for verbal uses]
* * (P) Spot +5 (4) [+1 from Stalker]
* * (Wildman) Survival +4 (4) +2
* Intelligence-Linked (+1)
* * (Wildman) Knowledge (geography) +2 (1)
* * (P) Knowledge (military & tactics) +10 (9)
* * (Wildman) Knowledge (nature) +2 (1) +2
* * (Enduring) Knowledge (nobility & royalty) +? (?+4) +1
* Dexterity-Linked (+0)
* * (Stalker) Balance +1 (0)
* * (Stalker) Hide +2* (2) [* +2 in wilderness]
* * (Stalker) Move Silently +2* (2) [* +2 in wilderness]
* * (P) Ride +7 (7)
* Constitution-Linked (+1)
* * (P) Concentration +1 (0)
* * (P) Strong Heart +11 (10)
* Strength-Linked (+1)
* * (P) Climb +1 (0)
* Linguistics +2 (2)
* Wild Empathy +8 (<3>) [+2 from Animal Affinity]
FEAT (Simple Weapon Proficiency, Martial Weapon Proficiency, Light Armor Proficiency, Medium Armor Proficiency, Heavy Armor Proficiency, Shield Proficiency):
* HD 1: Animal Affinity
* HD 3: Leadership
* HD 6: Iron Will
* Human: Royal Blood
* Birth: Born Under a Dark Star
* Wildman 1: Track
TRAITS (Tough Hero):
* Favored: Wildman ×1
* HD 1: Combat Bonuses ×1
* HD 1: Stalker ×1
* HD 1: Weapon Training ×1
* HD 2: Combat Bonuses ×2
* HD 2: Enduring ×1
* HD 3: Combat Bonuses ×3
* HD 3: Enduring ×2
* HD 3: Wildman ×2
* HD 4: Combat Bonuses ×4
* HD 4: Enduring ×3
* HD 5: Combat Bonuses ×5
* HD 5: Enduring ×4
* HD 5: Wildman ×3
* HD 6: Combat Bonuses ×6
* HD 6: Enduring ×5
SPECIAL ABILITIES
Leadership 7 [3 base from HD, +3 from Charisma, +1 from Intimidate]
Fear-descriptor effects +2 DC