Franz Lohner's Chronicle - The Old Baron of Bluchendorf
An absent-minded man of mysteries, Franz Lohner relies on his bulging journal to keep track of occurrences, intrigues and arguments around Taal's Horn Keep. Sometimes his notes are even useful, believe it or not. The Franz Lohner Chronicles are extracts from that journal.
[h2]THE OLD BARON OF BLUCHENDORF[/h2]
Well, the nights are drawing in, and the days are sure as stone getting colder. Why, I’ve had to send some of the lads down the mountain to gather more timber for the watchfires to save them icing right to the ground. Much to my surprise, Saltzpyre went with ‘em. Then again, I suppose if anyone has an eye for good kindling, it’s a witch hunter.
Puts me in mind of a time from my mercenary days, back over in Bluchendorf. Coldest winter on record. Priest froze to his pulpit, and if there was an hour’s worth of light in the sky before the storms closed in, you were doing well. On top of that, we started getting reports of ghastly spirits on the road, attacking those few travellers who dared brave the weather. No laughing matter, because food was running short and the village was reliant on caravans from outside.
Luckily for them, me and some of the lads were up for a bit of ghost hunting. Not gladly, mind. I know plenty of folk think otherworldly spirits are just stuff and nonsense, but when you see the state of Sylvania you look at things a bit different. Some of the stories came complete with reports of bodies drained of blood and left hanging in the trees – one survivor even came raving a tale about the ‘Old Baron of Bluchendorf’ and his terrible, bloody fangs. So it seemed we had the choice of starving to death or becoming something else’s lunch.
So me and Schepke, we took a group of folks went looking for whatever it was causing the mischief. Unfortunately, between the blizzard, the trees and what I can only describe as a really bloody poor sense of direction, we wandered in circles for six days, never once catching sight of our quarry.
Pretty soon we were all jumpy and foul-tempered, and that only got worse when young Hans froze to death. Couple of the lads wanted to eat him – not like something else wasn’t gonna, I guess – but that sort of thing’s never sat well with me, so I gave ‘em a clout to knock some sense back into their heads.
Then, on the seventh day, we woke shivering and starving to find ourselves surrounded by what, at first, seemed to be the same ghastly apparitions we’d been seeking. And so they were, sort of. You see, our mystery assailants were nothing more than a bunch of deserters, dressed in pale rags coated with glowing shellfish juices to really sell the idea. The so-called ‘Old Baron’ was the exception. Dressed up in what he probably thought was the spitting image of a Sylvanian Count, though what self-respecting bloodsucker hangs about in a Hochland forest in a velvet suit – complete with flowing cape – I’ve no idea. Snags something terrible, it does. And did.
Seems this lot had come marching down out of Ostland, where they’d played this particular game to great effect on the Wolfenburg-Levudaldorf road. If folk think there’s a bunch of cut-throats on the prowl, well they send out the militia, don’t they? But if they think there’s something supernatural at work, they’re a bit less keen to take action, ain’t they? All that ‘blood-drained corpses’ bit was just another way to sell the myth, though I don’t imagine it mattered to the corpses themselves.
Anyway, we’d come out looking for ghosts, and found a bunch of aspirational ne’er do wells. Not normally a problem – though I didn’t have my magic sword in those days, we were still a capable bunch. When warm. And fed.
As it was, we were lucky to get away. Plenty of us didn’t. The rest crawled back into Bluchendorf half-dead, and smarting for revenge. Happily, by the time I could hold a sword, a company of Hochlander huntsmen had arrived in the village. During the next lull in the storm, we went back out mob-handed with murder in our hearts.
Only … we never found the deserters. Or rather, we did, but not quite how we wanted. As night fell, we found a whole mess of blood-drained bodies, hanging from the trees. Horrid little upside-down forest beneath the forest, the branches hung heavy with flesh too cold to rot. Our ‘ghosts’ done unto by unknown hands as they’d been doing unto others themselves.
The so-called ‘Old Baron’ was with them. Right at the heart of the carnage, in fact, hanging from the branches of a twisted old yew, throat ripped open and that ridiculous cloak gone. Had a scrap of paper in his breast pocket, and on it a message written in a beautiful copperplate hand. I can still see it, clear as day.
‘There are enough horrors in this world, without pretenders.’
I don’t know why I looked behind me at that moment, but I did. And there she was, standing framed against the trees, the Baron’s cloak wrapped tight about white dress, and a mocking finger pressed to bloody lips, urging me to silence. And then she was gone, leaving me croaking for help. No one else had caught a glimpse, or so they said.
Felt her eyes on me all the way back to Bluchendorf, I did.
I wonder how Saltzpyre’s getting on?
[h2]THE OLD BARON OF BLUCHENDORF[/h2]
Well, the nights are drawing in, and the days are sure as stone getting colder. Why, I’ve had to send some of the lads down the mountain to gather more timber for the watchfires to save them icing right to the ground. Much to my surprise, Saltzpyre went with ‘em. Then again, I suppose if anyone has an eye for good kindling, it’s a witch hunter.
Puts me in mind of a time from my mercenary days, back over in Bluchendorf. Coldest winter on record. Priest froze to his pulpit, and if there was an hour’s worth of light in the sky before the storms closed in, you were doing well. On top of that, we started getting reports of ghastly spirits on the road, attacking those few travellers who dared brave the weather. No laughing matter, because food was running short and the village was reliant on caravans from outside.
Luckily for them, me and some of the lads were up for a bit of ghost hunting. Not gladly, mind. I know plenty of folk think otherworldly spirits are just stuff and nonsense, but when you see the state of Sylvania you look at things a bit different. Some of the stories came complete with reports of bodies drained of blood and left hanging in the trees – one survivor even came raving a tale about the ‘Old Baron of Bluchendorf’ and his terrible, bloody fangs. So it seemed we had the choice of starving to death or becoming something else’s lunch.
So me and Schepke, we took a group of folks went looking for whatever it was causing the mischief. Unfortunately, between the blizzard, the trees and what I can only describe as a really bloody poor sense of direction, we wandered in circles for six days, never once catching sight of our quarry.
Pretty soon we were all jumpy and foul-tempered, and that only got worse when young Hans froze to death. Couple of the lads wanted to eat him – not like something else wasn’t gonna, I guess – but that sort of thing’s never sat well with me, so I gave ‘em a clout to knock some sense back into their heads.
Then, on the seventh day, we woke shivering and starving to find ourselves surrounded by what, at first, seemed to be the same ghastly apparitions we’d been seeking. And so they were, sort of. You see, our mystery assailants were nothing more than a bunch of deserters, dressed in pale rags coated with glowing shellfish juices to really sell the idea. The so-called ‘Old Baron’ was the exception. Dressed up in what he probably thought was the spitting image of a Sylvanian Count, though what self-respecting bloodsucker hangs about in a Hochland forest in a velvet suit – complete with flowing cape – I’ve no idea. Snags something terrible, it does. And did.
Seems this lot had come marching down out of Ostland, where they’d played this particular game to great effect on the Wolfenburg-Levudaldorf road. If folk think there’s a bunch of cut-throats on the prowl, well they send out the militia, don’t they? But if they think there’s something supernatural at work, they’re a bit less keen to take action, ain’t they? All that ‘blood-drained corpses’ bit was just another way to sell the myth, though I don’t imagine it mattered to the corpses themselves.
Anyway, we’d come out looking for ghosts, and found a bunch of aspirational ne’er do wells. Not normally a problem – though I didn’t have my magic sword in those days, we were still a capable bunch. When warm. And fed.
As it was, we were lucky to get away. Plenty of us didn’t. The rest crawled back into Bluchendorf half-dead, and smarting for revenge. Happily, by the time I could hold a sword, a company of Hochlander huntsmen had arrived in the village. During the next lull in the storm, we went back out mob-handed with murder in our hearts.
Only … we never found the deserters. Or rather, we did, but not quite how we wanted. As night fell, we found a whole mess of blood-drained bodies, hanging from the trees. Horrid little upside-down forest beneath the forest, the branches hung heavy with flesh too cold to rot. Our ‘ghosts’ done unto by unknown hands as they’d been doing unto others themselves.
The so-called ‘Old Baron’ was with them. Right at the heart of the carnage, in fact, hanging from the branches of a twisted old yew, throat ripped open and that ridiculous cloak gone. Had a scrap of paper in his breast pocket, and on it a message written in a beautiful copperplate hand. I can still see it, clear as day.
‘There are enough horrors in this world, without pretenders.’
I don’t know why I looked behind me at that moment, but I did. And there she was, standing framed against the trees, the Baron’s cloak wrapped tight about white dress, and a mocking finger pressed to bloody lips, urging me to silence. And then she was gone, leaving me croaking for help. No one else had caught a glimpse, or so they said.
Felt her eyes on me all the way back to Bluchendorf, I did.
I wonder how Saltzpyre’s getting on?
