#Carpathians source

[incorrectghostbustersquotes1984]

Vigo, trapped in the painting: I used to have goals. They were evil goals, but they were goals.

#Ghostbusters #Ghostbusters II #Ghostbusters: The Video Game #Vigo the Carpathian #Incorrect Quotes #Incorrect Ghostbusters Quotes #Source: Phineas and Ferb

[cursedauxiliary]

Thank you Ukrainian Encylopedia you literally carried my entire paper

#the most info about the carpathian mountains i swear to god #and every other source used the same info or the shitty surface lvl stuff from the WWF

[felinefractious]

Hi there! Are there any crazy/fictitious-like fur colors, patterns and/or mutations in cats? I'm very interested in fur colors & fur genetics in general, and I wanted to know interesting color/pattern variations in cats. Thanks :)

I showcased a lot of interesting breed-specific ones in this post - but here are some more interesting colors and patterns that weren’t included!

(source: Indian Spring Cats)

The Bangkok or Wila Krungthep is an developmental native breed first identified in Thailand presenting with unique coloration described as mocha. This gene can be paired with the colorpoint (cs) gene to create a lighter variety called siamocha or paired with the sepia gene (cb) to create a darker variety called burmocha.

(source: Morgan Fancy Cats)

The sunshine gene that is signature to of the Siberian and Neva Masquerade breeds can also be found in British Shorthairs.

(source: Dierenkliniek Zwaag)

Disclaimer: These cats are sedated to be neutered, they have not been harmed.

There’s a poorly understood phenomena described as “red on blue tabby.” This is likely related to the recently discovered phoenix mutation in Maine Coons.

(Source: vom Grutholz)

The karpati pattern is sometimes described as reverse colorpoint, but the gene is unrelated. This gives the coat a sort of “salt and pepper” appearance. Originally discovered in the Carpathian region it has since been introduced into several breeds.

Here are some tags you might enjoy browsing!

Agouti (Abyssinian, Somali)

Amber (Norwegian)

Amber Tortoiseshell (Norwegian)

Bimetallic (Sunshine Silver)

Caramel

Carnelian (Kurilian)

Charcoal

Copper (British)

Corin (Copper, Sunshine)

Dominant Blue Eye

Extension (Amber, Carnelian)

Iris Melanosis

Karpati

Leukotrichia

Light Amber (Norwegian)

Light Amber Tortoiseshell (Norwegian)

Midnight Charcoal

Mocha (Bangkok)

Pink Eyed Dilution

Phoenix (Maine Coon)

Pseudo Cinnamon

Roan (Lykoi)

Ruddy (Abyssinian, Somali)

Servaline Tabby

Sunshine (British, Siberian)

Taupe (Blue Caramel)

Twilight Charcoal

#olivescales3 #asks

[lovelybrotherslovely]

Ukrainian Folk. Carpathians🇺🇦

Source: https://pinterest.com/pin/1144336586559296558/

#photography #folk costume #ukrainians #carpaths #ukraine #slavic

[acheronist]

🧛🏻‍♀️⚰️

disclaimer i am not a scholar or a historian or an archaeologist. i just like vampires in a freak way and read a lot of weird articles + listen to podcasts and think about this a lot.

so the vampire burials that i know the most about were done in the general region of like... hungary / slovakia / romania / poland kind of following along the line of the carpathian mountain range. but also then in like, early america as well for some reason. random ass 1700s vampire hysteria panic swept the nation (all 25 square miles of it).

anyways so this area in europe is notorious for vampire folklore anyways so it tracks that where the european vampire folklore was originating = where people are most frightened of it for real. and so the vampire graves that have been excavated and studied are HONESTLY PROBABLY just the graves of like..... normal people who were ill in some way, and therefore cast into a suspicious light, and then died. but it was a fairly common belief that if someone WAS a vampire, especially prior to dying, then they'd return from the dead and attack and kill their family first before moving onto friends and neighbors and the rest of the community. bad for the community. so after the "vampire" in question died, the living would take extra steps to ensure that the deceased would not rise from the grave again and start killing them because well No One would like that! so one one hand its really kind of upsetting that-- essentially-- the dead were being accused and vandalized without the ability to protect or defend themselves AND THEN ALSO having their burial rites get screwed around with. sure you prevented the vampires but now we've got fucking ghosts. great work everyone.

and then on the other hand morbid freaky trivia is so fascinating to MEEEEEEE so here some of the most dramatic methods that i can recall from the top of my head:

dismembering the deceased's corpse ( with an emphasize on decapitation)

and for the decapitation, sickles or hand scythes were placed over the deceased's neck, so if they lived and sat up again, they'd cut their own throat

also rearranging the dismembered body (pieces) or the body (whole) in specific patterns

padlocking the deceased's feet together

placing bricks or rocks into the deceased's mouth, either breaking their teeth or making it impossible for any postmortem vampire zombie bite damage to be inflicted upon the living

pinning the deceased's corpse into the ground via steel or iron stakes to keep them from getting up. often stakes were stabbed thru the heart which is where the motif in media today comes from

but also sometimes removing the heart from the deceased completely and burning it also happened

burying the deceased with wreathes of garlic and poppy seeds and paprika peppers to act as wards to keep them where they were. which is hilarious also when you take into account how much garlic and poppy and paprika gets used in eastern european cuisine

and i might be making this part up LMAO but i feel like in my heart. and brain. that i remember a colonial american(?) story where an autopsy was performed on a recently deceased girl(??) whose organs still looked "fresh" and functional, as it were, and not like the organs of someone dead. because she was obviously rising from the dead and drinking the blood of the living which we can tell from her remarkably fresh organs. this was another great instance of vampire organ harvesting but i for SURE need to go try and find my source for this again.

and similarly, i also am like 90% sure I've read about exhuming someone who had been accused of being a vampire, and judging how their rate of decomposition was going, and if they looked too fresh and alive then they were a vampire and we can brutally kill them again. obviously differences in burial climates and situations would have no bearing or affect upon the body's rate of decay btw.

but then as we work our way up thru history, illegal body snatching also became an incredibly common thing as anatomists and doctors and surgeons needed the bodies to learn from. and I'm SOOOO so certain that grave cages / mort safes were invented because normal people did not want their corpses to be body snatched and turned into underground med student dissection homework. BUT ☝🏻 i have also seen claims that cages over the graves were put in place to keep the vampires IN the grave, not to keep body snatchers OUT of the grave. and then I went hmm. where have I seen big elaborate grave cages before?

mother fucking henry ford has a mort safe cage on his shit, so the only reasonable conclusion to all of this is that henry ford was a vampire. amen. my edible is hitting now and i cant think of a good conclusion to this post sorry. someday i will write an essay. or finish making my gay ass zine about this.

#vamp

[hedgewitchgarden]

“Cucuteni Trypillian Goddess" article source

Cucuteni-Trypillian:

The Cucuteni-Trypillian culture, also known as Cucuteni culture (Romania) or Trypillian culture (Ukraine), is a Neolithic archaeological culture which existed from approximately 4800 to 3000 BC, from the Carpathian Mountains to Moldova and Ukraine, encompassing an area of more than 35.000 square km.

#neolithic europe #eastern europe #cucuteni trypillian goddess #statuary #ukraine #romania #Cucuteni-Trypillian culture #Cucuteni culture #Trypillian culture

[atundratoadstool]

Very important question, my friend visited Hungary and brought me some paprika (both sweet and hot). Obviously now I have to make the paprika chicken, but what would be the recipe closest to the one Stoker describes?

This has been sitting around in my inbox forever, and I hope you've managed to find a recipe to your liking in the meantime--particularly as my advice on the topic probably isn't all that stellar.

Stoker's knowledge of paprika chicken came from his sources on the topic (all of which should be noted tend to be inaccurate and condescending as regards the regions they describe), and we can get a rough idea of what he was envisioning pretty readily. Of the sources he listed that mention the dish, he took his notes for the novel from Andrew Crosse's Round About the Carpathians (cw: slur on linked page), but Crosse doesn't give us much more information than "chicken with red pepper." Nina Mazuchelli's Maygarland elaborates a little more by telling us how "a fowl that, in blissful unconsciousness of the immediate future, has been picking up the crumbs that fell from the traveller's table as he partook his first course, may, at his last, appear in the form of a hasty stew, thickened with red pepper." E. C. Johnson's On the Track of the Crescent probably gives us the most description of any of the books we know Stoker accessed, stating that paprikas csirke "is prepared by giving some ancient chanticleer the 'happy despatch,' cutting his remains to small pieces, and putting them into water, in company with flour, cream, butter, and a great deal of paprika or red pepper." Consistently, we can see that writers with whom Stoker was familiar are describing a chicken dish featuring some manner of thick paprika-based sauce, which is in keeping with most paprikash recipes I've encountered.

I, however, have always used variants on Leonard Wolf's recipe, which he included amidst his various other incredibly zany footnotes in the 1975 Essential Dracula (I tend to omit the tomato and add a touch more sour cream though).

PAPRIKA CHICKEN (Paprika Hendl) 1 young fowl (about 4 pounds); 2 tablespoons fat; 2 large onions, chopped; 2 tablespoons Hungarian sweet paprika; 1/2 cup tomato juice; 2 tablespoons flour; 1/2 cup sour cream. Cut chicken into service pieces, and salt. Lightly brown onions in fat. Blend in half the paprika. Add tomato juice and chicken. Simmer, covered, 1 hour or until tender. Remove chicken. Add remaining paprika to sauce, then add the flour beaten into sour cream. Simmer, stirring, 5 minutes or until well blended. Put sauce through sieve, food mill, or blender. Heat chicken and pureed sauce together over a low flame. Arrange chicken on warm platter. Pour half the sauce over; pass the rest separately in a sauceboat.

I will in no way vouch for its authenticity, but I feel that even were it not terribly Stoker-accurate it meshes pretty well with Dracula fandom in spirit, having been connected to the novel by the annotator who also tried to recreate the vampiresses blood sucking noises with his own mouth and had an undergraduate student pretend to be Seward and demo cutting through an iron bar with a medical saw.

#Bram Stoker #Dracula #Dracula Daily #Dracula Daily asks

[serene-sun]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕸𝖎𝖓𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖞 𝕺𝖓 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕸𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓, 𝕻𝖆𝖘𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖎𝖉𝖌𝖊 𝖁𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖌𝖊

Summary: After a multitude of wrong doings at your catholic church, you and four other nuns are sent on a mysterious transfer to a ministry nobody dares speak of. On behalf of the Count Copia, you are welcomed after a suspenseful journey. Author Note: This is the first chapter to my new series based on some of my favorite movies like Dracula, The Phantom Of The Opera and Labyrinth. You might even get some references to some others as well as a few ghost lyrics. This is going to be a build up to smut, and this will be a romance one obviously but beware this is major corruption kink coming your way. If you need some help, the ghoul in this chapter is Aether, and half of this is quite literally the exact script of Dracula. You can even look it up and see! Please enjoy, all feedback in my inbox is greatly appreciated.

Chapter one of my new series, “𝕽𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝕲𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖓 𝕱𝖚𝖓𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖑 𝕺𝖋 𝕾𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖘”

In a Coach in the Carpathian Mountains, a young woman reads to four passengers from a travel brochure.

“Among the rugged peaks that frown down on the Borgo Pass are found crumbling castles of a bygone age.” The woman is knocked from her seat by a bump in the dirt rural road.

“I say, driver, a bit slower!” Another woman says, her black veil crooked as she shakes in the mobile. 

“No, no! We must reach the mountain before sundown!” The driver says, a crack in his voice as the silent erie sound of the forest starts to swallow all sounds.

‘And why, pray?” One of the female passengers asks, closing the bible in her lap.

“When the sun sets the demons start evoking the mountain side like raging wolves and hyenas, desperate for any vulnerable being to feast upon!” The driver replies as they are enveloped in a cloud of fog, the steep road getting more bumpy.

You held tight onto the rosary in your hands, a charm of Jesus Christ on the cross between your palms as you listen to the man speak.

As the vehicle stops in the center of the small village on the ridge, the passengers eagerly step out of the transport and into the rich moist soil. This is a small village of three homes and one or two inns, mainly farmland and water sources as it fits in a small acre. 

A woman from the nearest inn steps out of the entrance as chickens follow, her hair is in a messy bun and there is soot smudged across her face and clothes with a few patches holes in her dress and apron.

“Oh dear, let me help with your luggage sisters.” She says, wiping her hands on her sides to rid of the grim.

“Oh do not worry madam, we are to arrive up top the mountain by tonight.” you say as she grabs a leathery bag.

“Tonight? But the sun is already half set? The gate keeper, he is afraid. Good fellow, he is. Wants me to ask if you can wait to go on after sunrise.” She says as she sets the luggage back into the trunk.

“Im dearly sorry but im afraid we have specific orders from our adviser to be there by sundown, and I fear we are already late.” You reply, hands still clasped together.

Was what the driver said true? Why would it? Perhaps he was only trying to scare the group of young women.

“And who needs you on the mountain? Who sent you faithful young holy women to the dark abbey?” The innkeeper says in disbelief, she studies the very christian and catholic constant theme on the luggage and clothes.

“Count Copia, I assure you, we are here on holy deeds.” You say, willingly ignoring the description of the abbey, surely it was not truly an unholy place, it was an abbey after all.

‘Count Copia? And to the ministry?” She hides her hands in her apron pockets with her brows knitting.

“Yes.” You nod slowly, unsure of what she means, is he not the holy man they were sent to serve? 

“No, you mustn't go there. We people of the mountains believe at the castle there are devils. Count and his ghouls!  They take the form of wolves and bats, goats and succubi. They leave their coffins at night, and they feed on the blood of the living.” She says, placing her hands on your shoulders and eagerly rushing you inside, “Look at the sun! Its already gone, come we must go indoors.”

“But thats all superstition. Why I…I cant understand why…” You try to reason as the door is slammed shut after the other nuns enter.

“But wait, I mean, just a minute. What im trying to say is that im not afraid. I've explained to the driver that its a matter of holiness and god filled right, We've explained it and we must arrive soon.” You say as she pokes at the fire, letting out a cough into her hand.

“If you must go then take this for your mothers sake,” the innkeeper hands you a small vile of blood, “This will protect you..”

‘W-what is it?” You ask, the other sisters surrounding you in curiosity.

“The blood of christ!” She says, eyes wide with fear.

For a moment you feel the need to call help for the woman, she must be a poor paranoid soul. And there is no way she of all people would have the blood of christ.

The sisters gather back into the small mobile and quickly ride upon the foggy dark mountain as the red piercing sun drowns in the horizon. 

When the car stops in the pitch black court yard, the car hurriedly drives away.

“Wait! Driver! Our luggage!” 

The groups attention is brought back to the stone path to the large entrance doors as it is lined with lit candles that come of flame. The dancing red light illuminates them to follow, you take the lead, as you seem to be the least terrified. 

You push open the large black doors and step into the Obsidian floor of the main castle. Its dark just like outside and candles suddenly egnite.

The nuns look around the room, taking in the shadowed paintings, murals, and stained glass.

A footstep spooks you as the sound comes from a taller man at the top of the main stair case.

“G-Good evening.” You bow your head slightly in respect as you can only make out his shape.

“I am…Count Copia..” He says, thick italian accent in his voice as he begins stepping down the long stairs.

“Its very good to see you. I don't know what happened to the driver and our luggage and…well…with all this..I thought I was in the wrong place.” You say, hoping to not sound rude, but there wasn't a cross in sight and the stained glass showed depictions of devilish things instead of virgin mary and jesus.

“I bid you welcome.” The count says,

Outside the large windows, there the howl of a wolf.

“Listen to them…children of the night. What music they make!” He smiles hauntingly.

The older man starts walking off down a corridor lined with paintings and candles. The hall is painted dark red with black trim. One candle stick is consumed with spider webs, it catches your attention as you follow.

“A spider spinning his web for the unwary fly. The blood…is the life, Ms…” He invited you to say your name.

“Ah of course, My name is Sister _, from the western Catholic church of god.” You say with another pleasing bow.

The man hums, his eyes darkening, “Im sure you will find this part of the ministry more inviting.” He says as he opens the doors to a larger room, it has five beds, dressers, nightstands and even an chest at the foot of every bed. Theres two couches on either side of a coffee table in the center of the room, accompanied with a vase of dead roses, a fire place, and two other chairs of black leather. What is most questionable is why the room is a circle, not one corner.

‘Oh rather! Its quite different from outside. Oh, and the fire! Its so cheerful.” You say with a smile.

“I took the liberty of having your luggage brought up. Allow me.” He says as he takes the groups wool capes, he hangs them on a coat rack.

‘Oh yes, thank you.” One of the sisters says as she sits on the neatly made bed. 

The room is painted a deep purple, black trims and wall designs. The curtains over the large windows were a pitch black, and the beds were of black steel and neatly covered with purple silk sheets and purple cotton. The room was lit with candles and a chandelier.

You pick up the letter on the bed, but you accidentally cut your finger on the sharp note card.

As a droplet of blood rolls down your finger, the man quickly turns away.

“Oh dear im sorry, its just a paper cut, I didn't know you were squeamish.” You apologize as you grab a napkin cloth and hold it.

“The infirmary is on the main hall to the left, I hope you shall never need it.” He says as he holds his hands behind his back.

“Thank you,” You smile.

‘I will have a ghoul take you there, and get a bandage.” He says with a large swallow. 

You tilt your head, “ghoul?” You ask, what is with this odd abbey?

Suddenly, out of the darkness of the room, a masked entity approaches you. His silvery devil mask shines in the candle light, through the slit shines his piercing white eyes, pupils so thin and slit like a snake your unsure if they're even there or if its the shadows playing tricks on you. Hes in a nice suit attire, a skull tie and button up pants. His dark hair is slightly wavy and is cut short at his ear and neck, he has a calming presence and you notice his ears are long and pointed. You take in the fact that this man was not infant human, but rather a demon. 

So the innkeeper was correct? About unholy ghosts here?

He leads you to the infirmary, the walk there is silent as you continue to study his form. He has a spaded tail, and his hands are a pale muted purple and his veins are visible in a lighter white color. The ghoul had long sharp claws too, as well as a thicker build. 

He opened the door to the infirmary, he lets you sit down as he gathers materials to address the minor cut.

As he comes back, he kneels in front of you and takes your hand. The pads of his fingers are rough but smooth, hes very gentle and has a calming affect to him.

You swallow, your afraid to speak.

The ghoul parts his lips, like hes about to speak but doesnt know what to say, “Your heart is racing.” he says, deep voice like a deep cave filled with echos and shadows. Its warm and heart filled, he truly means no harm.

Your hands tremble as you shiver, “w-what?”

‘Ah uh…sorry…I meant that your frightened and there is no need too be.” He quickly blurts out, like he hasn't talked to a stranger in years.,

“This is not what i was expecting..” You say as you start to ease up.

“Nobody does, don't worry, you are safe.” He says as he cleans the wound. 

“This…is not a place of god is it..?” You finally ask as he lets go to cut a piece of gauze to use.

“No. It is not.” He looks into your eyes.

You had the feeling that when your church said they were moving you, that it wasn't because you were the best sister of god there. You had started asking to many questions and you always knew that when they transferred people it was never for the better but to rather rid of the so called delinquents that questioned god. In a way you knew you would be thrown out, but not like this and to the wolves.

“Im sorry…I just…I don't want to die..” you start to tear up, ‘I don't want to burn for eternity.”

The ghoul quickly looks up at you, ‘no no no don't worry,” He chuckles, “Your not going to die here and you wont burn for eternity, I doubt god even knows you exist.” 

Your taken aback some, “But don't you eat people? Kill us for blood? Sacrifices and such?” 

“Your demonology books are far outdated…” He says as he wraps your finger.

“So….you ghouls are…kind?” You say, standing up.

He nods, “yes, everyone here is.”

You look down at your feet, “I apologize, I feel I need to introduce myself and start over.” 

The ghoul stretches his hand out, “You may call me Nameless Ghoul.”

You take his hand, “Im Sister _, I hope we can be friends.”

#serene sun nocontext #the band ghost #serene sun spice time #ghost band #the band ghost x reader #nameless ghouls x reader #nameless ghouls #serene sun writes #ghost band fic #papa emeritus iv #dracopia #dracula #count dracula

[jadegretz]

Vampirella's Immortal Dance by Jade Gretz

Moonlight scythed through the obsidian heart of the Carpathian Mountains, carving jagged shadows across the ancient castle ruins where Vampirella crouched. Her crimson eyes, honed by centuries of darkness, scanned the crumbling ramparts, searching for the source of the tremor that had rattled the stones beneath her feet. It wasn't an earthquake, no mundane movement of earth. This thrummed with a malign intelligence, a cold whisper slithering through the night.

Suddenly, a flicker on the highest peak, a pulsating sphere of violet light against the tapestry of stars. It called to her, not with words, but with a yearning deep within her own vampire core, a hunger for forbidden knowledge. But Vampirella knew the allure of forbidden paths. She had walked them before, danced with demons only to pay the piper in blood and tears.

Yet, as the pulse intensified, drawing her like a moth to a flame, something else stirred within her – fear. This wasn't the familiar dread of sunlight or garlic, but a primal terror clawing at her ancient soul. An echo from somewhere beyond the Veil, a tremor from a slumbering horror she had glimpsed once before, on the cusp of oblivion.

A choice simmered in the cauldron of her mind. Ignore the call, retreat into the comforting shadows of her self-imposed exile, or confront this new threat, risk being consumed by the very darkness it promised to unleash. She was Vampirella, daughter of Drakulon, slayer of demons, and queen of her own damnation. To cower was unthinkable.

With a guttural snarl, she unfurled her obsidian wings, their feathered edges slicing the night air. Her descent was a celestial ballet, a crimson comet streaking towards the pulsating heart of violet light. As she landed on the mountain peak, the light coalesced, revealing a figure cloaked in swirling wisps of smoke and starlight.

"Vampirella," a voice echoed, disembodied yet resonant, "the hour of reckoning draws near."

"And who," she spat, her voice dripping with centuries-old cynicism, "are you to herald such pronouncements?"

The figure swirled, taking the form of a woman, e …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

#ai #aiart #digitalart #jadegretz #fantasyart #fanart #beautifulgirl #aiartwork #aiartcommunity #vampirella #comics #vampiregirl #comicart

[dduane]

Dai!

I'm currently reading chapter 4 of The Wizard's Dilemma - where Kit and Nita are fighting, and sending messages via their manuals - and I was wondering:

The manual translates their spoken words into the Speech. And the Speech is much more precise for describing things as they are, including a lot of context. Wouldn't it transcribe, here, context such as tone of voice, speaker's intention, etc. etc., so that Nita's "fine." might come across differently than if she texted just the English version?

(I find the idea SO intriguing, since written language often lacks exactly these context clues, and to imagine a language that doesn't? Is fascinating.)

Have a good start of your week!

...I'm going to get myself off the hook here by suggesting that there are a lot of ways you can have a Manual (or similar instrumentality) set up to either send or receive data: some ways a whole lot more granular than others... if you have the patience to put up with them. Sometimes you might just opt for the milk-tongue/casual native language option if you thought it was sufficient for current needs (and then forgot to reset when it wasn't).

Some of the granularity options were suggested in one of the YW 30-Day OTP Challenge posts: I'll just paste the contents in here. Inserting the cut below...

(Manual transcription, JD REDACTED XXXXXXXX.xxx - XXXXXXXX.xxx inclusive)

recording state: static | DYNAMIC editing: locked | UNLOCKED live context: off | ON location: Sol IIIa Illumination: 26% Phase from primary: waning crescent Coordinates: IAU: LQ11: 22.5° N / 18° W regional designation: IAU: Montes Carpatus (old style: Lunar Carpathians) microregion: no formal designation, no colloquial designation, reference coordinates; bookmark “Kit’s Rock” Playback: flat text | CONTEXTUAL POV TEXT | audio | audio + view | audio + view + interior cognitive [more] POV selection: static | dynamic | CONTEXT-DRIVEN | [more] POV style: omnicient (total) | omniscient (need to know) | BLIND ITEM NARRATIVE | normal narrative | stream of consciousness [more] POV narration: 3P | 2P | 1P | P-NEUTRAL [more] POV depth: EXTERIOR | int. conscious | int. subconscious | int. preconscious [more]

Participants: Callahan, J.L., Rodriguez, C.K.

(record begins)

CKR: You keep fiddling with that.

JLC: Yeah… the record settings are way more involved than I thought. Way more involved than they used to be, anyway. I messed something up the other day.

CKR: Anything serious?

JLC: Not really… got lucky that time.

CKR: …Up here again.

JLC: Yeah, seems smartest. We’ll have some warning in case Certain People start looking for us.

CKR: Like we have the slightest chance of escaping notice—

JLC: Didn’t say that. Some warning, though.

CKR: Fair enough.

(break in record) (record resumes)

JLC: It wasn’t, though.

CKR: It kinda was.

JLC: Uh, not really.

CKR: Look, it’s not like you were trying to hide anything about it. You told me you two were kissing. It’s okay.

JLC: But it wasn’t making out.

CKR: I don’t mind if it was. You were under pressure.

JLC: Pressure didn’t have anything to do with it! And it really wasn’t making out.

CKR: Neets, honestly, it’s not a problem.

JLC: It is if you think making out means that we were intending for something else to happen. Because it wasn’t. And you think that’s what it means. I can tell.

CKR: Listen, really, it’s okay! It was a weird situation, bizarre stuff was going on, you weren’t—

JLC: Stop right there! I know what was happening!

CKR: Look. Sorry. I’m sorry, I just…

JLC: I just need a way to show you.

CKR: …don’t think it’s that important, but if you—

JLC: Wait. Wait.

(pause)

JLC: You know… this could work. Absolutely it could.

CKR: What?

JLC: (laughter) We can run it back and take a look at it.

CKR: (pause) Run what back?

JLC: When he and I kissed.

(pause)

CKR: You lost me. Exactly what are you saying?

JLC: Well, you possibly won’t have heard. I do have an in with a privileged source. But lately there are some new ways to get at information using the Manual…

CKR: Whoa, whoa, wait a moment! How would that ever be in the Manual?!

JLC: It’s always been there… or the raw data has. But there are new ways to get at it.

CKR: (pause) This is kinda bizarre. The Powers are usually so gung-ho about privacy issues.

JLC: Oh, They still are. Everything’s locked down so that you can’t get at it if you don’t have all the necessary permissions.

CKR: How did you find out about this? Bobo?

JLC: Actually, no. Closer to home.

CKR: Oh…my…God. No.

JLC: Yes.

CKR: Dairine. How did she ever—

JLC: Not her. The Mobiles. They’ve got this insane archival project going on…

CKR: What, to preserve for all time the immortal details of you two necking?!

JLC: (laughter)

CKR: I can’t believe I’m getting on board with this. So fine. What do we need to do?

JLC: Get Ronan up here.

CKR: …For what exactly?

JLC: Consent.

CKR: …What??

(break in record) (record resumes)

JLC: See, that’s what you get. You okay?

CKR: Yeah, fine. Go on, make the call, no point in falling halfway down a mountain for nothing!

JLC: Not anything like halfway. Couldn’t have been more than—

CKR: Will you make the damn call already?

(break in record) (record resumes)

CKR: There he comes.

JLC: That was quick. Where?

CKR: Down the ridge.

JLC: Yeah. The usual offset.

CKR: Is it me or is he putting on weight?

JLC: Looks like muscle. Did he say last time that he’d started doing weights?

CKR: Yeah. Something to do with the rugby.

JLC: He didn’t give up his thing with the weird club, did he?

CKR: The hurley? No chance. Hey Ro!

(adding participant: Nolan III, R.H.)

RHN: Hey yourself. I see you two are busy with your usual pastime of watching the rest of us live out our little antlike lives far below.

CKR: Yeah. Pull up a rock. …Weren’t busy, were you?

RHN: Just finished a job. Nothing exciting.

JLC: This from the man who said Taking In The Sea was no big deal. Don’t think I didn’t just see your precis update.

CKR: What’s he done now?

JLC: Here, check this out.

CKR: (pause) Did you just cause an earthquake?

RHN: Just a wee titchy one. Maybe some plates fell down off shelves in Howth… no worse than that. CalTech and the USGS’ll have it for their records if anyone gets suspicious.

CKR: …Nice. What did the people on the ferry think?

RHN: Mostly ‘Feck are we glad that this very localized tsunami came up and pushed us ashore at Ringsend without destroying our ship much.’

CKR: Jeez. What the hell are your power levels doing?

RHN: Still having some peak swings secondary to my roomer, that’s all. Suits me fine. At least I get something useful out of having him in my head moving the furniture around all that while.

CKR: Well, wow, you did good.

RHN: I guess. Ta much.

JLC: I’m just wondering how they’re going to explain it the rest of the way. That quake won’t have been enough.

RHN: Don’t be daft. It’s Ireland. We’ll blame it on the weather.

JLC, CKR: (laughter)

RHN: So what was this big thing you needed to talk to me about?

JLC: Not that big. Need some input, though.

RHN: About?

JLC: A discussion we were having.

RHN: Oh?

JLC: We were talking about making out.

(pause)

RHN: …Uh.

(break in record) (record resumes)

RHN: Yeah, so you were telling me why you need me for this.

CKR: Well. It was a question of semantics, first.

RHN: Let me get this straight. You asked me to come up from Dublin… to the Moon… to discuss semantics. Of kissing.

JLC: Not just semantics. I want to review some material, and I was hoping you’d sanction it.

RHN: Sanction what?

JLC: Instant replay. …Well, not instant.

RHN: You lost me.

JLC: Remember when we kissed?

RHN: (pause) Which answer won’t make one of you clock me upside the head with a moon rock?

JLC, CKR: (laughter)

RHN: What the feck brought this on?

JLC: A difference of opinion.

CKR: Nosiness.

RHN: Uh, not feeling safe about this whole line of enquiry now, but moving on regardless…

JLC: It’s okay. See, there’s a recording…

RHN: Of us kissing? Not possible.

JLC: Not a recording as such. Except insofar as the universe passively records everything that happens inside it…

RHN: …You’re telling me we’re living inside the One’s Sky Plus box.

JLC: (pause) What?

CKR: TiVo.

JLC: Oh.

RHN: Seriously, you’re telling me you can play it back somehow?

JLC: Not playback exactly but—

RHN: Hey science queen, telling me what it’s not like is wasted effort. The direct approach, please.

JLC: Well, going by Dairine’s explanation, it’s got something to do with hyperstring structure and the Theory of Everything.

RHN: Oh please.

JLC: No, that’s what I thought at first. It’s a real term, though. This technology, it’s something the Mobiles have been implementing: this big project they started. She got all bogged down in technical stuff I didn’t understand, but it sounded like she—

RHN: Whoa whoa whoa, wait just a moment, did we hear history being made right here before us on this dusty rock? Did Miss Juanita Louise Callahan—

JLC: Dead, Ronan, you are about to be discorporated before your time.

RHN: —actually admit to not understanding some kind of technical stuff?

JLC: I really will kill you, you do understand that? You want to make history, fine. First human being to be killed on the Moon. You mentioned rocks? Let’s try this one, it looks good—

CKR: Oh God.

RHN: (laughter) It’s pumice. Who the feck do you think you’re gonna kill with pumice?

JLC: Oh it is not pumice, please, are you blind?—some kind of basalt, probably got kicked up here out of one of the maria by an impact, and maybe it’s about to have another of those! Dairine never told you about the L word, she knows her life would be too short. It was Carmela, wasn’t it, how can she, oh God why can she not just keep her—

RHN: Not Carmela. Someone else. Too bad, your secret’s out for all the world to hear….

(SFX: rock being pounded against larger rock)

JLC: Aaaaaggghhh!

RHN: Feel better now?

JLC: No. And when I recover my composure—

RHN: Always an entertaining exercise, there are nuclear weapons with shorter fuses—

CKR: Will you two shut yourselves up for two seconds?

(pause)

CKR: Thank you. Jeez. … ‘It sounded like she’ what??

JLC: (pause) Uh. Like what the Mobiles were talking about was making this sort of gigantic backup.

RHN: What of?

JLC: Everything wizardly apparently.

RHN: So how is the two of us kissing wizardly?

JLC: Well, we’re both wizards!

RHN: Oh, give me a break! There had to be, I don’t know, thousands of wizards kissing right then!

JLC: But probably only one who had the One’s Champion living in his mental basement at the time. Which makes it really of historical interest, I think.

RHN: Not ‘historical’ as in banging me in the head with a rock, I take it.

JLC: Don’t assume you’re safe yet. Anyway, parts of the explanation were way beyond me. In fact I think they were kind of beyond Dairine, or she hadn’t really spent much time getting her head around them. Because sometimes she made it sound like the Mobiles were trying not just to back up everything wizardly, but just… everything.

RHN: Everything?

JLC: In the universe.

RHN: What…? All the information?

CKR: Or all the thought?

RHN: All the matter?

JLC: I think maybe all those.

(pause)

CKR: …How in the One’s name do you back up everything?

JLC: I have no idea. I keep meaning to ask her about it, but she’s not home a lot right now, and other stuff keeps happening…

CKR: You’d have to make a whole new universe…

RHN: So anyway! This recording…

CKR: Wow.

JLC: Seems like wherever there’s a manual, it makes a kind of imprint or marker on local space, and this kind of record can be made.

RHN: But no one can see it.

JLC: Only the participants, if they give consent. And anybody else they consent to allow to see it.

RHN: Seriously.

JLC: Yeah.

(pause)

JLC: Well?

(pause)

RHN: How are you about this?

CKR: She told me about it.

RHN: Not the kissing itself. I know she told you about that. And anyway, you know I already knew you knew.

CKR: Oh God, stop, too complicated already. So?

RHN: If she’s okay with it, I’m okay with it.

CKR: Okay.

RHN: You sure?

CKR: Look, why do you keep asking me? I didn’t kiss you.

RHN: Maybe that’s a shame. Maybe you don’t know what you’re missing.

CKR (to JLC): Maybe you want to hand me that rock.

JLC: (laughter)

RHN: So what do we have to do?

JLC: Nothing. It’s here, in the manual. It heard you: the permission’s in. It’s cued up. Now we just roll it. Ready?

RHN: Yeah.

CKR: Yeah.

[ERROR: Permissions failure. Secondary playback is embargoed in this format due to insufficient permissions level or number. Please check your permissions module and try again.]

CKR: Would you pause this a minute? …You know, this is kinda weird.

RHN: What, you mean sitting on the bloody Moon watching yourself in a porno?

JLC, CKR: (laughter)

CKR: This is not porn! These are just two people staring at each other in the dark!

RHN: After one of them slags me off with a flamethrower, yeah. God you were brutal.

JLC: Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad.

RHN: Maybe for you. I was kinda raw at that point.

CKR: You? Admitting to raw?

RHN: I don’t mind it now. It got better.

CKR: Anyway, how is it porn when all you’ve got here is two people just sort of looking at each other longingly with their tongues hanging out?

JLC: Cut it out! There were no tongues.

RHN: But I think I see what you mean about the weirdness.

CKR: (laughter) What, besides you thinking it’s porn?

RHN: No it is not porn, shut up, I concede the fecking point already. It’s what bothers me in bad TV shows. Where’s the camera?

JLC: I told you. There were manuals on site. No, I know, don’t start. Manuals or equivalent instrumentalities… your Knowledge thing. Where there’s a manual, or equivalent, there’s sort of a node that can make a record of what’s going on in local reality. It’s some kind of string structure business: pluck the string in one place, it vibrates somewhere else.

CKR: Oh God. Quantum mechanics again.

JLC: Yeah. Maybe the cats might be better to ask for the details: they work with strings on the gates all the time. They’d know.

RHN: Given a choice between asking Rhiow and asking your sister? Rhiow every time. Where were we again?

JLC: Watching us kiss.

[ERROR: Permissions failure. Secondary playback is embargoed in this format due to insufficient permissions level or number. Please check your permissions module and try again.]

CKR: So this doesn’t constitute making out?

RHN: Nope.

CKR: Meaning you weren’t thinking about doing anything more? Anything after?

RHN: (pause) Hadn’t crossed my mind. I was just kind of amazed that it was happening right then.

JLC: And not necking.

RHN: What?

CKR: Necking.

RHN: Haven’t heard the term.

JLC: Kissing for a long time.

CKR: Like in a car, when you’re parking. Or on the couch when nobody’s home.

RHN: Done much of that?

CKR: Oh please. I have two older sisters. You have no idea how glad I was when Helena finally went to college. Half the time when the parents were out, the living room sounded like, oh, God never mind. I’d nearly forgotten.

RHN: Parking?

JLC: Going somewhere scenic to neck.

CKR: Or make out.

RHN: The definitions are getting dangerously circular now. Better roll it again.

[ERROR: Permissions failure. Secondary playback is embargoed in this format due to insufficient permissions level or number. Please check your permissions module and try again.]

CKR: But there. See, you grabbed hold of him—

JLC: He started it.

RHN: I was falling off the fence.

JLC: Oh, and that’s my fault somehow.

RHN: Yes, yes it was. What? Would you rather I said, ‘No, she kissed me and it had no effect whatsoever, thanks for playing’? Look, here, here’s the rock! Talk among yourselves and sort it out. I’ll just sit here, don’t mind me.

(pause)

JLC: Let’s call it mutual.

RHN: Thank you very much. Continue.

[ERROR: Permissions failure. Secondary playback is embargoed in this format due to insufficient permissions level or number. Please check your permissions module and try again.]

RHN: Okay, it’s clear. Definitely not making out. It might be snogging. Timing’s pretty iffy, though.

CKR: What?

RHN: You saw the timer running. That didn’t even last thirty seconds.

JLC: Felt like longer.

RHN: Relativity. Ever heard of Einstein’s Stove? A snog is, like, three minutes minimum.

JLC: I’m not so sure.

RHN: How are you defining terms all of a sudden? Had you even heard that word before I used it just now?

JLC: Excuse me, I watch Dr. Who. He said he’d just snogged Madame Pompadour. That was even shorter than this. Ten seconds maybe.

RHN: Let’s keep the fictional characters out of this, shall we?

CKR: Um.

RHN: Besides, the other thing with a snog is that it’s more for pleasure. This was just both of us being freaked out, I think.

JLC: Well, yeah. You were so vulnerable. And kinda cute that way.

RHN: And you were all fierce even though you were unnerved. And kinda cute that way.

CKR: So…

RHN: Reassurance.

JLC: And experimentation.

RHN: Yeah. Comfort smooch, undifferentiated type.

JLC: With added One’s Champion. God was I shocked. Any comfort, boy, it went right out the window when I found out who else was in there.

RHN: Yeah, roll that. Kind of funny in retrospect.

[ERROR: Permissions failure. Secondary playback is embargoed in this format due to insufficient permissions level or number. Please check your permissions module and try again.]

RHN: (laughter) Janey mack, look at me go.

JLC: I’m so sorry… I really didn’t mean for that to happen.

RHN: Wasn’t you I was reacting to. The damn Spear: it was like having it stuck in your arse.

CKR: There’s an image I won’t soon forget.

RHN: I’ll be remembering it a lot longer, believe me.

(pause)

RHN: So what’s the verdict? Have we got consensus?

JLC: Comfort kissing.

RHN: Borderline snog at best.

CKR: But okay, not making out.

RHN: Great, he concurs. Are we done now? Can I go back to my humdrum life?

CKR: Oh, yeah, Mister 'I Made The Earth Move'!

RHN: The sea floor anyway. And don’t you forget it.

JLC: Can’t wait to see the write-up on that.

CKR: And the environmental impact justification they’re gonna make you file.

RHN: Which I am already late for, due to being called up to Lunar orbit for the absolute weirdest consult of my life. Thanks a million.

CKR, JLC: (laughter)

RHN: Always pushing the boundaries, you two.

JLC: You say that as if it’s a bad thing.

RHN: No. Not at all. Kind of what we do, isn’t it? But some of us excel.

CKR: That almost sounded like a compliment.

RHN: Don’t get cocky. I’ve got the rock. (pause) Anyway, I’m outa here. Had people to see before the damn ferry started taking water. They really have to find better technology for those doors.

JLC: Anybody I know?

RHN: Some of the chicken-shop crew.

JLC: Give them my best.

RHN: Will do. Dai stihó, you two. Stay out of trouble.

CKR: What are the odds?

RHN: Please. I know you too well. Oh Kit, don’t forget, schedule change on the Big Game next week.

CKR: I saw the calendar change. No problem.

RHN: Right. Later!

(pause)

CKR: That it?

JLC: Yeah. Save out.

Participants: Callahan, J.L., Rodriguez, C.K., Nolan III, R.H.

(formal signoff) (record complete) (end of line) (end of file)

“…So.”

“Yeah.”

“We were talking about making out…”

“Yeah, we were, weren’t we?”

“We could always try defining when a snog stops being borderline.”

“Defining terms. So romantic.”

“Yeah, well this time make sure that thing’s off.”

#Young Wizards #Young Wizards meta #Wizard's Manuals #Manual functions

[kallie-den]

In Red Eyes

A proud, stubborn, female knight hunts an ancient vampire, but when she looks into the creature’s deep, red eyes, she finds her memories being altered and the source of all her strength and pride being drained away

This is from a Patreon poll from a few months ago. My patrons voted for a vampire x knight story, and of course, I was more than happy to deliver

If you enjoy my work and are looking for more, or you want to support me, I strongly encourage you to check out my Patreon! I  write erotica full-time, which means I need your patronage to keep creating, and my Patrons also get benefits like early access to my stories, extra stories, and the ability to vote on what I write next! So, if that sounds good to you, head over and join the couple hundred patrons I already have :)

—

Despite her sleek, feminine features and silky, braided hair, Ser Isabelle of Verona was every inch the vision of perfect, chivalrous knighthood. With her breastplate worn proudly on her chest and her sword held high, she looked like a figure striding out of legend. But her valor was far more than just superficial. Even since her tenth nameday, Isaballe had striven to embody the kind of knightly heroism she had always so admired by training, fighting, and learning to prove her worth and overcome the limitations the world placed on her for her gender.

Now, after more than ten years, she had finally earned her title. When her father, the prince, had touched his blade to her shoulders and dubbed her a knight, acknowledging her worth at last, it had been the happiest and proudest moment of Isabelle’s life. Soon after, she had taken a questing vow and journeyed to the Carpathian mountains, determined to help cleanse the shadow that seemed to hang perpetually over that land.

That was what had brought her to Castle Dragosi, a grand ruin that slumped down the slopes of one of those mighty peaks. Isabelle had come in search of the undead beast that was terrorizing nearby villages. For all her bravery, though, Isabelle was no fool. She had spent a month scouring the archives of nearby monasteries, arming herself with knowledge of all the reputed weaknesses of the sanguine creature she was setting out to hunt. Only once she was sure of her readiness had she dared venture across the castle’s dread threshold.

Isabelle had been prepared for so much. But, to her eternal shame, the very first glimpse of the vampire’s eyes had utterly unmade her.

As she stood in one of the damp, dark, stone-walled passageways underneath the castle, lit only by the flickering moonlight that passed through the occasional window, they glared at her from out of the shadows that lay before her. Two crimson disks that seemed to glow like lamps, casting the stone in a spectral, unholy light that still, somehow, failed to properly illuminate the creature.

But the effect those eyes had on Isabelle was far more sinister. As soon as she met the vampire’s gaze, she was utterly transfixed. The muscles she’d spent so long honing simply refused to obey her. She could not look away. Even the sweet relief of blinking was denied to her. She could only stare in horror as those two crimson lights drew closer.

“Well, well, well,” the creature mused, in a refined, feminine, lightly-accented voice. “What do we have here? A knight, it seems. And a girl, too.”

Despite herself, Isabelle shivered. The vampire’s voice had a touch of the archaic to it, but moreover, lying beneath her words was a deep, base tone that no human throat ought to have been able to produce. It spoke of hunger, and the terror of ages past.

“Name yourself, trespasser,” the vampire commanded. She sounded accustomed to obedience.

“I am Ser Isabelle!” Isabelle replied. Mercifully, her voice did not quake. “A knight of Verona. And I have come to be your final death.”

The most unnerving thing about the vampire’s rich, ravenous laugh was how relaxed and unhurried it was.

“How amusing!” the creature purred. “Tell me, do you know whom you address?” She took Isabelle’s silence for an answer. “Ser knight, understand that you are in the presence of Countess Mihaela Dragosi. This castle, built by my ancestors, is my home. And I am determined to see it restored to its former glory.”

Her words sent a shiver down Isabelle’s spine. She had read the name ‘Mihaela Dragosi’ in an old monastic tome, dated to centuries ago. There could be no doubt that she was dealing with an ancient and formidable creature. But Isabelle was not about to let that rob her of her convictions. She clenched her sword tight in her hand, and strained her every sinew in an effort to move forwards.

“Then you will fail,” Isabelle growled. “I will not allow you to prey upon the people of this land any longer.”

The passageway echoed with the sound of footsteps, and the glowing red eyes that held Isabelle rooted to the spot grew larger.

“What a foolish sentiment!” the countess scoffed. “Prey upon? Does a farmer prey upon his cattle when he takes them to slaughter? I think not. It is simply the natural order of things.”

Her words kindled a righteous fire in Isabelle’s heart. It gave her fresh strength, and with it, she was able to make her limbs move - just barely.

“Your words are lies and vileness,” Isabelle spat. “Nothing more.”

In her mind’s eye, she could already see the sword stroke that would part the countess’s head from her body. Isabelle knew exactly what to do. She had trained for it her entire life, and she had no little amount of experience in combat. She just needed to save her resolve for the vital moment.

“I have no need for lies,” Countess Mihaela retorted. She sounded as immovable as the mountain. “But I will deign to teach you the error of your ways, Ser Isabelle of Verona. Behold the face of your rightful superior!”

She stepped further forwards, until the dim moonlight finally fell upon her face. Frozen mere paces away, Isabelle was able to see and stare at every horrifying detail.

Countess Mihaela Dragosi was beautiful. That was the first thing the knight was struck by. She had been expecting something vile and demonic, or perhaps weathered by the weight of centuries, but no. The countess looked like she could have been the darling beauty of any royal court. Her skin, though deathly pale, was flawless, and her high cheekbones and dark, perfect lips spoke of the nobility she claimed. Her raven hair fell about her in long, curled locks, and she wore a long, elaborate, corseted dress that trailed along the floor behind her as she walked. The effect was stunning. She looked like the kind of classical beauty that artists and sculptors would have longed to immortalize.

But beneath the beauty, there was terror.

After a few moments, a creeping sense of horror settled across Isabelle. When she searched for its source, she realized that the proportions of the countess’s face were all wrong, somehow. Below her imperious cheekbones, her cheeks were far too hollow and emaciated. It made her look desperately, impossibly hungry. There was something slender and pointed about her face that gave her a predatory air, and her mouth, when she opened it to speak, opened just a little too wide. Behind those perfect lips, there were fangs, razor-sharp and long.

And, of course, there were those eyes. Those glowing, crimson eyes.

Aristocracy layered atop monstrosity. The countess was truly everything the folk tales spoke of.

Isabelle needed to slay her. A creature like this could not be permitted to roam the world. The mere thought of it was abominable. Stomach-churning.

“My!” the countess exclaimed. “A maiden of your beauty is a rare gift indeed. How very fortunate.”

Too late, Isabelle realized that the countess was already within arms reach, and was studying her every bit as closely as she had been studying the vampire. Once she became conscious of it, it started to feel like Countess Mihaela could see all the way through her. At such a distance, her sinister eyes dominated Isabelle’s vision.

“I am no maiden!” Isabelle’s voice didn’t sound as even as she had hoped. Something about the vampire’s presence made it impossible to stay calm. She was struck by the uncomfortable notion that this must be how deer felt when they noticed an approaching wolf. Sweat was dripping from her brow, and her heart was starting to pound. Still, she would not yet herself yield to cowardice. “I am a knight!”

“So I see,” Countess Mihaela cooed. “But that strikes me as a terrible waste, dear Isabelle. I would hate to see this pretty face marred by battle scars.”

She reached out and stroked a single fingertip across Isabelle’s cheek. Only then did Isabelle notice that each one of her nails was a sharp, wicked talon. Her touch brought with it the sting of pain, and then the wet of blood.

It was unbearable. Isabelle made her move.

With all the fierceness and fire she could muster, she forced herself into motion and brought her sword down towards where the countess stood. Her muscles still rebelled against her commands, and so it was a slow, clumsy stroke, the kind that Isabelle might have made when she was first learning the sword. But she poured into it all her righteousness and all her experience. The countess’s evil would end here.

The blade flew cleanly through the air, and made an ugly sound when it struck uselessly against stone.

Isabelle blinked sluggishly. Countess Mihaela had moved… perhaps? There had been a blur of something, but it had been too quick for Isabelle’s eyes to follow. What was happening? She could tell the power of the vampire’s eyes had sapped her speed, but she still had not expected this.

“You see?” came the countess’s voice, from Isabelle’s blind side. “I think knighthood does not suit you.”

“Silence!”

Isabelle instinctively wheeled to face the vampire as quickly as she could, but as soon as she did, she was once again made a prisoner of her wicked eyes. Her movements slowed to a crawl, and an overwhelming lethargy ate at her limbs.

“You are a delightful thing,” Countess Mihaela mused. “I have a terrible thirst, but it would be a shame to see you spilled all over the flagstones. A waste. No; instead I will grant you the honor of a high place in my court.”

“A place in your…” Isabelle was aghast at this mockery. Her noble face twisted into a hateful expression. “I would never serve you,” she snarled. “I would die before becoming your knight.”

The countess gave another rich, regal laugh. “I do not need a knight, Isabelle of Verona. I need a bride.”

“W-… what?” For the first time, Isabelle felt truly lost. Her? A vampire’s bride? That was ridiculous and repulsive for a dozen reasons. She detested that she needed to listen to this for even a moment, but it would take time to regather her strength. “That’s nonsense!”

“Why?”

The question was so simple it was almost disarming. Isabelle was left speechless for a moment.

“I have been fighting for my entire life,” she began, trembling with rage, “to be anything else. Princess. Bride. Maiden. I have been fighting to escape all that! I’ve fought. I’ve trained. I’ve defied-“

“Oh?” Countess Mihaela interrupted effortlessly. “Is that how you remember it?”

She sounded amused, like she was enjoying a joke beyond Isabelle’s comprehension. Isabelle frowned. She wasn’t given to reminiscence. Especially not at a moment like this.

The countess, though, was not to be deterred.

“Tell me what you remember,” she insisted. As she spoke, her eyes seemed to glow brighter, turning even the shadows a deep, haunting red. Isabelle felt a sudden weight pressing down on her shoulders. It was as if the vampire had suddenly brought her full presence to bear against her. “Tell me a memory.”

“I…” Isabelle’s eyes widened as she started to speak. It was as if there was a fishhook in her tongue, dragging the words out of her. “I… remember…”

“Struggling?” Countess Mihaela said, when Isabelle trailed off uncertainly. Her voice was thick with dark amusement, and she seemed to loom ever larger and larger above the paralyzed knight. “Just look, Isabelle of Verona. Look deep into my eyes. You can find your memories there.”

Against her will, Isabelle looked. She found herself staring as deeply as possible into the crimson portals of the countess’s eyes, until her entire being was flooded with red light. And then, without warning, she felt herself tumbling into the past.

***

There was a sensation like being plunged into icy waters, and then, suddenly, Isabelle was back, standing above the courtyard of the keep in Verona, as a girl. Not truly, of course. Isabelle could tell that much. Her eyes were open. Beyond the unnatural light of Countess Mihaela’s eyes, she could still see that she was standing underneath Castle Dragosi. But that didn’t seem to matter. Her memory was more real than reality itself, and she was wrapped up in its recollection.

Isabelle knew the moment well. It was the moment that had started her along the path of knighthood. Even so, more and more details kept crashing over her, shocking in their vividness. The weather. The scent in the air. Things she had never bothered to commit to memory.

In just a few seconds, Isabelle was about to descend the stairs to where the master-at-arms was drilling her father’s men. Armed only with a girl’s stubborn pride, she would demand that he train her too. He would laugh - they would all laugh - but eventually, after some arguing, he would agree to indulge her. Even then, it had been obvious to her that he wasn’t taking her seriously. But in the years to come, Isabelle had shown him better.

In memory, she started to move. But as she did, a warning chill began to creep up her spine. This was wrong. This was all terribly, terribly wrong. But why? How? She couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of her dread.

It took her far, far too long to realize that the scene should not have been cast in such awful red light.

In memory, Isabelle looked up, as if admiring the sky. But there was no midday sun hanging overhead. Instead, there were two baleful, crimson orbs that drenched everything in the color of blood.

Those eyes. Her eyes.

Once Isabelle noticed it, everything started to change. To dissolve. In memory, the world around her started to melt, the way Winter’s snow melted at Spring’s first touch. It was slow, to begin with, but it quickened at a horrible pace. The keep. The master-at-arms. His men. All of Verona, visible over the keep’s walls. Even the stairs beneath young Isabelle’s feet.

It was all quicksand. It all lost its shape and started to fall away into the sudden abyss that Isabelle sensed hanging underneath the whole world.

The worst part was that she couldn’t even make herself scream.

And then, there was nothing.

***

Isabelle felt herself jolted back into the present. She was fully herself again, confronting the countess. And this was her chance! She should strike again, while she had the strength.

But she couldn’t. She was overcome with a terrible, gnawing sense of loss that begged all-consuming questions.

What had she been remembering? What had happened that day, as a girl?

Isabelle did not know.

“Did you lose something?” Countess Mihaela asked. Her voice was poison, and full of even darker amusement than before.

For the first time, fear entered Isabelle’s voice. “W-what did you just do to me?”

“Don’t worry,” the vampire assured her. The gleam of her fangs was almost as bright as her eyes. “I can fix it. I can fill that hole in your heart. Look deeper.”

The knight could not disobey, and the glow of Countess Mihaela’s eyes once again stole her back into the past.

***

It was the same moment again, and Isabelle found herself infinitely reassured. Thank God it was not truly lost. She was a girl again, on the stairs of the keep in Verona, and she was about to run down to speak with the master-at-arms.

But again, the whole scene was bathed in crimson.

This time, though, something changed. A shadow appeared over Isabelle. Looking up, she saw a woman towering over her. She was wearing an elaborate, old-fashioned dress, her hair was dark, and her corpse-pale skin marked her as a foreigner to Verona.

“Hurry back inside, Isabelle,” the woman chided, in an accent Isabelle could have sworn she recognized. “Your mother is looking for you. It’s time for your lessons.”

In memory, Isabelle pouted briefly. Her mother’s lessons were always boring, girly things. Needlework, dance, poetry. But after a moment, she acceded. It wouldn’t do to keep her mother waiting. The courage she’d been mustering dissipated. She turned and headed back inside to her lessons.

***

That was the end of the memory. Isabelle felt herself once again being roused toward the present. As she awoke from the strange, nostalgic stupor, she tried to tell herself that it was false. That it hadn’t happened that way. But those thoughts started to melt away beneath the vampire’s gaze, and she felt the new version of events effortlessly slot into the hole that had been left in her heart.

Isabelle blinked. Something had happened again. But what?

“Are you alright, my dear?” Countess Mihaela asked mirthfully. “You look a touch unsteady!”

“You did…  something?”

Isabelle’s mind was in turmoil. She could sense that some kind of tectonic shift had occurred within her, but it was getting harder and harder to determine where or how. The new memory - whatever it was - had seared itself indelibly into her mind, but it was already setting down roots like a sprouted tree. It was building connections. Spreading seeds.

Changing her.

“What is happening to me?” she breathed.

“I believe that you were about to strike me,” Countess Mihaela suggested. “Would you like to try?”

Her words drew attention to the sword raised in Isabelle’s hand. It seemed heavier than before. Isabelle realized that her hand on the grip didn’t feel quite right. Was she holding it improperly?

Why wasn’t she sure?

“No?” The countess laughed. “My mistake, it seems. Then instead, I think, you were educating me about your upbringing! You told me… yes, that was it. You were always a dutiful daughter. You always strove to meet your mother’s expectations for the little princess of Verona.”

Isabelle winced. Princess. Strictly speaking it was correct, but she’d always loathed that title. It was so girlish. Moreover, Countess Mihaela’s words had her perplexed. She didn’t remember telling the vampire any of that, and yet it all had the ring of truth to it.

Her head was a mess of fog and doubt, but more memories were starting to form out of the gloom. She remembered sitting through innumerable lessons in everything that was expected of a courtly lady. She remembered that her duty had always come first, no matter how much she’d wanted something more.

No matter how often she had looked out of the window, and watched her father’s men training.

“Yes,” Isabelle agreed slowly. “I… suppose.”

“Then how strange, that you ended up at my door!” Countess Mihaela mused. “Not that I am complaining, of course. You’re a lovely thing. Except for this. It really doesn’t suit you, you know.”

As she spoke, she reached up and stroked her fingertips along the flat of Isabelle’s blade.

Fueled by a sudden surge of strength, Isabelle snatched it back protectively.

“Silence!” she demanded, anger making her voice firm. “I won’t hear that. Not from a creature like you.”

No matter what, Ser Isabelle of Verona was a knight. Even though her duty to her mother had made training difficult, she had still spent her nights pounding away at training dummy after training dummy to hone her strokes. She had made do without a master-at-arms’s tutelage.

This sword was her life.

“My, my!” Countess Mihaela mocked. “So proud! You must know it well, that sword of yours.”

“Yes!” Isabelle answered, with a measure of her former fierceness. “Do not mistake me, fiend. Call me the princess of Verona all you like. The hours I have spent with this blade shall-“

“Is that truly how you remember it?” Countess Mihaela hissed, overriding Isabelle with demonic, regal authority. “Look at me, dear Bella. Look.”

Her command was iron. Isabelle looked into her deep, red eyes again, and lost herself in their mesmerizing glow.

***

This time, when the memory took hold, Isabelle was transported back to Verona once more. She was down in the courtyard, alone, and she was training. She always liked to practice in the evenings, when there were fewer prying, judgmental eyes to see. And after her mother’s lessons, it was a good way to vent some of her frustrations.

In memory, Isabelle planted her feet carefully. She raised her sword into a guarding posture and took careful aim at the practice dummy in front of her, ready to thrust.

But something was wrong.

The tip of her blade kept shaking. She couldn’t seem to hold it steady. Why? Hadn’t she done this thousands of times before?

Or was it hundreds?

Or was it just dozens?

And why was the courtyard bathed in an evil, crimson glow?

In memory, Isabelle looked up at the evening sky. Two moons hung overhead, and both of them were the color of blood.

Was this really how it had happened?

Isabelle couldn’t seem to call any alternative to mind. This was the only version of events she knew. That she had ever known. What could it be but the truth? With that comfort in mind, she raised her sword once more, ready to strike.

But first, she closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, Isabelle was assailed with a throbbing headache. The world, as she remembered it from that night, was doubled up upon itself. In her mind’s eye, there were two different memories fighting for the same space. As both of them forced themselves in, they each blurred around the edges, becoming unreal.

The other memory took place inside. She could tell that much. And she was holding… something. Something sharp. Everything else was indistinct.

The dissonance was unbearable, and Isabelle was gripped with an urgent need to determine what was real and what was not. And in her desperation, the accented voice that came to her as if drifting on the night wind felt like a blessing.

Look, it called. Look up. Look deep.

In memory, Isabelle looked up. She let the crimson moons overhead transfix her. Somehow, as she stared the knot of tension in her head started to slacken. She relaxed. And as she did, the courtyard and the training dummy melted away like candle wax.

Moments later, in memory, Isabelle found herself sitting in her chamber. It was as if she had never been practicing her swordsmanship outside - and indeed, that memory was fading fast. Overhead were not moons, but rather two odd, red lamps hanging from her ceiling.

She looked down. In her left hand was a frame for embroidery, and in her right was a needle, raised as she was about to thrust it into the fabric like a sword. In memory, Isabelle smiled. What a childish little fancy!

The childhood temptation to become a swordswoman had still been with her, at that age, but only just. Instead, Isabelle remembered resigning herself to her filial duties, and spending long hours practicing her needlework to become the princess her mother had always so wanted.

Then, in the memory, came a knock at the door, followed by her mother’s voice:

“Isabelle?” her mother had said. “There’s somebody here I’d like you to meet.”

Isabelle set aside her needlework as her mother pushed open her chamber door. At her side was a woman as strange as she was oddly familiar. She was extraordinarily pale and looked hungry, and her eyes were all red.

“She’s to be your tutor,” Isabelle’s mother had explained, “in the finer points of courtly etiquette. She’s a countess from the east, from over the mountains.”

Even in this most vivid of vivid memories, Isabelle barely registered her words. Her recollection was dominated by a single, overbearing feeling.

Adoration.

A single glance at the countess’s slender, aristocratic countenance was all Isabelle needed to know this was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. That she would ever see. There was an inhuman quality to her that only enhanced her perfection. Isabelle felt like she was looking at a saint, or perhaps a goddess. The blasphemy of that notion was completely unimportant compared to how desperately she wanted to worship and adore this woman.

In memory, her body started to warm to new desires. Shame stained her cheeks. It was wrong. Terribly, biblically wrong. To feel this way about another woman was unspeakable - let alone about a woman who had come all this way to tutor her. But there was no denying it.

In memory, Isabelle tried to remember if she’d ever felt this way about a woman before. She didn’t think so. This lust, this dizzying passion, this yearning for closeness and intimacy was like a spike driven into her skull. Without precedent, it had erupted inside her. If she hadn’t known better, Isabelle might have blamed it on a devil’s touch or a witch’s curse.

And in any case, she was too enamored to care.

“Hello, Bella,” the countess said, in that accented, somehow-familiar voice. “I’m here to help you blossom into a fine young lady.”

Coming from this goddess, the diminutive nickname didn’t anger her. It merely made her blush.

“Hello, countess.” In memory, Isabelle rose to her feet and curtsied as prettily as she could. A breathless eagerness slipped into her voice. “I look forward to your tutelage.”

***

Then, it was over. The memory was finished and receded back into the dark corners of Isabelle’s mind, there to spread its roots just like the first had. More memories started to appear before her mind’s eye. Memories of long years of tutelage and devotion as she cultivated her own regal femininity. But this was no time to dwell on them. She snapped back to the present, and scolded herself for being so absent-minded.

She wasn’t a girl back in Verona. Nor was she some old maid, constantly reminiscing. She was a knight, and she was here to… to…

To what?

“Are you alright, dear little Bella?” Countess Mihaela asked. “You’re looking a little pale.”

Isabelle leaped backward as she noticed how close the vampire was. Terror gripped her. Why was she here? To slay a vampire? That sounded like a bad jest. Where had she found the insane courage that had brought her down into this castle, sword in hand?

She barely even knew how to use the thing.

“Do not worry,” the countess added mockingly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Isabelle risked an incredulous glance at the creature. That proved to be a mistake. Once her eyes found the twinned, red lamps that shone out of the vampire’s face, she was once again frozen to the spot - not that it seemed to matter. Even running away felt like a distant fantasy. How was Isabelle supposed to move when she was weighed down with all this clunky armor? She had no idea how to move in it.

After a few moments, though, she realized there was something else that was giving her pause. Something about the countess. There was an eerie familiarity to her, like she had been conjured forth from Isabelle’s past. Had they met? It seemed impossible. How would she have met a vampire? But the notion continued to gnaw at her. She tried to tell herself that it was a mere trick. That, if anything, Countess Mihaela was something spawned from her nightmares.

But that wasn’t quite true either. Because Countess Mihaela was the most beautiful woman she had ever set eyes on. Even her obvious inhumanity was enchanting. Isabelle couldn’t take her eyes off her, and the sight of the vampire’s face stoked shameful desires she’d kept carefully hidden for so many years. Hers was the face that had haunted both Isabelle’s wet dreams and her most loving fantasies.

That, just as much as anything else, was terrifying.

“K-keep away from me!” Isabelle yelled, her voice wavering.

“Or what?” Countess Mihaela opened her mouth and bared her fangs. “What are you afraid of, little Bella?”

“D-don’t call me that!” Isabelle was teetering on the brink of panic. “I… I… I have a sword!”

She clutched it to her chest with both hands, embarrassingly like a child reaching for a prized toy.

“Oh? Then do your worst!” The countess spread her arms wide. “Here. I won’t even move.”

Hot, bitter tears of humiliation started to well up in the corners of Isabelle’s eyes. With the vampire goading her, she raised the sword as high as she could, and tried to imitate the way she’d seen fighting men move.

She failed miserably.

Isabelle had no idea how to hold the sword, much less swing it. When she struck out towards the countess, she was woefully unprepared for the way its weight and momentum carried her forwards and threatened to throw her completely off balance. Letting out a miserable whimper, she allowed it to slip out of her hands. It clattered to the ground uselessly, off to one side.

True to her word, Countess Mihaela had not moved a muscle.

“You see?” the vampire said, with an air of predatory, sickeningly false kindness. “You’re not meant for this, dear Bella. Why not accept what I offer instead? Be mine. Be my bride.”

The offer was horrifying in its allure. Countess Mihaela felt as much like a succubus as she did a bloodsucking monstrosity. Isabelle shrunk away from her whilst shaking her head and trying to ignore how tempted she felt.

“Don’t… don’t call… d-don’t…” Isabelle couldn’t keep herself from tearing up. She was trying desperately to think of a lifeline, but she was so terribly confused. She couldn’t so much as understand why she’d come here. “I-I’m a knight! I’m a k-knight!”

The claim felt laughably, pathetically false. But still, Isabelle was determined to hold true to that part of herself. It was one of the only things she remained truly sure of. Her deepest conviction.

“Are you?” Countess Mihaela’s amusement was palpable. “What kind of knight doesn’t know how to swing a sword, dear Bella?”

“I…” Isabelle had no answer for that, but she couldn’t let go. Her knighthood was all she had. “I’m… I’m a… a knight?”

“You poor thing,” the vampire simpered. “You seem so terribly confused. Why don’t you just look into my eyes for a moment? I can take all of that away for you. Just look, Bella. Look.”

She wasn’t sure if it was out of compulsion, fear, or simple despair, but whatever the case, Isabelle looked. Countess Mihaela’s huge, red eyes opened up to devour her.

***

Once again, Isabelle was tossed into a helpless reverie of memory. She found herself transported back once more to Verona, but this time she was standing in the chapel attached to her family’s estate. Even tinted in sinister crimson, the day was unmistakable to her.

It was her happiest and proudest moment, and the most important day of her life.

Having come of age, she was waiting there in the chapel for the ceremony to begin. In a few moments, her father would come to join her. She would take her vows, and then kneel before him as he blessed her with his ceremonial sword and awarded her the…

The…

What? What was she here for, exactly?

Isabelle found that she was struggling to remember that.

A knighthood?

That felt right, but she couldn’t see how it could be. After all, by that age, knighthood had been nothing more than a long-forgotten daydream. She’d long since put away her sword and her storybooks. Instead, she’d devoted herself to becoming the elegant, beautiful princess of Verona, under the fond eye of her beloved tutor.

Her…

It was then that it dawned on her. No; rather, it was seared into her mind like a red-hot brand.

This wasn’t a knighthood ceremony. It was her betrothal.

Her father was soon coming, yes, but he was coming to give her away to her betrothed. Her vows weren’t of duty, but rather of love and faithfulness.

Love for-

“You are a vision of beauty, my beloved Bella.”

At the sound of that familiar, accented voice, joy surged within Isabelle’s breast. She turned to face her betrothed as she walked towards her through the crimson-lit chapel.

It was the countess.

Underneath Castle Dragosi, Isabelle’s brow furrowed. There were a dozen and more reasons why that memory was impossible. Why it made no sense. A betrothal between two women? It was impossible. And why would her family ever entrust her to some foreign countess? Or to a woman so much older? Why didn’t they object to the fact that the woman they’d welcomed as a tutor had seduced their only daughter?

Yet all those reasons were swept away in the rush of nostalgic bliss.

In memory, Isabelle could barely contain herself. She was finally to be given to the woman she loved. The way their romance had blossomed was nothing short of a fairytale, and it was a further miracle that her parents had consented so readily to the match. How could she be anything but thankful?

Through her mind’s eye, she could see that the countess had looked as beautiful as ever that day. She was wearing the same dress Isabelle always seemed to picture her in, and her fangs were as white and sharp as ever. And her eyes, of course, held Isabelle’s very soul in their grip.

She was perfect.

The memory was growing clearer and clearer with each passing moment. Now Isabelle felt like she could remember what she had been wearing. Not armor, but a pretty, white dress. She wasn’t a knight. She was a bride.

Abruptly, she found herself picturing her father at her side. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could remember something of his smile as he offered her hand to the countess. Then, it was time for her vows. Isabelle spoke them from the heart, and the words took the place of years of chivalric oaths and honorable pledges.

‘Till death do us part…

***

This time, when Isabelle snapped back the present, it felt as though she had been struck by a thunderbolt. It was like she was remembering her whole life anew, and as her precious memories of the countess took root, they quickly filled the holes and doubts that had assailed her. It wasn’t long before she was set completely at ease.

Only, why were there tears in her eyes?

The only reason Bella could think of was that they were tears of joy - of the joy of, at long last, being reunited with her betrothed.

“You remember now, don’t you?” Countess Mihaela prompted. She was grinning wickedly. “Isn’t that right, my bride?”

My bride. Those words sent a rapturous shiver down Bella’s spine, and made her blush.

“Yes,” she said, in a dainty, adoring voice. “Forgive me, my love. I was confused. How silly of me!”

In truth, there were still a few things that confused her. They simply didn’t matter, now that she was in the arms of her great love. Why was she standing beneath some dank, ruined castle? Why was she wearing armor? Why did her body feel so firm, so muscular? And why was there a sword lying on the ground, so close at hand?

For a moment, she caught her own reflection in its steel. Her eyes seemed to have turned a dull, deep, listless red.

It didn’t trouble her. Not now that she knew who she was. She was Princess Bella of Verona, and she had come to take her place as Countess Mihaela Dragosi’s bride.

“Good, good,” the countess said. “You must come upstairs with me. I have clothes for you to change into. We can easily find you something more befitting a princess.”

Bella nodded gratefully. A dress would be much more comfortable and familiar than this heavy garb.

“But first,” Countess Mihaela added, “I am thirsty, my bride.”

Bella’s loving smile only widened. She knew exactly what the countess was asking of her. It was a bride’s duty, and one she was unbelievably happy to fulfill.

She reached up to unfasten the high-collared breastplate that kept her neck protected. Her fingers seemed to know how to handle the straps, even if her mind didn’t. After a few seconds, it fell to the ground next to the sword, and Countess Mihaela rushed forwards to sweep Bella into her embrace.

Bella, her knighthood lost, did nothing more than bare her neck in submission, and let out a blissful moan as the vampire’s fangs pierced her neck.

She had been wrong before. This, in fact, was her happiest and proudest moment.

—

I would like to express my gratitude for the generosity of all those who  support me on Patreon, and to give a special thanks to the following  patrons in particular for their exceptional support:

Artemis, Chloe, J, Secret Subject, Kathryn, Lucy, Dex, orangesya, Red, dmtph, Ember, Seph, MegatronTarantulas, Vanessa, Matt, Jeremy, Mattilda, Emily, William, ntad, Flluffie, Silgon, The Flock, ourladyoflilacs, Luna, Abigail, steb, Hypnogirl_Stephanie_, nicholas, Sue, Alan_, mintyasleep, Noelle, Lavender, Madness, Michael, Tasteful Ardour, Michael, Matthew, Full Blown Marxism, Anonymous, GrillFan65, Huge_Nerd, ZephanyZephZeph, Tram345, 8947jts, Chris, Breadloaf, Kyle, Emma, Jack the Monkey, Paul, Willow, Shadows exile, Drone 8315, Matthew, Alex, Madness, Sam, Selina, Daniel, Bubble_Butt, Francesca, WhyamIhere, John, Sarah, Crittergang, Setcab, Erin, Elysium, Bacon Man, Flintnsteal, Arik, John, bluaph, Kyle, Morriel, Jack the Monkey, Sola, NewtypeWoman, Envy, hellenberg, shoktherapy, L, Jim, Black Star, Kay, Michael, strange item, John, Praxis Memetics LLC, Frank, William, Olives, Christopher, Charlotte, Faun, Riley, Brinn, Brendon, B, Jackson, Kyle, Dennis, Nandi, Sanya, David, Morder, Myles_EXVS, Jade, Skylar, Foridin, gabbermoth, Jennifer, Selina, Violet, Slifer274, paxDulcetGirl, Roxxie, Hal, Devi, Phoenix, Laurel, Kyle, Ivy, Jim, Michael, Joseph, June, Yaoups, Yooby Bomb, Peter, Paige, Sophie, imaencuru, Thomas, Katherine, Liz, uusavutonauto, Jens, Ada, EepyTimeTea, nitin, hypnoenby, Sebastian, ds2coffin, Yaoups

#story

[pagan-stitches]

Pustevny (Czechia) is dominated by timber structures built in an unusual folk style. But in 1890 the site had no buildings at all. Those that stand here now were commissioned by the Frenštát pod Radhoštěm hikers club. The walkers’ refuges were designed by Dušan Jurkovič and Michal Urbánek; Jurkovič took inspiration from the folk architecture of the Carpathian Mountains and incorporated folk motifs found in Moravia’s Wallach region and Slovakia into a unique Art Nouveau style.

Source: https://www.visitczechia.com/en-us/things-to-do/places/summer-sports/hiking-and-nordic-walking/c-pustevny

#czech folk art

[consistentsquash]

Catullus 16 by eldritcher

Harry/Voldemort. Rated M. 168000 words.

Fest - @hprecfest. Day 13 - A fic over 100k.

This is a special rec because Cat16 is a really special fic. One of my all time fav fics! The fic was originally written in 2014 and it returned to AO3 in 2023 after it was taken down in 2018. This is a fic I avoid reccing because I don't really think I can do it justice. Lots of prep work went into this rec <3

Cat16 is a glorious love story. Also a scary war story. Also a story about grief, living with the ghosts of the people you lost.

This fic is hard to categorize. It has everything. A depressed, grieving villain avoiding war. A depressed, lonely headmaster avoiding war. A frightened, brave hero who has to walk a pretty fine line between morally good and not so good but doesn't succeed sometimes. Compromises on top of compromises but how do you even with somebody who killed your parents? The grief is visceral/unending/painful to read/painful to think about. Love clasps grief as only love can. This is a repeating theme in every single eldritcher fic. But it really is the biggest ghost haunting Cat16.

The war framing is Grindelwald’s invasion after he escapes from the prison. But the real war is the heart and mind war Harry, Voldemort and Dumbledore have to fight everyday as they make compromises. Dumbledore is charismatic and brilliant. Voldemort also. Their depression, grief and sensuality are the other side of the coin. Definitely not inhuman. Harry is so brave, so hopeful, so flawed, so everything.

You can’t talk about Cat16 without talking about the smut. Because Catullus wrote this poem about sodomy and face fucking. Because eldritcher's love for ficdick isn't like a secret or anything. The opening scene has serious Kill Bill vibes. The fic starts hard, goes hard, doesn’t really stop going hard. Honestly Harry and Voldemort have got to be nonstop dehydrated because of their dickchasing. So much dick. Sexposition is dickposition here :D

Also the character progression. Harry’s character gets layers as he deals with new challenges everyday. Dumbledore’s and Voldemort’s characters work in reverse with them losing layers when they trust Harry more and more. It’s a really brilliant and unusual exposition technique I don’t see a lot in fic. Works for the fic 100%.

The relationship arc has a lot of literary clues about the progression. The locations also show the relationship evolution and the real scale of the fic. The fic starts in Hogwarts, next London, next Canterbury which is really important for Dumbledore's arc, next some war locations, next Hungary in the Carpathians which is the classic Grindelwald setting in eldritcher's fics and the finale is in France locations in Rheims and Verzenay.

Also Grindelwald. The Grindelwald/Dumbledore confrontation in Canterbury with the backstory of Thomas Becket/King Henry is really intense. OMG. This fic. Like any eldritcher fic you can use it to prep for history trivia. Probably better than learning history on Twitter :D Also more fun. Less shouty more smutty. Zero preaching. Zero pretension. Somebody on reddit compared this to hpmor done right which I feel is insulting Cat16 but yeah I get the comparison.

The finale, Acheron, is one of eldritcher's best longfic finales and that's a really high bar right there. The ending is bittersweet and haunting. They are in love, they are together but you finish reading with this loss of innocence melancholy, sweet ache which is going to haunt you for the rest of your life.

Love love love this dickpoetry epictragedy soaringlovestory fic <3

art source

Recs I made for this fest

#hp #hp fic recs #squash recs #hprecfest2023 #hprecfest2023 squashrecs #harrymort recs #harrymort #harry x voldemort #hp slash fic recs #hp slash longfic recs #hp longfic recs #recs #this is probably one of my best rec efforts #OOF #its also an OOF fic so #deserves the OOF effort

[axl-ul]

Character Intro: Kogar Výtaušeima

Aliases:

Man with No Eyes, Majster/Majstre, Master Embalmer, Embalmer

Quote:

“An Embalmer should be the healer of the sick and the hunter of the damned.“

Physical traits:

Height: 190 cm (6 ft 2.8 in)

Weight: 85 kg (187 lbs)

Build: lean, quite muscular

Hair: dark brown, chin-length, later cut short

Eyes: dark brown

Skin: pale with ashen undertone, dry

Unusual traits: has a scar running across the forehead and by the width of his left cheek, a part of his left ear is missing with the rest being severely disfigured

Personality:

Those few who remember the Embalmer, describe him as a stoic with only a couple of words on his lip. Yet he carried out his actions as swiftly as he was able to swish his sword through the air. Cold and intelligent, he never let anything to cloud his judgement. Although, some say he was more than foolish when he decided to keep a creature he named as his only disciple and successor in the craft of the embalming. Admittedly, some of his procedures could be viewed from eccentric to drastic. Yet everyone should bear in mind the Embalmer swore to protect the sanctity of a soul. There is a rumour that the two girls from his care lived up to the adulthood and viewed the bat demon/vampire as not only their guardian (and a master for the older one), but even as their 'father' as well, though they did not relate to him by a single drop of blood. This only claims another rumour that his old heart was able to fully beat around his only children.

Personal life and relationships:

Master Kogar was known as a man of few words yet many actions what showed when he took under his roof three little children, two of them being wolf demons. Sources claim that his relationship was warmest with the oldest and the youngest one as the middle child often decided to misbehave and occassionally throw some blame onto the oldest child. However, the Embalmer did his best to find his way even to this girl and bring her up.

Other than the three foter children, most probably belonging to the tribe of the Wendic demons (with the exception of the oldest child who hasn't been confirmed as neither a demon or a human), he kept in touch with other embalmers from his order. Which isn't much surprising as bat demons are known to separate themselves from other demon tribes, but never from their own clan.

Although Master Kogar did use the name Výtaušeima as his family name, he was never born to such a clan. Rather, it is a surname he chose to carry as his predecesor was named Výtaušeima. Killing his former master upon learning he had been involved with the cultists of the Repentent Ones, he kept onto the name in hopes to cleanse it one day for he believed in his master's innocence unitl the day of his death. The surname was also passed onto his foster children whom he had taught to never forget but always forgive.

He carried out his duty as an embalmer to his last breath when he was impaled by villagers from the neighbouring demonic settlement deep in the forest within the region of Carpathian Mountains (the most probable location for the place of the incident is suspectedd to be held in the region of Low Tatras, however no certain claim has been made so far). Left to succumb to his wounds, the only witness to this horryfying scene, apart from the demons who carried out the execution and later died in an inexplicable incident, was his successor, Ulfrika Výtaušeimová, the Master Embalmer of many names but only one face she covered with the mask of her deceased master.

Role:

A minor character in Empire of Dust (mostly mentioned)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added): @vanessaroades-author @rubywrite @aohendo @rbbess110 @jgmartin @outpost51 @athenswrites @kainablue

#writeblr #writing community #writers of tumblr #character introduction #character intro #kogar výtaušeima #lore corner #writeblr community #writers on tumblr #it's finally out and i'm so sorry it took so long to post #btw i decided to put extra more information in Kogar's lore since well #there hasn't been much posting from me lately #and i came up with new ideas i wanted to share #sorry if there are grammar errors but i don't have much stength to make a new edit to this #maybe later during this (upcoming) week #mythical creatures #slavic folklore #mythos #mythology inspired

[rulers-of-hungary-tournament]

BONUS POLL: Father Of The Nation Minitournament - Hungarian Edition

The basis for this tournament is simple: when do you think Hungarian nation really began and who do you think thus deserves the title "father of the nation"? I know, I know, only the easiest questions here at Rulers Of Hungary poll.

Anyway, our options here are thus:

Levedi, the first known "duke" (or whatever his actual title was, most modern historians just call him a chieftan) of Magyars, way back when when they were vassals of the Khazar Empire; his historicity is disputed, but it's not like it stopped Czechs and their "praotec Čech"

Álmos, who was their ruler when they first got into their eventual homeland in the Carpathian Basin (at least according to some sources); yes, that's the one that was supposedly conceived by a bird that his mum saw in a dream, needless to say he's a semi-legendary figure too

Árpád, allegedly son of Álmos, who led the actual conquest of Carpathian Basin, since his father died around the time Magyars entered it; from what I can tell, he might've been the one who led them at Bratislava in 907, but he also might've died before that

I.István (Štefan I.), you know him, you love him, the first king of Hungary

Kossuth Lajos or some other 19th century figure; basically, a free space for all the hot takes about how nationalism wasn't invented yet in the Early Medieval Era, and so the aforementioned dudes aren't "fathers of the nation", because they didn't have a concept of the "nation" as we know it

someone else; free space for you to suggest some other historical or legendary figure (like that bird that fathered Álmos, or IV.Béla, or whatever)

(Pictured: an 1840s painter's image of Battle of Bratislava)

***

#bonus polls #history #hungary #levedi #álmos #árpád #i.istván #kossuth lajos

[dragoneyes618]

He arrives from deepest Eastern Europe, carrying the soil of his homeland with him. He is an immigrant who must adapt to a new society and is very self-conscious about speaking English with a very thick accent. He has a dark complexion; his nose is hooked; he has massive and conspicuously bushy eyebrows and pointy ears; and he stands slightly stooped and hunched. He is clad in black from head to foot and he wears distinctive clothes, including a six-starred Magen David-like medallion, that set him apart from everyone else.

He remains proudly loyal to an alien tribe, the smallest of minorities, and though subject to intense persecution throughout his existence, he has remained steadfast through many centuries in his dedication to ensuring the survival of his race. He communicates with his followers through a mysterious code and a language unknown to others and, unlike everyone else on earth, his day begins at sundown. Not only is he unable to eat the same food as everyone else, his food preparation rite includes draining the animal upon which he feeds of every last drop of blood, and he also practices rituals that involve drinking a red-colored liquid. He is not only non-Christian, but he is physically and emotionally repelled by the mere sight of a Christian cross. Haters characterize him as evil, a capitalist bloodsucker, a person feeding on the social vigor of Europe, and as a general threat to contemporary civil society.

Is this an antisemitic description of a European Jew . . . or a description of Count Dracula?

Actually: both. As discussed below, that is no mere coincidence because Dracula represents the convergence of prevailing stereotypes of both Jews and vampires.

Abraham Stoker (1847-1912) – better known as “Bram” – was an Irish author who is best known for his 1897 Gothic horror novel, Dracula, which went on to become one of the most well-known works in English literature and which has been adapted in hundreds of films, television productions, video games, animated cartoons, comic books and dramas. It has been translated into 30 languages and, since its publication, it has never been out of print.

Stoker became interested in the theatre while a student and, while working for the Irish Civil Service, he became the theatre critic for the Dublin Evening Mail, which was co-owned by Sheridan Le Fanu, an author of Gothic tales who may have engendered his interest in such stories. Stoker produced over a hundred pages of notes for Dracula, drawing extensively from Transylvanian folklore, and many critics suggest that his vampire character was inspired by various historical figures, including particularly the infamous Vlad the Impaler. Interestingly, though he traveled the world, he never actually visited Eastern Europe or Transylvania, where his seminal novel is set.

Of particular Jewish interest is that before writing Dracula, Stoker met and befriended Ármin Vámbéry (1832-1913), a renowned Hungarian-Jewish Orientalist and foundational figure in Hungarology. Many commentators argue that Dracula likely emerged from Vámbéry’s dark and moody stories of the Carpathian mountains and, in fact, Stoker claimed him as his consultant and credited him as a primary source of Balkan folklore. Some authorities further argue that the character of Professor Van Helsing, Stoker’s vampire hunter, was based on Vámbéry; in the novel, Stoker has Van Helsing refer to his “friend Arminius, of Buda-Pesth University,” where Vámbéry was a professor. Although Arminius is not a character in the novel, his influence upon Van Helsing is crucial to the ultimate defeat of Dracula.

Born Hermann Bamberger in Szent-György, Kingdom of Hungary into an impoverished Orthodox Jewish family, he eventually converted to Islam – and later to Protestant Christianity, probably to facilitate appointment to the faculty of the University of Budapest – and changed his name to Ármin Vámbéry. His father, a rabbi, died of cholera in his youth and, in a radical move disapproved of by the Jewish community, his remarried mother, believing that a secular education was key to upward social mobility in the non-Jewish world, transferred him from a yeshiva to a Catholic school – where his second-grade teacher taunted him with “Well, `Moshele,’ why do you study? Would it not be better for you to become a kosher butcher?” – and then to a Protestant school in Pressburg.

However, unable to support him and his siblings, his mother set him adrift at age 12 to fend for himself and, lame from tuberculosis, he was forced to serve an apprenticeship with a tailor and later as a tutor. However, he manifested an extraordinary talent for languages and, by age 16, he had become fluent in Hungarian, Hebrew, Latin, French and German, and was somewhat knowledgeable in English, Russian, Serbian, and other Slavic languages as he commenced his career as a writer.

After spending about a year in Constantinople, Vámbéry published a German-Turkish dictionary (1858). After years as a pioneering traveler of Central Asia in the double guise of a Turkish effendi disguised as a Sunni dervish, he published Travels in Central Asia (1865), which made him an internationally renowned writer and celebrity, and he was appointed professor of Oriental languages at the University of Budapest (1865) (to which Stoker refers in Dracula).

Vámbéry notably served as a trusted consultant on diplomatic work in the Ottoman Empire to no less a personage than Theodor Herzl and, among other things, used his connections in the Ottoman Empire to introduce Herzl to Sultan Abdul-Hamid in 1901. Although he did play perhaps the leading role in enabling Herzl to argue his case for Zionism directly to the Sultan, he did not share the Zionist leader’s optimism regarding the outcome of the meeting (and he proved correct). As Herzl wrote in his diary, Vámbéry admonished him:

[do not] talk to [the Sultan] about Zionism. That is a phantasmagoria. Jerusalem is as holy to him as Mecca. Nevertheless, Zionism is good – against Christendom. I want to keep Zionism alive – and that is why I have secured the audience for you, as otherwise you would not be able to face your Congress. You must gain time and carry on Zionism somehow.

In his published diaries, Herzl also documented his relationship with Vámbéry and, with great affection, describes him thus:

Vámbéry doesn’t know whether he is more Turk than Englishman, writes books in German, speaks twelve languages with equal mastery, and has professed five religions, in two of which he has served as a priest . . . He told me 1001 tales of the Orient, of his intimacy with the sultan, etc. He immediately trusted me completely and told me, under oath of secrecy, that he was a secret agent of Turkey and of England.

Notwithstanding his apostasy, Vámbéry argued for the right of believing Jews – which he definitionally limited to the Orthodox – to retain their way of life and, after Herzl’s death, his counsel was actively solicited by David Wolfssohn. Some critics note that Vámbéry never publicly embraced Zionism and that, as a convert to Islam, he certainly would have at least embraced the Muslim belief that Jews were better off under benevolent Muslim rule. However, Herzl’s diary entries and the esteem with which he was held by Zionist leadership would seem to belie the argument that he wasn’t at least sympathetic to the Zionist cause.

The first film adaptation of Dracula, and arguably its most famous, was F. W. Murnau‘s Nosferatu, A Symphony of Horror (1922), with Max Schreck starring as the vampire Count Orlok. [Ironically, “Shrek” – which was the actor’s real name – means “fright” in German and Yiddish.] Stoker’s widow, Florence, sued the filmmakers, alleging that her approval had never even been sought, let alone granted; maintaining that she had not been paid any royalties; and demanding that all negatives and prints of the unauthorized film be destroyed. When the lawsuit was finally resolved in her favor three years later, only a single print of the film had survived, but it had broad distribution as contraband and has survived to become one of the most important films of all time. The first authorized film version of Dracula did not make an appearance until almost ten years later when Universal Studios released Tod Browning‘s Dracula (1931) starring Bela Lugosi, which became known as perhaps the definitive Dracula film.

Interestingly, in Nosferatu, a manuscript page that is shown in passing displays mystical symbols on it, including a six-pointed star evocative of a Magen David and what may possibly be a few Hebrew letters (amid dozens of other signs) and, in the Lugosi film, the vampire also wears what appears to be a Magen David. This became an amusing issue in 1987 when General Mills, in response to complaints by Jewish media, agreed to redesign cereal boxes for its Count Chocula breakfast food to remove the same six-pointed medallion.

Moreover, the cast of Nosferatu included several Jewish actors, including Alexander Granach, the foremost Jewish actor in Berlin, who played Knock, the vampire’s henchman. Granach plays his character as the ultimate antisemitic stereotype, a cackling, grasping, bushy-eyebrowed money-grubber. He later fled Germany when Hitler rose to power, ultimately settling in Hollywood, where he became a successful actor in American films, often playing Nazis. Albin Grau, a student of the occult and a graphic artist who produced, designed, and marketed the film, was not Jewish, but he was nonetheless arrested, charged with being a socialist, and murdered by the Nazis at Buchenwald.

Nosferatu became a leading source of Nazi propaganda. Julius Streicher, who would become the founder and publisher of Der Stürmer, the great organ of Nazi antisemitism, attended the film’s premiere in 1922 and quickly began featuring articles discussing parallels between Jews and vampires. In Mein Kampf, Hitler repeatedly refers to Jews as vampires and bloodsuckers.

Given the literally hundreds of versions of the original novel – including particularly Nosferatu, whose plot differs dramatically from Stoker’s original narrative – it is worthwhile to summarize here Stoker’s original story. For example, in Stoker’s novel, sunlight merely weakens Dracula, but it was Galeen in Nosferatu who first came up with the idea that sunlight evaporates a vampire and turns him into dust or wisps of smoke, which has become a universal theme in virtually all successor vampire stories

Stoker’s novel begins with Jonathan Harker, a newly qualified English solicitor, visiting Count Dracula at his castle in the Carpathian Mountains to help him purchase a house near London. Paying no attention to the Count’s stern warning, he wanders the castle at night and encounters three vampire women, but he is saved by Dracula, who gives the women a small child bound inside a bag. When Harker awakens the next morning and finds that the Count has abandoned him to the three vampires, he escapes and ends up delirious in a Budapest hospital. Meanwhile, Dracula has sailed on a ship to England with boxes of earth from his castle. Meanwhile, the captain’s log reflects the disappearance of the entire crew, until he alone remains, and when the ship finally docks at Whitby, a large dog is seen leaping ashore.

Lucy Westenra writes a letter to Mina Murray, Harker’s fiancée, about her acceptance of Arthur Holmwood’s marriage proposal. Dracula stalks Lucy and, after she hosts Mina at Whitby, she begins sleepwalking. When Mina receives a letter about her missing fiancé’s illness and goes to Budapest to care for him, Lucy becomes very ill. Professor Abraham Van Helsing determines that Lucy has been bitten by a vampire but, refusing to divulge the truth, he diagnoses her with acute blood loss. He places garlic flowers around her room and makes her a necklace of them but Lucy’s mother, unaware that garlic repels vampires, removes them, after which they are terrified by a wolf. The mother dies of a heart attack, with Lucy’s death following soon after.

After her burial, newspapers report that children are being stalked in the night by a beautiful woman and, when Van Helsing figures out it is Lucy, he takes a small group to her tomb, disinters her, drives a stake through her heart, beheads her, and fills her mouth with garlic. Harker and his now-wife Mina return, join the hunt for Dracula, and are advised by Van Helsing that vampires can only rest during the day on earth from their homeland.

Dracula secretly attacks Mina three times, drinking her blood each time, and he forces her to drink his blood on the final visit, the result of which is that she will be turned into a vampire after her death unless Dracula is killed. When the vampire hunters find Dracula’s English properties, they discover many earthen boxes within and they open each of the boxes; deposit blessed wafers of sacramental bread inside them, rendering them useless to Dracula; and reseal them. When they learn that Dracula is fleeing to his Transylvanian castle with his last box in tow, Van Helsing uses hypnosis to exploit Mina’s psychic connection to the count to track the vampire’s movements.

In Romania, the hunters split up, with Van Helsing and Mina going to Dracula’s castle, where they destroy the vampire women; Harker and Holmwood follow the Count’s boat on the river; and two others parallel them on land. When the hunters see Dracula’s box being loaded onto a wagon, they converge and attack it and, after they slash Dracula’s neck and drive a stake through his heart, he crumbles to dust and Mina is freed. (In some later versions of the story, Mina becomes a vampire and is killed through impalement.)

While Jewish villains are plentiful in gothic literature of the time, few appear in vampire stories. Nonetheless, critics have published many works claiming not only that Stoker’s inspiration for Dracula had Jewish origins, as described above, but also that antisemitism underscores the entire novel. However, for all the subtexts of the novel that have become fodder for the academics, Dracula himself is certainly not Jewish and there are actually only two explicit references to Jews in the novel.

First, trying to track down Dracula’s possessions, the vampire hunters discover that one item was received by German Jew Immanuel Hildesheim, whom Stoker describes as a “Hebrew of rather the Adelphi Theatre type, with a nose like a sheep, and a fez.” Thus, the only named person whose assistance Dracula enlists in escaping from London is a German Jew, who requires a bribe to help capture Dracula.

Second, after Dracula shipped 50 boxes of ordinary soil to London, one of the transporters, when asked about the strange cargo, responds in a working-class accent: “. . . There was dust that thick in the place you might have slep’ on it without ‘urtin’ of yer bones; an’ the place was that neglected that yer might ‘ave smelled ole Jerusalem in it.” Thus, the odor emanating out of the cargo was not any ordinary smell but, rather, a Jewish smell, feeding popular antisemitic views of Jews as being unsanitary.

While never identified as a Jew, Dracula – and vampires more generally – encompassed a variety of antisemitic stereotypes including, as described in the introduction to this article, being rootless and strange foreigners of East European origin, dark-complected, and lustful for the money and blood of others. Moreover, the mythology of the vampire has historically been closely linked to the Blood Libel slander, pursuant to which Jews are accused of using the blood of Christian children to prepare their Passover matzot, and Stoker frequently evokes the Blood Libel, including particularly in one scene where he has Dracula bring a child to feed his vampire wives. Significantly, the vampire hunters ultimately succeed in destroying Dracula using specifically Christian elements: crucifixes, holy water and wafer hosts as their weapons, which are the tools Christians claim to have used to “redeem” Jewish souls during the Crusades.

Furthermore, in the last two decades of the 19th century, the number of Jews living in England had increased more than sixfold because of pogroms and antisemitic laws enacted elsewhere, and there were widespread fears regarding foreign contagion and anxieties regarding the “dangers” presented by the veritable flood of Yiddish-speaking immigrants to Britain. By feeding off upstanding English citizens, Stoker’s Dracula maintains the survival of his race, just as Jews newly arrived in Great Britain sustain themselves by usurping money and wealth through devious means, leaving their victims” dry.”

As such, whether intentionally or incidentally, whether he was an antisemite or merely reflected the ethos of his time, Stoker played on these anxieties – notably, one critic at the time describes Dracula’s schemes to further his undead bloodline as an attempt to “Judaize” Great Britain – and, by characterizing Dracula as raising loyal only to his own people in Transylvania, he similarly exacerbated public xenophobia and anxiety over Jewish “dual loyalty.”

#dracula #dracula daily #count dracula #jonathan harker #mina harker #armin vambery #van helsing #antisemitism #just something i thought interesting