06/03/2025
- THE BLACKMORE INN -
Hector sighed aloud as his foot set upon the final stone step of the old stairs that led into what used to be the Blackmore Inn. The old structure no longer served its intended purpose, and had not for many years, for its walls were worn and weathered and the roof collapsed in several sections. It stood ominous and silent in a barren countryside about a mile north of the nearest settlement. Things hadn’t been the same since the Crusades, and much of the land reflected that. Truth be told, the building would never again serve its intended purpose. Not only due to its state of disrepair, but no one traveled north anymore, not since the better part of the last decade. It had belonged to the Whitmans, nice kind folk who relocated to the city of Nurmia after their son had perished from the plague that wrought havoc across the continent. Unable to find a buyer, it fell into a dark and lonesome, decrepit state. A state that Hector could smell. An awful smell not only of musk and mold, but that of death.
Hector, strapped for cash and hankering for his various addictions, had foolishly signed on for a hunt to the old Blackmore Inn. He did so of course armed with ammunition and protective talismans, as the local lore spoke of a “horrid creature” in the region known to siphon the life-force from others as they slept, a creature of vampiric origin who had gone years now unchecked. One by one prior parties had checked off other locations from lists, as none truly knew the location the thing called home. Hector had been unfortunate enough to have finally discovered it. The rooms of course were in a state of disrepair, and due to looters nothing of significant value remained amid the debris, but carved into the floorboards and the walls were odd claw marks - signs that something called this place home, and that something was no longer bound only to the floors, but possessed the ability to climb with ease. Using his left thumb, he clicked back the hammer of his flintlock pistol to full-cock, and with his right hand drew a shortsword as he skulked about in the darkness exploring the rooms. Highly stressed from the possibilities of what awaited him, he was admittedly a tad jumpy; startled by the scurrying of mice and an odd scratching sound he could not put eyes on. This escalated as he entered the following room after ascending another set of stairs as cautious as possible.
The stench of death grew more unbearable, and before him lay what remained of poor wayward travelers who likely opted to seek shelter in the old ruined inn, and fell victim to what lurked within. Their bodies were absolutely mutilated in inhumane ways, their clothes shredded away and their flesh and meat eaten away in more than one location. Their deaths were not simple nor natural - what had occurred here was horrid and evil. Hector felt another wave of unease wash over him as his eyes attempted to adjust to the dim conditions within the room. Then it struck.
From above, a creature of average human weight dropped upon him, knocking him to the rotten wooden floor atop the stairs, eliciting a scream of panic from the monster-hunter! Moving his blade to block the fangs of the thing, he quickly angled his flintlock and pulled the trigger. A misfire. The flint had struck the frizzen, but no spark or explosive charge propelled a bullet into the being that pinned him to the ground. With one hand pressing the hilt of his blade against the snarling creature’s face with all his might, he opted to strike the creature with the discharged pistol. Striking it’s head again and again with what strength he could muster with his off-hand, it drooled a disgusting bile onto his throat which burned upon contact. He recoiled as he felt his flesh melt toward his vocal chords and was promptly disarmed in seconds - his sword cast clattering across the floor into the darkness. It was then the creaure sank its fangs into his neck.
Hector blacked out...