gorgenmast

The Vampire princes

Apologies for the unannounced hiatus. Expect a post late tonight or tomorrow morning

a short zero doves tale, about my ghetto ass uncle's hood movie

Lemme know if you want the link (he also covers low budget horrors and old shows like the twilight zone)

@zero doves

By all means. As someone who really enjoyed Harmony Korrine's "Gummo" and "Trash Humpers", I genuinely appreciate these low budget ghetto flicks

a short zero doves tale, about my ghetto ass uncle's hood movie

I really appreciate these voyeuristic glimpses into the ghetto universe, thanks for the link. Kind of reminds me of this one time I found some ghetto hoodrat hoe's pics and used them to make a facebook profile where I only added the most ghetto people I could find. It was like seeing this whole other world that sheltered suburban kids like me never got to see. It was fascinating and depressing at the same time and eventually, I just stopped looking at it because it kept giving me this nihilistic sadness. I forgot the password so I can't access it anymore but it was a real trip. Try it sometime.

Looking for guild bod

* eat cigarette butts, mulch, and caterpillars
* find pills on convenience store bathrooms and eat them. wear a diaper in public and pay homeless people to finger you
that's what i do and it works for me

The Vampire princes

Forgive me for my ineptitude. Winter blues got me like oof.

@Dinh AaronMk

Me too, bruthaman. Fuck January

The Vampire princes

"You've got nerve, bloodsucker," snarled the dwarf seated upon the great throne of chiseled granite.

"We had an agreement, Lord Bristlebeard," Baron Ulrek reminded calmly, standing before the firepit-flanked throne. "An alliance in exchange for the right to work the ancient dwarven mines in the Weald. A favorable agreement for Sturin's Folk, but now the time has come for you to uphold your end of the agreement. Ten thousand fighting dwarves for three months, not a day longer." The dwarven lord's face quivered in anger.

"You come to our lands, to my very house without invitation! And you come before the throne my great grandfather, Sturin Irontooth, and make demands! By the honor my ancestors, I ought to give you a horsewhipping, Ulrek!"

"I mean no offense to your ancestors. It is entirely within your rights to deny my request. Of course, should you deny me, I will renege on my end of our bargain as well. Naturally your people would be excluded from the Weald forever, and no longer would your people mine the tremendous riches from those great mines within my lands. A pity, but perhaps some day I will find crews of locals capable of extracting the mithril, gold, and silver for me."

"Those were dwarven lands before, and if you provoke our wrath they will be again." Bristlebeard threatened. The dwarf's face coiled with fury and venom, but underneath his visage, Ulrek could sense extreme anxiety. The Baron knew that the dwarf lord was backed into a difficult place. Probing his mind, Ulrek sensed the dwarf lord exploring the possibility of invading the Great Weald, deposing Ulrek, and reclaiming the dwarf mines. Bristlebeard knew it was impossible. His vassals would mutiny if they lost their source of precious mithril and also had to send their soldiers off to die in a fruitless invasion.

"If that were possible, we would not be having this discussion, as your father or grandfather would have invaded generations ago if they could. Such threats are naught but delusions of grandeur."

"We know what this is all about, Ulrek. You want soldiers to help settle this inheritance dispute with your father. Deny us our mining privileges and we'll fight for Edward."

"Lose your mining privileges and send your warriors to fight a protracted conflict with nothing to gain just to spite me? I doubt your vassal chieftains would much appreciate that. Why, it would not surprise me if your vassals mutinied against you for such a move."

"My chieftains are loyal!" Bristlebeard proclaimed rather defensively. "They would never disobey me!"

"Dwarves are not known for their loyalty... but their greed is notorious. Speaking hypothetically, should mining rights in the Weald be offered to any dwarf who rebelled against you, I think that it would be another dwarf sitting upon that throne."

Bristlebeard suffered a long and uncomfortable silence. Somehow Ulrek knew just how precariously he sat upon Sturin's Throne.

"I can't give 10,000 warriors," Bristlebeard admitted. Ulrek probed the dwarf lord's mind and knew he was not lying.

"I understand. It is a great many soldiers to muster, certainly with such little notice. To be frank with you, Lord Bristlebeard, it is not soldiers I need so much as siege engines. You already know full well I intend to march on my father's throne at Castle Bathory. The Capital of our Imperium has a sturdy wall of its own, and the citadel within boasts some of the finest ramparts in all the land. I believe dwarven masons from these mountains were consulted for their construction. Trebuchets and catapults will do nothing against such masonry. It took dwarven ingenuity to raise the ramparts of Castle Bathory, and it will require dwarven ingenuity to bring them down. It is known that the dwarves are proficient with the use of firedust, and have built machines capable of focusing its explosive and destructive energy."

"Cannons," Bristlebeard recognized.

"Indeed. I need them as big as they can be built, and as many of them as I can have."

"We do not possess such machines," said the dwarf lord. "But there is a dwarven lord in a distant valley, Orrin Goutfoot of Muin's Folk, who is fascinated with firedust and possesses a great many cannons. He owes me a favor, and would likely relish the opportunity to see his cannons used against actual fortifications even if he were not in my debt."

"Send word at once that his is to bring his cannons and all the dwarves needed to operate them to Castle Bathory with haste. If they are arrive in three fortnight's time, I will be satisfied with 5,000 levied dwarves from your people."

"I can agree to that, Baron," said Lord Bristlebeard with a heavy sigh.

"I am glad we can keep our current arrangement intact," said Ulrek. "Now, before I return to my keep, there is something else I need. I had commissioned some items from your master smith."

"Yes," Lord Bristlebeard recalled. "Send Dolmur Redhammer in!"

The dwarven chamberlains opened the doors to Lord Bristlebeard's throne room, permitting entry to a bulbous-nosed dwarf with an unkempt, wiry beard, curled and singed by exposure to fire. He wore a filthy linen shirt stained with numerous sooty smudges under a well-worn leather apron. In his arms was a bundle of sooty rags wrapped around something nearly as long as he was tall.

"Baron Ulrek Bathory," the dwarven blacksmith greeted cordially as he sauntered up to the vampire lord. "A pleasure to meet you at last. You've been keeping me and the lads awful busy, but we're awful proud of what we're putting together for you. Perhaps my finest work yet."

"Is my suit of armor ready?" Ulrek asked.

"'Fraid not, sire. We've got much to do for all that yet. They'll be ready soon enough, I can promise you that. However, I have finished this."

Dolmur Redhammer unwrapped the linen sheets around the object in his arms and from its furls drew a magnificent longsword. A three-foot long blade shimmered in the glow of the twin fire pits, dazzling everyone in Bristlebeard's court - even the normally stoic-faced Ulrek. The blades facets shone with a mirrory sheen that could only be achieved with silver. In the central bloodgroove, exotic glyphs cut out of the silver exposed a darker bluish-gray metal underneath. Intricately detailed upon the crossguard were wolfsbane leaves in silver bas relief.

"Solid mithril," Dolmur admired, "covered in a patina of silver, as requested. You'll see there's no silver on the edges - exposed mithril there to really cut through that armor and bone. In capable hands that blade will cut through chainmail. A deft jab will pierce platemail. And once it's cut through, that silver will be in contact with all the innards of the enemy combatant, as specified." The dwarf presented the blade to Ulrek and with an almost-reluctant hesitation, allowed the vampire to take the blade into his long, bony fingers.

"Magnificent," Ulrek declared, gripping the handle and caressing the blade. The silver running across his fingers elicited almost no pain anymore. He was nearly completely immune now.

"A fine blade, sire," said the dwarven smith. "Fit for a king. But it needs lacks just one thing."

"And what would that be?" Ulrek asked, watching the flames dance in the blade's mirroresque reflection.

"A name. A sword like that needs a name."

Ulrek continued to admire the blade silently for a time, watching the orange firelight dance over the coals of the fireplaces situated on either side of Lord Bristlebeard. Golden rays of light, Ulrek thought, not unlike a sunrise.

"Pthaalmâ." Ulrek uttered at last in a strange language, spoken deeply from the bottom of the throat.

"I beg your pardon, sire."

"Long ago, my people did not speak this language. Vampires once had a tongue of their own. It is, in fact, still spoken today by ferals though in a crude and vulgar dialect almost unrecognizable from High Vampiric. My father suppressed its use long ago in the Imperium, and the language as it was once spoken is known only to foreign scholars. But I have learned the words of my ancestors, and from those words I choose one to name this sword."

"It is an ugly word in Vampiric. A dreadful word, evoking great danger and death for vampires. But it also speaks of new beginnings, of a new day."

"Pthaalmâ," Ulrek repeated once again, admiring his new blade before translating. "The Dawn."

The Vampire princes

"Because this," the vampire slayer said, gesturing to the display of utter carnage surrounding them with a flicking nod of the head, "this is only the beginning."

"There's more of this coming. Let me live, and I'll help prepare you lot prepare for what's coming. Every iota of preparedness you can buy is lives saved. Lives of your countrymen, lives of your sons. But if you're too proud to let me go, if some misplaced sense of justice or pride is worth the lives of your people and family, then go ahead and stick that sword in my throat."

---

Nobody traveling along the West Weald Road paid much mind to the hobbling beggar slowly ambling westward toward the border of Solleckshire. With an outstretched palm and an unintelligible murmuring plea, the vagabond greeted all those who crossed his path. Wagons and passersby responded to the destitute cripple with either derision or the charity of a tin penny or two, and then promptly forgot him entirely. Even a highwayman that had happened upon this pathetic drifter paid little attention to him; disinterestedly accepting a handful of tin coins before allowing the hobbling wretch to pass without so much as a second thought. Little did any of them know that the filthy vagabond limping westward was a wanted fugitive and former chamberlain of the court of Ulrek Bathory.

The former chamberlain had nearly reached the Imperial Heartlands when he overheard in some roadside hamlet that border patrols had intensified along the southern borders of the realm. While his disguise was effective at allowing the chamberlain to hide and travel in plain sight, he knew that he would be found out if subjected to more rigorous investigation by a border patrol. The chamberlain therefore took a detour to the west, traveling to the less heavily-policed border between the Great Weald and Solleckshire. From the realm of Solleck, the chamberlain would be free from Ulrek's clutches and he could travel quickly to the Imperial Capital. Now he was less than a day's walk from Trout Run, the river that marked the border between the Weald and Solleck. Under the cover of night, the chamberlain would attempt to cross the shallow river and free himself of Ulrek Bathory forever.

The former chamberlain came upon a small town situated upon the road - Lachenheath - the chamberlain recalled. This would be the last settlement on his journey before leaving Ulrek's dominion. This would be a fine opportunity purchase some fresh shoes from the town's shoemaker to replace the old holey slippers that would be ruined after crossing the river that night.

Just before the open moor transitioned to garden plots and wattle-and-daub huts of the town peasantry, a lonely moor tree caught the attention of the chamberlain. A wind-stunted and gnarled hawthorn tree, scarcely fifteen feet high, marked the entrance of the town. From one of the tree's few thick branches, a man hung limply by a short noose. The toes of his boots hung mere inches above the grass, and on a wooden placard hanging around his identified the criminal to all those who made their way into the town. 'I WAS A HIGHWAYMAN' was scrawled crudely in black paint upon the sign. The chamberlain immediately recognized his pale and bloated face as the same brigand who had dispassionately stolen a pittance of 23 pence from him two days earlier. His stomach dropped, not because of any love lost for the hanged man, but because it signified that Ulrek's men had been here not long ago. The chamberlain resolved to buy his shoes and leave this place at once.

Lachenheath was bustling today, more so than any small country town should be on a normal day, for a small crowd had gathered in the town's plaza. The chamberlain attempted to skirt around the edge of the gathered throng, trying as best he could to avoid so many scrutinizing eyes. His attempts at bypassing the crowd were unsuccessful, and he was summoned by an authoritative bark.

"Oi! You there! Ovah 'ere for inspection!" A voice commanded from over the crowd. The townsfolk parted slightly, all turning to face the disguised chamberlain. With so much attention on him, the chamberlain trembled. Partly to play the role of a feeble vagabond, but also out of a genuine fear. As commanded, he hobbled over to the town's central plaza. Two horsemen sat in their saddles beside a covered wagon, dressed in plate and mail. Knights, surrounded by a gaggle of unhorsed armored sergeants dressed in chainmail cuirasses. Ulrek's men were indeed in this town, and in greater number than the chamberlain could have ever anticipated. His trembling intensified.

"C'mere you, yes you!" An armored sergeant ordered. The chamberlain shuffled over toward Ulrek's men and presented himself.

"I ain't eat for two days, suh," the chamberlain croaked, mimicking the actual vagabond he had purchased this disguise a week earlier. "Spare two pence for some bread?"

The chamberlain could feel the eyes of the knights and men at arms studying him carefully. Their eyes ran across his filthy robe and hood, his trembling, outstretched palms, and the muddy, hole-pocked slippers that hung limply to his calloused feet.

"Not this one," one of the knights decided after what felt like an hour. "He is of no use to us."

"Roight," the man-at-arms agreed. "This'n's loiable to die on the march."

"Go on, git goin'!" Another sergeant barked, shooing the chamberlain away from them. He happily obliged, melting into the crowd pressing in around the the town plaza. But once within the safety of the crowd, the chamberlain was stopped by his own curiosity. He looked back and got another glimpse at the men gathered within the plaza. Some thirty men, all clad in dirty serf's attire, standing in loose formation before Ulrek's men and the wagon.

"That's 27, sire," the chamberlain heard one of the sergeants say.

"About as many as we can expect to muster from such a place. It will have to suffice."

"Men of Lachenheath!" The mounted knight addressed, tugging his stirrups and galvanizing his steed into a loping pace around the conscripts. "Your liege, Baron Ulrek Bathory, has seen fit to call forth all able-bodied men of the realm to provide for the protection of these lands. No such call to arms has been made in any of our lifetimes, nor the lifetimes of our fathers. Your liege desires peace and industry and detests war, as evidenced by the extreme peculiarity of this call to arms. As such, you can be assured of the absolute necessity of your commitment to the defense of these lands, your parents, your women, and your children. But with this comes a rare opportunity. The spoils of war will be tremendous. Serve your liege honorably on the battlefield, and the spoils of the Baron's enemies will be yours to do with as you please. You lot have the opportunity to become wealthy men indeed."

The armored sergeants reached into the wagon and brought out armfuls of mismatching helmets and bundles of spears. Each of the assembled conscripts was handed some sort of kettle hat and a spear. In the light of the cloud-filtered sun, their spearpoints glimmered with a mirrorlike sheen impossible to achieve with iron or steel. It was then that the chamberlain realized that the speartips were made of silver. The chamberlain realized now why Ulrek had allowed the Felmurg Dwarves to keep so much mithril in exchange for silver. The Baron was amassing an army wielding silver weapons. Ulrek meant to wage war against his own family.

The chamberlain practically ran from the crowd. As he went through the alleys and paths between houses and huts, he witnessed the womenfolk harvesting crops from their garden plots. They yanked thick green shoots from the rocky soil, revealing dirt-caked bulbs of white garlic. They were small, anemic bulbs, harvested hastily before reaching maturity. Even so, their harvests were substantial. Each plot had a small pile of the bulbs or a sizeable allotment of unpicked shoots. No doubt this was commanded by Ulrek as well, but for what purpose? What could Ulrek intend to do with so much garlic?

The chamberlain went due west from the town, out onto the open moor. There was no time to waste following marked roads. He had to take the most direct route west to Solleck, and from there to the Imperial Capital to warn King Zachaeus of Ulrek's intent. The chamberlain scaled a rocky ridge to the west of town, for the urgency of his journey was now so great that there was no longer time to walk around such obstacles.

((Suggested listening))

On a rocky, windswept promontory upon the ridge, the chamberlain was afforded a commanding view of the western fringe of the Great Weald. Perhaps a half-league to the west, Trout Run babbled southward toward the fertile Imperial Heartlands. The border was in sight at last. After a brief rest from his climb up the ridge, the chamberlain assured himself, he would make haste to cross the river.

Over the whistling wind blowing off the moor, the chamberlain heard a peculiar sound. Drums. A steady, rhythmic beat sounded over the land. Off in the distance, on the West Weald Road winding off to the north, he saw where the drumbeat was coming from.

Marching down the road was a contingent of men carrying gleaming, silvery spearpoints high above their heads. Perhaps a thousand of them in this particular formation. A small army, flanked by dozens of horse-mounted knights and men at arms carrying lances and spears festooned with long silver banner fluttering in the wind. Silver gray silk and the black bat sigil of the Baron. Even now, Ulrek's forces were on the march. And this particular army appeared to making its way to the border of Solleckshire.

The chamberlain stood up immediately and ran down the opposite side of the ridge, down across the moor toward the river. There was no time for rest rest now, for it was clear that so long as Ulrek lived, nowhere in the Imperium was safe.

Mood?

Did you just fucking assume my gender?

The Jericho Road: science fantasy among the ruins

I'm onboard. I'll try to catch you on Steam this evening and get some ideas going

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DUDE I WAS THINKING THE EXACT SAME THING