So, here is my first draft of my background for my soon-to-be-designed Vampire Counts. The main characters are Louis and Gabriel Duluoz, twin bastard brothers who are turned and well, do Vampirey things.
This is the first draft of the first chapter, and by no means is it finished, but this provides a nice bit of 'fun' writing compared to my usual work. I've never published anything first draft before, so any ideas, criticisms or comments are very much welcomed - after all I'm writing this for fun and I enjoy it, and I hope you guys do to!
How does one describe Mannslieb and Morrslieb? Those pale omens of the night sky whose presence by day is not seen but felt, and are felt in all things. Their great sight is naught but memory by day but by night they rise, undisputed, as rulers of the sky realm, stolen back from their enemy the sun. Their reign is eternal and as generations of men live and die beneath their gaze, as wars are fought and won or lost, still they ever remain, timeless, ancient, far removed from the troubles of this world but ever a part of it. How does one describe the moons? How does one describe Louis and Gabriel Duluoz?
The Bastard Twins, as they are more commonly known, are the rulers of the Jotunheim Steppe and the lands north-east of Kislev. They are the very Moon and Sun of their dark court, of the aristocracy of their lands, and that small corner of the ancient world revolves and turns around with them at the epicentre. As the Sun is the centre of our existence, whilst by night it is Mannslieb and Morrslieb, for Jotunheim it is The Twins Duluoz whom exist as the Moon and Sun. They are the wolves of the north, the rulers of the living and the commanders of the dead, the undying lords.
By mutual agreement, it is Louis who is the elder, by a total of four minutes and forty-two seconds so they tell, but it is Gabriel who rules. Their court is both a perverse mockery to the natural order of things yet to the less religiously dogmatic it can be seen as a step of evolution toward a higher state of being: for the uninitiated of history the twins Duluoz fought – and won – a war of succession against Kislev and the Empire near two hundred years ago, after revealing their true nature of being to the populace. Those Sigmar forsaken souls fought alongside the ranks of the dead for the Bastard Twins for their independence.
Laid in the shadow between the Jotunheim and World’s Edge mountains, beyond the high pass that serves as causeway to the lands of the east, between the lands of the old world and wastes of the north, it is a fitting place for such Lords of the night, caught as they are between the worlds of the living and dead, both in this life and upon the ground which they walk. The Court of the Jotunheim Steppe is one of both the living and unliving, of mortal and immortal, of the alive and the dead. The peasants and the plebs and the aristocracy alike are ruled by vampires whose nature is known to all and accepted.
‘Why are they accepted! How can this be!’ many ignorant of the truth cry, especially the devout of Sigmar. It is not of fear, or if it was once so it is no longer, nor is it out of desire of power. Nay, in truth, there is no other conclusion for a sane man to draw, no matter how insane it may sound, other than that Gabriel and brother Louis rule the lands because they rule so justly. Their popularity among the locals is one of extreme, near fanatical, loyalty: the realm is safe from roving hordes, the taxes are low for it is only the Duluoz and not the Empire who collect. The guilty are punished without mercy and there are none, from the lowly field-hands to the splendorous high-born, who are beyond the reach of the rule of law, for over the centuries those Aristocrats of arrogance who thought themselves above reproach have been publically dealt with to dissuade others from doing so, while their hunger is carefully slated by those noble houses who offer themselves to the Undead of the court in exchange for protection and status.
Moreover, they are great patrons of the arts and endorse and produce many great works; they are scholars of the written and spoken word and their intelligence is far from beastial: it is exceptional. In another life, though such a term is meaningless to them, they would be celebrated as cultural saints of the Empire. Such is certain.
One
The Birth of Bastards
Lord Solomon Duluoz was not a kind man, and so it was without regret that he sent Charlotte – what was her last name? He couldn’t remember her last name, no matter – from his household. So what if she may have been pregnant, and yes, the child may be his, but his bastards were numerous and one more would be of no consequence; and that was even if the child lived, or if the mother survived the birthing, or survived long enough, to tell the child of its birth right. Birth right? Lord Solomon snorted in contempt as he consumed yet another glass of brandy, its subtle textures wasted on his tasteless tongue. Birth blood perhaps, but not birth right. Bastards had no birth rights. Low borns had no rights at all. He was a man of breeding and distinction, one who was born into class and education. His kind was far and few between whilst lowborn were as common as and bred like rats.
She had been his servant, and he was a lord. It was her place to do as told, and now, it was her place to leave. His wife – his burden, he thought and laughed mirthlessly, the sound a sudden break of the silence that prevailed within his study – Lady Lisa Duluoz, may tolerate his whoring and loveless discretions but raising a bastard beneath was a line he would not cross. Some of his fellow Lords and Barons of the noble houses of the Empire may raise their bastards beneath their roof, but to him it was not proper. His wife had wanted the swollen-bellied maid gone, and so it was without a second thought he ordered her to leave.
Lord Solomon considered what her fate might be for a moment as he continued to wash his mouth with brandy that cost more per bottle than he paid any servant within a full cycle of Mannslieb. He was not an attractive man, his fondness for alcohol having fattened him over the years; his skin was red and blotchy as if he was perpetually ill and his hair was long faded. He had been strong once, he mused, swirling the glass within his oversized hand. Strong, tall, and handsome. He had served in the Knights of the Blazing Sun and earned his distinction as man of courage and duty, but in the years since attainting the title of Lord the power had consumed him. Now he was on the wrong side of fifty with a barrel gut and a temper that did not take much to break. That temper he had forged, like a master craftsman would a weapon, in the white-hot fires of battle against Barbarian and Beast and Elf alike. Now it was wasted on serving girls and lost to the forgotten realms of memory.
He reclined with ease, his bulk having carved out a familiar void within his lounging chair of the study, the velvet cushions forever bent double from his weight. The night was rising outside; the light was beginning to diminish within his wooden retreat.
There was a knock upon the door.
‘Enter.’ Lord Solomon’s voice was still powerful, though dehydrated from the alcohol.
The door opened forty-five degrees and in its place stood a young woman who gave a nod for her arms was full of firewood. She was straining with the weight. Lord Solomon observed her, before returning the nod.
‘Close the door.’
The poor creature did so, though she struggled, before going about her duties with the experienced hand of regular repetition. She knelt in front of him to light the fire.
He did not recognise her, and he would have, for her figure was shapely and certainly fine, despite the black gown she wore. She must be that pregnant one’s replacement. She was certainly dutiful; she had already lit in much less time than he expected. He wondered from which household his wife had poached her from
Yes, she was attractive he decided, as he finished his current glass. He set it down upon the carved oak table beside his chair, and with great effort, sat upwards. The maiden was preparing to stand, as the fire began to take upon life of its own.
‘Are you new here, my girl?’ Lord Solomon inquired.
‘Yes, my Lord.’ Her voice was quiet but betrayed no weakness.
‘I thought as much. Stay a while, won’t you?’
‘My Lord?’
Lord Solomon reached out to the girl and pulled her into his great lap.
‘Stay and get to know your new master my girl.’
Darkness had fallen, and outside, many weary miles away from the life she had known since a girl, a young woman, her figure swollen with pregnancy but hidden beneath the excessive folds of her garment and cloak, trudged down the pathway that lead north, out of the lands that belonged to the House Duluoz. She could have been no more than twenty-one, and to see her beneath sunlight, one would have marvelled at her beauty: her features were defined but soft, her high cheekbones telling of ancestry of Kislev, whilst her almond eyes and alabaster skin further confirmed her heritage. Hair, braided tight, was dark oaken brown, near black. The girl’s feet ached and stung as they blistered, the callouses a testament of the many miles travelled while her sorrowful eyes told of yet many more ahead.
Weeks of walking had led nowhere, and daily Charlotte grew in size. Soon she would give birth, she knew, and was desperate to find work and prove her worth before she did so. She had to have a place, a job, a way to earn keep, if not for herself then for the child she carried. In the many villages, towns and lands of lords that she had passed through none had wanted to hire a lonely pregnant girl, one who would soon be unable to work. But still, she hoped, without reason, she would find work. She just needed a chance, an opportunity to prove herself to someone, and show them why they should keep her in their household.
All she had heard was the same story, each time: try father north. The further north, the easier work may be to find. The lands along Kislev and the surrounding areas were tough and hard, prone to attacks from the Norsemen of Chaos and the Beasts that stalked the dark hearts of the woods. Perhaps there, in the outlying lands, you will find work. So far, she had found none.
In the weeks that had passed since leaving she had done and seen many things to prevail thus far. She had slept in places that animals refused, given herself to passing men for coin, and scrubbed and washed for nothing more than pittance to eat a place to sleep. But still she lived, and so did her child, for she could feel him or her kick daily. Placing a hand upon her stomach, she smiled. It was a rare moment of joy she found in his world, but still, there it was, very much a part of her. And she would do anything, anything, to protect that yet-unborn child.
Charlotte looked ahead a moment; she had reached the end of whatever that last wood was. Before her lay rolling hills, endless plains of sun-bleached grass, and beyond them, mountains cracked the sky, a stone horizon the likes of which she has never seen before. She struggled in take in the sight. She did not know where she was, her geography was poor, but here, now, in this moment, she did not car. The world was so very… large. She had never imagined that such a place could exist, outside of towns and forest and cold stone walls. She had never thought that she would see land stretch as far as the eye could see.
She began to walk again, her feet uncertain still the sight astounded her. There – there in front, at the bottom of the mound upon which she stood. She could see a large house, a manor perhaps, surrounded by houses and buildings of sorts. As her eyes adjusted to the vista presented to her she began to notice that many of the fields were organised – farmers lived here – and she saw what could only be a great river surging downward between the far hills, near the mountains. This was a settlement. Perhaps, just perhaps, here she could find work.
This is the first draft of the first chapter, and by no means is it finished, but this provides a nice bit of 'fun' writing compared to my usual work. I've never published anything first draft before, so any ideas, criticisms or comments are very much welcomed - after all I'm writing this for fun and I enjoy it, and I hope you guys do to!
THE BASTARD TWINS:
A BALLAD OF THE MOON AND SUN
A BALLAD OF THE MOON AND SUN
Prelude
How does one describe Mannslieb and Morrslieb? Those pale omens of the night sky whose presence by day is not seen but felt, and are felt in all things. Their great sight is naught but memory by day but by night they rise, undisputed, as rulers of the sky realm, stolen back from their enemy the sun. Their reign is eternal and as generations of men live and die beneath their gaze, as wars are fought and won or lost, still they ever remain, timeless, ancient, far removed from the troubles of this world but ever a part of it. How does one describe the moons? How does one describe Louis and Gabriel Duluoz?
The Bastard Twins, as they are more commonly known, are the rulers of the Jotunheim Steppe and the lands north-east of Kislev. They are the very Moon and Sun of their dark court, of the aristocracy of their lands, and that small corner of the ancient world revolves and turns around with them at the epicentre. As the Sun is the centre of our existence, whilst by night it is Mannslieb and Morrslieb, for Jotunheim it is The Twins Duluoz whom exist as the Moon and Sun. They are the wolves of the north, the rulers of the living and the commanders of the dead, the undying lords.
By mutual agreement, it is Louis who is the elder, by a total of four minutes and forty-two seconds so they tell, but it is Gabriel who rules. Their court is both a perverse mockery to the natural order of things yet to the less religiously dogmatic it can be seen as a step of evolution toward a higher state of being: for the uninitiated of history the twins Duluoz fought – and won – a war of succession against Kislev and the Empire near two hundred years ago, after revealing their true nature of being to the populace. Those Sigmar forsaken souls fought alongside the ranks of the dead for the Bastard Twins for their independence.
Laid in the shadow between the Jotunheim and World’s Edge mountains, beyond the high pass that serves as causeway to the lands of the east, between the lands of the old world and wastes of the north, it is a fitting place for such Lords of the night, caught as they are between the worlds of the living and dead, both in this life and upon the ground which they walk. The Court of the Jotunheim Steppe is one of both the living and unliving, of mortal and immortal, of the alive and the dead. The peasants and the plebs and the aristocracy alike are ruled by vampires whose nature is known to all and accepted.
‘Why are they accepted! How can this be!’ many ignorant of the truth cry, especially the devout of Sigmar. It is not of fear, or if it was once so it is no longer, nor is it out of desire of power. Nay, in truth, there is no other conclusion for a sane man to draw, no matter how insane it may sound, other than that Gabriel and brother Louis rule the lands because they rule so justly. Their popularity among the locals is one of extreme, near fanatical, loyalty: the realm is safe from roving hordes, the taxes are low for it is only the Duluoz and not the Empire who collect. The guilty are punished without mercy and there are none, from the lowly field-hands to the splendorous high-born, who are beyond the reach of the rule of law, for over the centuries those Aristocrats of arrogance who thought themselves above reproach have been publically dealt with to dissuade others from doing so, while their hunger is carefully slated by those noble houses who offer themselves to the Undead of the court in exchange for protection and status.
Moreover, they are great patrons of the arts and endorse and produce many great works; they are scholars of the written and spoken word and their intelligence is far from beastial: it is exceptional. In another life, though such a term is meaningless to them, they would be celebrated as cultural saints of the Empire. Such is certain.
PART ONE
THE CURSE
THE CURSE
One
The Birth of Bastards
Lord Solomon Duluoz was not a kind man, and so it was without regret that he sent Charlotte – what was her last name? He couldn’t remember her last name, no matter – from his household. So what if she may have been pregnant, and yes, the child may be his, but his bastards were numerous and one more would be of no consequence; and that was even if the child lived, or if the mother survived the birthing, or survived long enough, to tell the child of its birth right. Birth right? Lord Solomon snorted in contempt as he consumed yet another glass of brandy, its subtle textures wasted on his tasteless tongue. Birth blood perhaps, but not birth right. Bastards had no birth rights. Low borns had no rights at all. He was a man of breeding and distinction, one who was born into class and education. His kind was far and few between whilst lowborn were as common as and bred like rats.
She had been his servant, and he was a lord. It was her place to do as told, and now, it was her place to leave. His wife – his burden, he thought and laughed mirthlessly, the sound a sudden break of the silence that prevailed within his study – Lady Lisa Duluoz, may tolerate his whoring and loveless discretions but raising a bastard beneath was a line he would not cross. Some of his fellow Lords and Barons of the noble houses of the Empire may raise their bastards beneath their roof, but to him it was not proper. His wife had wanted the swollen-bellied maid gone, and so it was without a second thought he ordered her to leave.
Lord Solomon considered what her fate might be for a moment as he continued to wash his mouth with brandy that cost more per bottle than he paid any servant within a full cycle of Mannslieb. He was not an attractive man, his fondness for alcohol having fattened him over the years; his skin was red and blotchy as if he was perpetually ill and his hair was long faded. He had been strong once, he mused, swirling the glass within his oversized hand. Strong, tall, and handsome. He had served in the Knights of the Blazing Sun and earned his distinction as man of courage and duty, but in the years since attainting the title of Lord the power had consumed him. Now he was on the wrong side of fifty with a barrel gut and a temper that did not take much to break. That temper he had forged, like a master craftsman would a weapon, in the white-hot fires of battle against Barbarian and Beast and Elf alike. Now it was wasted on serving girls and lost to the forgotten realms of memory.
He reclined with ease, his bulk having carved out a familiar void within his lounging chair of the study, the velvet cushions forever bent double from his weight. The night was rising outside; the light was beginning to diminish within his wooden retreat.
There was a knock upon the door.
‘Enter.’ Lord Solomon’s voice was still powerful, though dehydrated from the alcohol.
The door opened forty-five degrees and in its place stood a young woman who gave a nod for her arms was full of firewood. She was straining with the weight. Lord Solomon observed her, before returning the nod.
‘Close the door.’
The poor creature did so, though she struggled, before going about her duties with the experienced hand of regular repetition. She knelt in front of him to light the fire.
He did not recognise her, and he would have, for her figure was shapely and certainly fine, despite the black gown she wore. She must be that pregnant one’s replacement. She was certainly dutiful; she had already lit in much less time than he expected. He wondered from which household his wife had poached her from
Yes, she was attractive he decided, as he finished his current glass. He set it down upon the carved oak table beside his chair, and with great effort, sat upwards. The maiden was preparing to stand, as the fire began to take upon life of its own.
‘Are you new here, my girl?’ Lord Solomon inquired.
‘Yes, my Lord.’ Her voice was quiet but betrayed no weakness.
‘I thought as much. Stay a while, won’t you?’
‘My Lord?’
Lord Solomon reached out to the girl and pulled her into his great lap.
‘Stay and get to know your new master my girl.’
Darkness had fallen, and outside, many weary miles away from the life she had known since a girl, a young woman, her figure swollen with pregnancy but hidden beneath the excessive folds of her garment and cloak, trudged down the pathway that lead north, out of the lands that belonged to the House Duluoz. She could have been no more than twenty-one, and to see her beneath sunlight, one would have marvelled at her beauty: her features were defined but soft, her high cheekbones telling of ancestry of Kislev, whilst her almond eyes and alabaster skin further confirmed her heritage. Hair, braided tight, was dark oaken brown, near black. The girl’s feet ached and stung as they blistered, the callouses a testament of the many miles travelled while her sorrowful eyes told of yet many more ahead.
Weeks of walking had led nowhere, and daily Charlotte grew in size. Soon she would give birth, she knew, and was desperate to find work and prove her worth before she did so. She had to have a place, a job, a way to earn keep, if not for herself then for the child she carried. In the many villages, towns and lands of lords that she had passed through none had wanted to hire a lonely pregnant girl, one who would soon be unable to work. But still, she hoped, without reason, she would find work. She just needed a chance, an opportunity to prove herself to someone, and show them why they should keep her in their household.
All she had heard was the same story, each time: try father north. The further north, the easier work may be to find. The lands along Kislev and the surrounding areas were tough and hard, prone to attacks from the Norsemen of Chaos and the Beasts that stalked the dark hearts of the woods. Perhaps there, in the outlying lands, you will find work. So far, she had found none.
In the weeks that had passed since leaving she had done and seen many things to prevail thus far. She had slept in places that animals refused, given herself to passing men for coin, and scrubbed and washed for nothing more than pittance to eat a place to sleep. But still she lived, and so did her child, for she could feel him or her kick daily. Placing a hand upon her stomach, she smiled. It was a rare moment of joy she found in his world, but still, there it was, very much a part of her. And she would do anything, anything, to protect that yet-unborn child.
Charlotte looked ahead a moment; she had reached the end of whatever that last wood was. Before her lay rolling hills, endless plains of sun-bleached grass, and beyond them, mountains cracked the sky, a stone horizon the likes of which she has never seen before. She struggled in take in the sight. She did not know where she was, her geography was poor, but here, now, in this moment, she did not car. The world was so very… large. She had never imagined that such a place could exist, outside of towns and forest and cold stone walls. She had never thought that she would see land stretch as far as the eye could see.
She began to walk again, her feet uncertain still the sight astounded her. There – there in front, at the bottom of the mound upon which she stood. She could see a large house, a manor perhaps, surrounded by houses and buildings of sorts. As her eyes adjusted to the vista presented to her she began to notice that many of the fields were organised – farmers lived here – and she saw what could only be a great river surging downward between the far hills, near the mountains. This was a settlement. Perhaps, just perhaps, here she could find work.
