Seven feet tall, if it's a foot. Blood drips off its curled tusks, which protrude from its mouth like massive, arching fingers pointed upwards. How does a vampire become a monstrosity like this? Gabriel tells you that it's a result of pacts with Satan. Raziel, the village apothecary, informs you that the vampires have "read the writing inside", and have unlocked the secrets to transform at will. You're not sure about either explanation. 


    Either way,  the beast is an immediate threat to the supply chain crossroads you've been tasked with defending. Gabriel trains his rifle on it; his hand shake violently as he takes aim. You can see him struggle to hold on to his gun, white-knuckled and terrified. The two other men at your position are all in similar states of apprehension.


    The ground vibrates slightly as the colossal horror shambles onwards, marching down the forested road for reasons unknown. In the feeble light of the streetlamps, you can see the blasphemous tokens hanging about its neck, made out of bits of human bone and sinew. 


    Your hand touches your own weapon, a plain-looking revolver hanging in a simple leather pouch at your waste. 


    You could annihilate the beast right now, and bring an end to its life; or, you could follow it back to its lair, and see if you can't drive out the swarm.

You follow it.

You decide then to trail the beast, hopefully finding its lair in the process. Silently, you motion for the two other saboteurs to stay back, taking just Gabriel with you. Out of all the village conscripts, you find him to be the least incompetent. That, and he quickly learned the valuable skill of shutting up. Terror crosses the boyish face under a blonde mop of hair, but he nods.


    You creep down the secluded lane, carefully avoiding twigs and treacherous birds. Crows, in particular, appear to be friends of the vampires; you've seen many a man fall to startled birds. Well, that and horrific injuries to the jugular. 


    You stalk the beast for a good quarter mile, before it stops, seemingly at random, somewhere along the forested road leading into town. It steps into the bushes across the road from you, and looks down. And then, it vanishes completely. 


    You move to follow it, and then you abruptly faint. The strings of consciousness are severed, leaving you as a marionette plummeting towards the stage.

A gateway.

You awaken in a cold sweat, bundled in rags, and restrained to a bed. You find yourself in a small shack, scarcely illuminated by a few candles. It appears to be held up by naught but twigs and thatch, bound with bundles of rope. Piles of books line the corner. If you focus, you can see an unfamiliar language that makes your eyes water. 


    An old man with a face like a mannequin flits about the shack. What he's doing is unknown to you, as are his intentions. You gasp in horror as the candlelight surges; for a moment, you can see a pair of skeletal wings, extended into the shadowed corners of the makeshift building.


    He turns,  and you wince as you feel his bright eyes bore through your defenses, laying bare your very soul. "The prodigal son awakens!" he tuts. 


    "Prodigal son?" you ask as you regain your faculties. 


    "I certainly hope so." he responds with a warm chuckle. 


    "Why?" 


    "Disorder is bad for research." he responds matter-of-factly, as if he were stating that the sky is blue. 


    "Research… what do you research?"


    His body goes rigid. "Nothing." 


    "Nothing?" 


    "Everything." he smiles guiltily. 


    You decide to change tack. "Why did you bring me here?"


    "I didn't bring you anywhere," he says defensively, "Gabriel brought you here." 


    "Why did he do that?" you ask. His double-talk is quickly growing tiresome. 


    "You fainted," Raziel assumes his matter-of-fact tone once more. "And I nursed you back to health?" 


    "How did you nurse me back to health?"


    "I tied you down to prevent you from biting your fingers off." 


    "Why would I bite my fingers off?"


    "You had a fit of madness."


    You let out an even sigh through your teeth. "Why did I have a fit of madness?"


    "It would appear that you looked into Hell." despite the sudden and abrupt lurch  to the unusual, his clipped, explanatory demeanor remains unchanged. 


    "I looked into Hell?" you ask, incredulously, "How did I do that?"


    "You stalked a vampire, no?" Raziel takes the tone of a disappointed teacher, or perhaps a parent. 


    "Yes." you sound suspiciously like a misbehaving child. 


    "Well," he explains, "It's only rational that you looked  into Hell." 


    "Why in the hell would it be normal for me to look into Hell?" your temper flares, before you restrain it once more. He doesn't seem to notice. 


    "Vampires are dead, no?" 


    "Yes, vampires are dead." 


    "Dead people go to Hell, no?" 


    "I'm not so sure." you're unsure of how he'll take to your agnosticism. 


    "They do, trust me," the ghost of a smile touches his lips, "As an undead species, vampires can traverse Hell if they're so inclined." 


    "Oh, of course." he doesn't seem to pick up on the sarcasm. 


    "Do you know how undeath works, Samuel?" gooseflesh ripples up your arm as he glares at you. You realize for the first time that he's blind.


    "No." you nervously respond. The temperature in the room must have dropped thirty degrees. 


    "God is a novelist," he whispers. 


    "A-a novelist?" you stammer back. Who is this man?"


    "His works are written in blood." A single tear leaks out of the old man's broken eye. He ages forty years in front of you, and suddenly seems very small and fragile indeed. 


    You begin to shiver uncontrollably. "W-what do you mean?" 


    "The Church can only repeat his works. I read too many of them, that's why he took my eyes." 


    "Who took your eyes?" A surge of dread seeps through you, from your chest down to your gut, and into your toes. You feel heavy under the weight of your terror. 


    "They're are writing their own works."  he wheezes in pain, as if he's under duress. 


    "What does that -" 


    "We have little time," the strength seems to fade from him, "you must become a copyist to find their strength."


    "How do -" Your question is interrupted by his lifeless corpse hitting the ground. 


    You wake up on the forest floor, gasping for air.

You awakening.

The morning rays of dawn cannot penetrate the deep, unsettling, soul-penetrating cold that set in on you over night. You crane your neck, listening to the individual pops as your spine aligns itself. You look over, and see the corpse of Gabriel in the bush next to you. He's frozen in place, an awful terror burned into his face for all of eternity. You pick up his rifle, and begin to walk back to town. 


    Raziel's words linger in your mind as you approach the hastily-erected fence around town.  


    "Mornin'," the watchmen mumbles though his late-in-shift exhaustion. 


    You rub your eyes. "Where's Raziel?"


    The watchmen looks at you, puzzled. "Who in the Hell is Raziel?" 


    "Nobody," you respond, sharing in the man's exhaustion, "did any of the men make it back?" 


    He shakes his head. "Nossir, thought they was with you!" 


    "Fuck," you mutter, "That's a damn shame." 


    "Sounds like you had quite the night, sir," he remarks, "Sure Father 'oud love to here about it." 


    "I need sleep." You mutter absentmindedly, already brushing past the man on the way to your quarters. 


    "Don't we all, sir?" He laughs, bitterly.

You head back to the church.

You meander through the makeshift wall, and slowly begin your walk back to the church-turned-stronghold that quickly became the seat of power for the local religious militia. You marvel at how dirty the town had gotten; what was once a small European township with cobblestone streets and small, mom-and-pop businesses on every corner was now filthy, and comparable to a refugee camp. Old fire-barrels and trash litter the ground.  The people you pass glare at you; perhaps one too many brush with looters is all it takes to gain a permanent mistrust of your fellow man. 


    Your stroll ends at the church. A sign once read "FIRST PARISH CHURCH", but it's long since been replaced with  a small sign that says  "BASE OF OPERATIONS " in small black lettering. 


    The door to the small, unassuming little building has been ripped off, you you move the rubbery tarp aside as you enter. As with most churches converted to military strongholds, the pews have long since been scrapped for their requisite parts and nailed to the windows. 


    The church smells of woodsmoke and unwashed bodies, consequences of the smoldering flame and lack of running water in the town.  Fifty or so men are packed into it, milling about in various states of undress. 


    In the far right corner, there's an entrance to back room; this is where you need to be.

You reporting in.

You enter the small office in the corner of the church, after shouldering your way through the dense crowd of sweaty, compacted men pressing in on each other. 


    It's original purpose was probably for the pastor to have a place to prepare his notes and sermon, but it's been co-opted by the local militia,  and is now used as a place for the local  alderman to gather his thoughts and meet with advisors. 


    The alderman is a small, grey-haired old  veteran, worn out by  the horrors of a lifetime of campaigns. You once heard that he cut a man's head off with a trenching  shovel. 


    "Was your mission successful?" he croaks. 


    "We were able to counter a vampire raid from the usual spot," you begin, "but we made another, more alarming discovery." 


    "Don't keep me in suspense, boy." he croaks bitterly. The old man laughs, then; it's a cold sound, lacking in mirth and warmth. 


    "I collapsed, shortly after I witnessed a large vampire disappear into the underbrush." you explain, as you begin to doubt your own experience. 


    "You collapsed? What's the matter, boy? The cold finally get to you? Would you like a cup of tea?" his sarcasm is grating, as always. You'd punch him, but hanging from a pole isn't in your wheelhouse. 


    "And after I collapsed, I had some sort of vision, or dream, or something." your head begins to ache. 


    "Well, boy. Do tell of this vision-dream-something you speak of."


    You explain your vision in excruciating detail. His mask of snark and sarcasm drops quickly, and he leans forward in keen interest. His hands rest on his knees, and you can't help but notice that they're faintly shaking. 


    "Well, boy, it sounds like your vision-dream-something knows a thing or to, eh?" He grins unexpectedly. 


    "Sounds like it." you say warily. You were expecting a religious tantrum, not a… whatever this is.


    "So he was instructing you to become a copyist," the man lets out a heavy sigh, "One can assume that he wasn't intending for you to live the life of a medieval friar." 


    "One can assume." you echo. 


    "So if a vampire can read "God's Language", then it sounds to me as if he's telling you to become a copyist of it; that is, he wants you to become a vampire." 


    "Shit." you mutter.


    "Shit indeed, " he responds quietly, rubbing his beard, "Well, I suppose the decision has to be yours, then. Far be it beyond me to judge matters of the soul."  


    "But you're the alderman, aren't you going to tell the men?" you ask worriedly. You know the local  superstitions; the second you're suspected of communing with the devil, you're one of "them". 


    "Tell them what?" he says meaningfully.

You mulling it over.

You spend a fevered night at the church, tossing and turning. You're chased through your dreams by a winged specter, gurgling at you in a language unknown to you. You run through a shadowed forest like a deer, artfully bounding over roots and tree-branches in the night. However, it isn't enough, and the cruel ghost is never more than a few feet behind you. 


    You awake with a start, shortly before dawn. Not  a soul has stirred. You go outside, taking in the once-beautiful landscape of the small Eastern European town that has become your home.


    And then, quite abruptly, a vampire leaps onto your back, sinking its fangs into your shoulder. You react immediately, grabbing two fistfuls of its dry hair and throwing it into the ground. You plant a boot on its neck before it can react, and quickly snatch your revolver from its resting place. One bullet to the brain and its struggles cease. 


    Onlookers rush towards you.  You're infected. You know that it's only a matter of time before you're strung up and left as an example. Even if their intentions are sympathetic, your path is clear; running. 


    You fire another bullet into the air, startling the would-be first responders rushing towards you. With a cry of "back the fuck off!", you run off into the woods, towards where you spotted the gigantic vampire.

You gateway

You run full-pelt into the woods, exhausting your supply of stamina and then some. Your lungs beg for air, and your face goes flush as you prop yourself up against a nearby tree. You appear to have escaped your would-be pursuers, but the concept of a militiaman running about as an undead beast will likely bring them back in force. 


    You can see the gateway that you saw a vampire walk through earlier. Perhaps, "see" is the wrong word; you can sense it. Like something in the corner of your vision, you know that it must exist, and where, even if you aren't laying eyes  on it directly. 


    Out of options and desperate, you approach the hole in the ground. It's cold and has no precise dimensions, appearing to you as a  circle of indeterminate radius, shifting and slithering along the ground. It feels strangely inviting; like a blanketed bed in the morning. 


    You could slip through, but there's no guarantee of what you'll see on the other side. Or, you could stay right here.

You enter the gateway.

You step through. It feels as if you've just leaped into a pool; one moment you are on Earth, in the realm of the living, and the next, you are in the next life. Immediately, you feel uncomfortably warm. Sticky, uncomfortable sweat clings to your clothing as you materialize in a small dirt tunnel. 


    Your arms and legs are uncomfortably close. There's no room to stretch out, or even crawl backwards; you're forced to slowly move forward. Vampirism begins to set hold on you;  you feel weakened and feverish, as you begin to die. 


    You can see an exit. It's even narrower, and roughly fifteen feet away. Beyond it is complete and utter darkness. You force your failing muscles to propel you towards it. With a final, titanic effort, you force yourself out through the hole. 


    You feel yourself falling down a gigantic hole, down to the interminable depths. Suddenly, you enter through another gateway, and rematerialize on a corn field. If you had to guess, you'd say you're in Kansas at eight o'clock in the evening. 


    You see the Devil standing before you. He's tall and cultured looking, clad in a tuxedo and clutching a timepiece to his breast. He smiles at you. 


    "My friend," he begins in a vaguely English accent, "We've so much to talk about!"