This is the second part of my playthrough of Tim Hutchings’ Thousand Year Old Vampire. To see my overview of the game, click HERE, and to see the cast of characters and the origin of Nathaniel Morrison, vampire, click HERE. Click the tags to see all of the posts pertaining to this game.
THE JOURNAL OF NATHANIEL MORRISON, ADVISOR TO DUKE RUTHERFORD
November 22, 15xx
This morning, just after dawn, I had the strangest dream. Perhaps “dream” is the wrong word, for I no longer truly sleep as men do, as well as other reasons that shall soon become apparent.
Whilst I rested in my bedchamber (at dawn, when I feel my strength waning), I was overcome by the strangest sense of vertigo. It was as if reality were becoming thinner, less steady beneath the weight of the truths that have been revealed to me since my transformation.
I tried to rise from my bed, but I was paralyzed. As powerful as Tzciti’s gift had made me, I suddenly felt powerless. And that was when I saw HIM.
Standing by my door (which was closed and, I am confident, had not opened) was my late friend Elliot Rutherford, staring at me with wide, soulless eyes. He reached out an accusing finger towards me, and his mouth opened, screaming silently at me.
I found that I, despite my paralysis, could speak. “Elliot,” I pled, “you must understand. If I had allowed you to live, I would have been destroyed!”
Elliot continued to point. I continued. “I know you think some sub-human abomination, but that is not the truth of it! I have become greater! I can accomplish things no mortal man could!”
Elliot began to burn with spectral, blue-green flames. His mouth opened even wider–far wider than a human mouth should–and his dead eyes became black pits.
I was moved to tears, the agony my dear friend appeared to endure breaking my composure completely. I shouted “I AM SO SORRY, ELLIOT! PLEASE FORGIVE ME!”
And with that, I awoke. I rose from my bed and examined the doorway, finding it undisturbed. Relieved, I wiped the cold sweat from my brow, only to find that my right hand was blood-red. I tried to wipe the blood off, but it was dry.
Running to my toilet, I scrubbed the offending stain, but the damned spot would not relent.
I retired to my study to reflect on these events. After contemplation, I have resolved that, at least for now, I am cursed with a physical manifestation of my guilt over my friend’s death.
I shall have to wear gloves, methinks.
Chapter two postmortum.
Mechanical considerations and my updated character sheet appear on the next page.