COMPLETE! The Wasteland. A woman screams in the night. Spotlights flash on a pile of dust in the desolate patch of land that lay just beyond the tall crosses that picket the boundary of Encampment R-34. A group of curious students leave their bunkho...
Log Book #1 belonging to the Knight James Woislaw, Castellan of Glogau
August 27th 1684
The Roman has returned. I discovered him through the Sclavonian, and he was pleased to learn the tale of our skirmish in the taproom. From all appearances, the strength of my mechanical hand managed to thwart the plans of the Wampyr. This stranger believed me to be of the Draculesti, which is a bastardization of a once holy organization, Ordo Draconum.
I have since learned much about the duties of the Holy League and their current systematic demise, which I had observed, let us say first hand, in a tent beside my own nearly one month past. My felled right hand has been examined and found spoiled, proving the fears of the Roman that my own sickness was spared through the severing. These Draculesti breed in a manner most unreal. The holy warriors watch me closely and inquire if my wits are my own. They even lay Catholic relics on my forehead as a sort of test. Upon their advice, I don my leather aventail each night as I lay to sleep to guard my neck, which, as I can recall from the clamor in the tent, is the preference of the Wampyr. There is some concern in relation to my delirious dreaming, especially to the face of the man who bit into my flesh. I want to tell them that it appears to be of the most recognizable Vlad the Impaler, but that cannot be possible. So I remain silent.
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