A Terrible Dream of Vivid Reality
Ostromir Carrion, Fifth of his name, walked down the streets of the County of Dobrove. A gentle mist hugged the dirt path as the huntsmen with little to his name save for pride in the Carrion family name walked towards the farms, ready to begin his daily walk into the dense woods to gather the tinder for the hearth of his small home.
A voice then echoed from behind him- a chilled voice. One that seemed both familiar, yet shallow and bone-chilling in how firmly it said a name, HIS name…
The voice spoke from the shadows- shallow and distant as if it came from beyond. Spinning around, Ostromir would glance about. Peering through the dank shadows barely kept at bay by the dying flames of lantern light that hung from the nearby houses. Hiding within the shadows was a man, his figure skeletal in nature. Skin clung to his body and cobwebs coated his form as if already dead. With long fingers, ghastly in their unkempt manner slowly curling up, it spoke once more.
“Do you know who I am?”
Its question was not so much an inquiry, but a demand. Forceful in what this apparition desired. A response to being given to the shadowy creature that seemed familiar… a jest perhaps to its wickedness that had taken shape in the flesh of familiar blood? Or maybe it was more real than he thought. Furrowing his brow, the young Crow raised his right hand to his trusted axe, always kept upon his belt. Placing it upon the latch, he unclips it in uncertainty as he responds.
“I can’t say I recognize you” he speaks, firm in his courage, but with the sweat of quickly breaking nerves coming out from his pores. “But I know one of my blood when I see them. What is your name stranger, and how did you come across mine?!”
The demand was met with a slight crackle as it seeped forth, a hand extended, black tendrils of hate and malis began to weave between the creature’s fingers as it spoke in a darkened tone. “I am Vladislav the Terrible. Know my name, and let it be known to all and sundry.” the Old Crow spoke as the phantasmal tendrils of ebony mist latched out to grasp Ostrimir, holding him in place as a painful sensation of a darker nature rushed through his body. Barely able to breathe, the young Carrion would fail to pull out his axe before he fell to the ground- feeling as though death itself was about to claim his soul.
((*A creative representation of Ostrmir remembering the blackened attack of Vlad in his dreams))
The reaper though would not claim the young Crow, for the Man of Stone, Vlad the Terrible parted with hollowed tears. Sleeping but never resting. Just as suddenly as this apparition appeared though, so too did it leave- vanishing into a cloud of ashen darkness.
“Let it be known”
Eyes gleamed from the foggy vision, Ostromir would soon clamber to his feet in nothing short of panic as he fully grasped his huntsmen’s axe and looked about the empty streets of Dobrov. Nothing but the savvy song of the black raven crowns wailed malignantly through the streets illuminated by the dying flames of lantern light. A foul shudder grasps the spine of the young Crow, the experience had to be one of his imagination- a vivid illusion from the backwash of his mind. Or perhaps it was real, and the Carrion simply denied it…