Brief Description: Our main character, Rytin Wyvou (rit-en why-voe)--a vampire, discovers something dear to him has been stolen and captured; something more precious to him than the life that vanished along with it. In these first two parts, Rytin finds himself in a new township, eager to find a place to nap before dawn rolls in...

One : Desperation

Why didn’t the town’s officials replace the candles? It looked like they had been out for at least three days, maybe more, but Rytin couldn’t tell. The lampposts were already loosing their appeal, and the lack of light immediately gave the township an overdue clichéd touch.

All the walls felt the same to him, as his slender fingertips slipped across the stone. And in the darkness of the lanes, they all looked the same too. Circles. He could have been going in circles—or polygons. Why not squares…? Even though the night was young, his senses were dulling; and the young gentleman grew tired.

The walls were wet, some places covered in lichen and moss. His nose was even picking up the waterlogged smell of mold and ale seeping through the cracks in the windows and walls. Though, what was stronger was the voice and smell of the night crowd. Drunks and their kind, living off the fresh ale; spilled from the kegs in the midst of a dim bar…

Hungrily he licked his pale lips, and slipped his fingers across the cracked glass as he peered inside. How he could go for a drink right now. The musky scent was enticing, and he was nearly pulled inward by the ravenous monster inside of him.

Rytin swallowed, and backed away from the window. Once again he was apart of the alley, and the damp shadows that clung to each stone. And casually, he tucked his willowy hands within the pockets of his overcoat and trudged through the murky puddles that lined the cobbled ground.

Even though the lampposts were void of internal light, the young man found this setting enjoyable, comforting.

The distant sound of a horse and buggy tickled his ears, but was drowned away as the clacking of his shoes tapped up the pub’s stairs. Rytin anxiously reached for the rusted handle, before looking up to catch the name of the tavern: The Second Dragon.

Undeniably, his cold gray eyes cast themselves to the floor. His intention was not to draw the consideration of those around him, but that proved to be harder than he would have liked. The screeching of the door brought a silence to the room, and the local residents looked away from the conversations to meet the new comer. Without applauding himself for such an entrance, Rytin moved swiftly while the door slammed shut behind him.

Several of the persons blinked hypnotically, curious to see the face of the stranger. Others muttered, or returned to their conversations uncaringly, until the pub returned to its usual self.

“New faces, em? What might I get a fella’ like you?” Stepping away from his current customers, the bartender placed himself before Rytin, as he took a stand near the counters. Nervously the old man fiddled with a rag, stained in a harsh smelling whiskey, and stared down at the shaggy, unkempt heap of black hair that resided on the vampire’s head.

Rytin looked up, resentfully, and shrugged halfheartedly. The warmth of the atmosphere was too comforting, and was a severe contrast to the damp weather outside. Along side that, the soothing aroma of alcohol and hard liquor made him drowsy. In suppressing a yawn, he shook his head and muttered, “Nothing, for now. Just, need to rest my bones.”

Almost relieved, the bartender sighed and placed the rag within a pocket. He simply nodded, and left Rytin to his own business. Which was little, as he still hadn’t the slightest clue of where he was; aside from the fact that he was sitting dumbfounded (yet merrily) in The Second Dragon.

Eager to get what he could for the moment, he waved with a pale, skeletal hand, and called the old man back. “What’s this place called, bartender? I didn’t catch a sign as I was coming in; the town, I mean.” The vampire blinked and placed his hand upon his lap.

Shrugging off the strange feeling, the old man shouted back with a wave of his rag, “Estwn. Estwn Watergates.”


Two : Alliances

“Oh, he’s my father. I can pay for that if you like, you being new to the parts, I think you might like to see a little hospitality coming from the locals.” A man, clearly younger than Rytin himself, strode toward the counters where the vampire sipped from a mug. The temptation was too much, and he ordered a light drink to cut the edge on his desires.

With a soft clank, Rytin sat his glass on the wooden top and turned his dull eyes over the youthful lad. “Thank you for the offer, but I can take care of my own.” Gently, he settled a hand in his pocket and rattled the contents; which jingled vibrantly. “I’ll be needing a place to stay anyway, let your pa know he’ll have a guest in the tavern.”

Rytin blinked kindly, and waved a lanky hand for the boy to sit. “My name is Nybwn, if anyone asks,” and happily, the young man pulled up a stool and seated himself. “Oh, and his name”—Nybwn waved his carafe at the bartender—“is Cylow. Call ‘em gramps if you want though.”

He pulled a thin curl of auburn hair away from his eyes, and tucked the stringy tress behind an ear. Nybwn had the looks of a young farmer, which contrasted greatly with the pale complexion of the vampire. The boy’s skin was tan, and freckled, with coiled locks of ginger hair. His father, sporting the same coffee tone, no longer had the attractive looks of a fellow farm-boy; but had grown older with the salt and pepper strands of hair; and the familiar gray whiskers of an old man.

The vampire couldn’t help but chuckle at the good nature of the boy, and took a swig of his ale. As if Nybwn hadn’t spoken enough within the previous moments, it seemed his jaw was well worked for talk. “One more thing, stranger. I don’t let newcomers pay their own way out of things the first night.” With a careful wink, Nybwn tossed a handful of silver and gold coins onto the wooden counter, and ran his life’s worth out the door.

Blinking, bewildered, Rytin cast his gaze out the nearest window, fogged and dirty with mold. Nybwn, with his leather coat flapping behind him in the gale—Rytin couldn’t hear it over the chatter of the crowd inside—stumbled down the stairs of the pub and landed with his freckled face in the mud.

“Poor boy,” the old man muttered, stepping his way through the old flaps in the counter, to take a seat on the stool that his son had just left. “I wish he’d interact with the locals like that.” Cylow eyed the last twirling coins, and took his rag to a spit-shined mug.

It must have been obvious Nybwn was a failure in pleasing his father in the act of socialization with the township… however; Rytin was finding it hard to taken in the events. His bitter eyes were still hard on the coins, while his fingers fidgeted with the ones in his pocket. “If he really wants to pay, I don’t care.” And, calmly, the vampire took a careless sip of ale and slammed the empty glass on the stand.

“Looks like he threw out more than he intended to? That easily pays for ten ales my friend!” Astonished, at either his son’s stupidity or his willingness to give up hard earned money, the bartender cautiously placed the rag back into a pocket and scraped the coins into a wrinkled hand.

Rytin, with a sigh, scooted the stool back with a loud screech—wood upon wood wasn’t pleasing to his keen ears. “No, no. I told the poor child I needed a place to stay, and I’d be keeping myself up in your inn for a bit.” Shrugging, the vampire turned his gray eyes around the pub, as the long awaited rain splattered over the musty windows.

The dim lighting was still soothing to his tired body, and the ale in his stomach kept his mind away from food. All he willed himself to do now, was to find a free room and sleep; dawn surely wasn’t too far away if he recalled correctly. Then again, he wasn’t about to step into the midst of a storm and check the cloudy skies for a new moon.

Unconsciously, the pale man’s eyes wandered the night crowd, landing on drunken potbellies, or scrawny buggers asleep by the far wall. A dog—settled fondly in the corner with his master—eyed Rytin fondly, his tongue lolling hungrily at his jaw. The burly, bearded man also had his eyes on the newcomer, and took an expectant swig from a silvery flask.

“I’m sure that’s enough for two days, I can always fit an extra in there for a stranger like yourself.” Cylow’s crackling voice drew Rytin back from his observations.

Quickly shrugging, the young man shifted his overcoat and jingled the coins in his pocket a last time, “Alright, please yourself then. Your hospitality will show a weak side to me yet, gramps. And by the way, it’s Rytin.”

© Casey Dillingham 2006