The Silver Bayonet – The Carpathians Castle Fier

Marcea Lupul
Once the most feared warlord of the area, Marcea Lupul died under mysterious circumstances. In fact, there are many that claim he never truly ‘died’, but instead was transformed into a vampire and still rules his shadow kingdom from the ruins of his castle. True or not, the secrets of Marcea Lupul could prove extremely valuable in the war against the harvestmen.

Grenadier Leopold Moser is inspecting some broken railings. What on earth was sharp enough to damage the iron railings in such a way was beyond his comprehension. He trusted in his own steel and his own skill in battle and his own bloody-mindedness to see each mission through… But whatever did this might need something beyond guile and determination to put down.

His love for his family is what gave him strength. Not so much that what he was doing, killing monsters, was protecting them directly from the threat. Or that fighting for his nation would give them a safe peacetime to thrive in. His wife and 5 sons needed him to return from war alive and hopefully well enough to work and keep a roof over their heads. The conscription laws were a mess in his country and he had not wanted to leave them and fight. Every time his officers were impressed by his feats of arms and bravery they foolishly felt it was his conviction to the cause and his love for his nation, his comrades or his unit that conjured his tenacity. But no, it is his love for his wife and children that drives him on, knowing that someday the fighting would end and he would have earned his peacetime. Paid in the blood of whoever crossed him and threatened his dangerous and circuitous path back to his family.

“The Mad Mangyar” was an ironic nickname that the captain had been given by his men when he was in regular army life. He was too level headed, conscientious and well soldiered to be considered mad. It was a comment on his mellow demeanour in a crisis rather and a suggestion that he was unhinged.

Once Laszlo was drafted into “The Black Eagles” monster hunting unit he saw that the nickname was stamped out because the ironic fun origins of the nickname could all too easily be used as an insult and undermine his authority in such a small group of hardened fighters. Unbeknownst to his men he had always felt a sting in the nickname because his father had been considered crazed in his later years. The family name had been tarnished by his father being part of the debacle that was The Battle of Karánsebes years before, an embarrassing tragedy that stained the army’s reputation even decades later. Laszlo was surpassing his father’s rank and was out from the shadow of his father’s “mistakes”, but the nickname had to go.

His Father had warned him about taking command in the army. That blame and ridicule was just as likely as glory and heroism in an ungrateful Imperial and Royal army. Laszlo was committed to joining up and was sad to say that he grew less and less close to his father as they got older. Signs of senility had crept in and stories of why huge numbers of Austrians came to battle one another at The Battle of Karánsebes grew more supernatural and bizarre. The battle was at nightfall in 1788 long before anyone thought that the Harvestman menace had begun their rousing of the occult and undead. His Father spoke of drunkenness and ill-discipline as the major factor of the huge friendly fire escalation that caused hundreds, maybe even thousands, of causalities. But as he got older, the stories changed to ones of manipulation by an unknown menace in the fading light. And on the last telling his Father openly said that their were werewolves and undead tortured soldiers in the dark that were there and then gone again. Slashing and biting at one flank and then gone again. And the men opened fire into their comrades ranks out of fear and defence against the frightening menace that seemed to surround them.

Laszlo’s father had died last winter and now he regretted thinking his father was mad, because the very reason he was in The Black Eagles was to fight the occult that he had dismissed as senility in the ramblings of his father’s dotage. Perhaps an old man scrambling for excuses for his actions at The Battle of Karánsebes, or perhaps one of the early victims of the Harvestmen? He would never know.

Hauptmann Laszlo Horváth will be remembered far more favourably and proudly by his family in the years to come than his father would be. Just due to his feats of heroism and senior rank already achieved. He reflects that every encounter with the supernatural evil that he hunts brings him closer to his father somehow. Every sighting of a werewolf or zombie makes his father less mad and more a trumatised hero. Less a fool and more a victim.

He carries his father’s sword into battle again tonight in defence of his nation and his good name.

Gemeine Florian Müller is usually cool in a crisis and swift in his decision making, but maybe due to the fatigue of often fighting at night when hunting down monsters in The Carpathians, this night he had been spooked. Whilst out in front on a patrol he saw a figure in the darkness. They were close to a village so he hesitated to confirm in the gloom what he was about to firing his musket at, for fear of hitting a local out on a late night stroll. The delay almost cost him his life as the figure appeared to sniff the air, look right at Müller, and bolted straight for him. Thankfully the hours of bayonet drill and muscle memory of defending himself in several battles and skirmishes most likely saved his life. He had fixed his bayonet moments earlier when he heard a noise, and raised the blade tipped musket just as the beast collided with him and heard a spine tingling otherworldly yelp as he drew blood and the creature knocked Müller to the ground and darted off into the ruins just feet away. His fellow Austrian monster hunters heard the commotion and came running. To his surprise Müller wasn’t injured, gathered himself and was embarrassed to say he couldn’t tell what had hit him, only that a blood trail now led into the ruins and the beast was taller and felt stronger than an average human. His officer barked that the Gemeine should continue as the lead on the patrol and guide them along the blood trail as best he could. Müller stole himself, straighted his white uniform, raised his musket to his shoulder and slowly edged into the ruins…