Captain Gor stumbled out of the Crayfish Tavern in the late twilight hours into the muddy streets of Marin’s Hold, whistling some half-remembered sea shanty through gaps in his teeth. His new captain’s hat sat wildly askew upon his head after a few too many whiskeys. Ysolde Brack, the old tavern keeper, shooed him out of the public house, threatening that unless he wanted to join her in her bed, it was time for him to leave. The regular crowd of farm hands had long since trickled out after their long day in the fields, and the usual late night crowd had just never shown up.
As Captain Gor stumbled about, taking a swig off the bottle he had swiped from Ysolde’s shelf, a damp chill settled into his old bones. He knew he was supposed to be somewhere and this way was as good as any. He found himself wandering into the rickety docks by the riverfront, all the skiffs and boats tied up for the night. Normally the docks were lively this time of night, the eelmen and the froggers getting ready to ply their trade in the early night air. A deep, impenetrable mist had fallen upon the docks, making the pillars appear suddenly out of the fog like apparitions lunging for him.
The dwarf continued whistling as he passed through the mist. A spectral ship seemed to ply its way through the mist towards him, a skeletal figure laughing at him silently as it threatened to collide with him, but as it did so it dispersed into nothing but dew drops. He rubbed his eyes tiredly as he pushed through the mist. A strange craft bobbed at the end of the dock, with an equally strange pilot. The hooded figure sat in the stern of the boat, his long gangly arms holding a paddle, and his long legs folded up in front of him. The pilot slowly looked in his direction, his face hidden by the cowl of his robe. He reached out one impossibly long arm and beckoned the dwarf forward. Gor’s boots skidded a half-step back in the mud, some old sailor’s instinct screaming at him to run. But his feet betrayed him, and against every misgiving, Captain Gor found himself moving toward the strange figure all the same.
The pilot pulled out a small letter, written on fine stationary. The aristocratic script flowed and ran like blood across the page:
“Mr Captain Gor,
It seems you have decided to not accept my generous invitation. Know that I am a patient but unforgiving man. I will give you one more opportunity to arrive as requested. I have arranged safe passage for you to my castle. I suggest you take my kind offer, lest you become a witness to what I do to ungrateful guests.
PS. Please tip the pilot; one silver is sufficient.
Count Demetrius”
In the boat, Captain Gor spied a plate set out for him; a heel of bread, some cheese, and most importantly, a bottle of wine. Not one to reject free food, Captain Gor placed one silver in the pilot’s pale boney fingers and stepped into the boat. The gangly pilot stepped one foot on the dock to hold the boat steady, and two spindly arms assisted Gor in finding his seat. He wasn’t sure, but Gor felt like this act should have been impossible for someone having a totally normal number of arms, but he put that thought into the back of his mind where he kept all the other unpleasant details about his life he chose to not think about.
As Captain Gor sat down, the pilot pushed off from the dock and drove the boat into the river. The moon was huge that night. Captain Gor thought he could almost reach up and pull it down as he gazed at it dreamily while munching on his bread. The pilot seemed to drive the boat unnaturally fast as it glided soundlessly on the nearly still waters. The sound of thunder rippled the water as lightning rent the sky, giving Gor the first view of the Count’s Castle. It stood like some ancient raptor on the mountain side, as if it threatened to open its wings and swoop down upon the vermin in the valley. The pilot pulled the skiff up to the docks and assisted Gor off the boat. For a moment, Gor thought he caught a glance under the pilot’s hood, only to see a blank featureless mannequin staring back at him. Before he could get a second look, the pilot had pushed off from the dock and turned his face from Gor. He seemed to have several limbs in the water, pulling the boat along, or perhaps walking on top of it like some kind of water bug.
A large stairway stood in front of him, leading up the cliffside to a large arch, flanked by angelic statues with their hands raised to the sky. The ponderous drawbridge from the castle to the ledge on which he stood took ages to lower, but when it did, Gor crossed it as rain began to fall. Not wanting to get his fancy attire drenched, Gor ran across the bridge to the front door of the castle. Guards bowed to him as Gor rushed past them. His boots left muddy footprints on the red carpet, and the front door opened as if expecting him. The doorman grimaced, muttering something about late arrivals, and waved him through to the reception hall.
After climbing many sets of stairs through the bone-chilling castle, Gor could almost feel the warm hearth and hearty food that awaited him. When the doors to the hall opened before him, he nearly froze. Party guests surrounded the prone bodies of several well-dressed individuals, the faces of the guests covered in blood and gore. The Count sat upon his throne, watching the whole scene as if bored. After looking up with curiosity, the Count addressed his guests.
“Well my friends, it seems the feast is not quite over. How about a digestif to sing our stomachs to sleep.”
The crowd glanced his way and lunged towards him. Before he could react, he felt a cold, sharp pain in his neck, then darkness.