The Man in the Tower

The wolves are close now. I hear their paws treading upon the dank earth, their tongues lapping against their blood-flecked jaws. They will find me. It is only a matter of time. I see their lean, loping forms threading among the pines. Their eyes blaze in the dark.

I haven’t much time.

I, Gregor Herzlos, Tithemaster of the Prince-Elector of Stirland, am fated to die here, trapped in a muddy streambed, my leg mangled and my spirit broken. Such is the fate of those who tread in Sylvania’s haunted fens and tangled forests. I must write so that others may know of the foulness that stalks this cursed land.

There is a cancer here, deep-rooted and deadly. It is a pox upon the world.

I will tell what I can.

Yesterday, my men and I approached the sleepy village of Zusmarshausen from the north, following a logging road through Grim Wood. A storm came upon us, and in its ferocity, it drove us to seek shelter in an old watchtower beside the road. We thought it abandoned—just some proud remnant of a nameless, ancient fortress, annihilated by the conquering woodlands.

We were fools.

We ascended the tower, seeking some place where we might rest and wait out the storm. Eventually, after picking our way up flights of crowded stairs, and hacking our way through dense cobwebs, we entered a moonlit chamber. It was dusty and dank, filled with piles of thick grimoires, and lit only by a scattering of red candles. The room was dominated by a great table. Seated at one end, facing us, there was a man. I thought him some strange eccentric, perhaps a hermit or a mystic or an outlaw hedge-wizard. He looked like other men, but I did not like his cruel, carnal smile. Or the jaundiced look of his wide, staring eyes.

Or his skin, which shone with the alien coldness of a winter moon.

Before him, a dead peasant woman lay sprawled on the table. Her throat was a red ruin and her face was ringed by a halo of wine-dark blood.

“Hello,” the man said. “Welcome to my home. I am Baron Miklas Valdštejn, Lord of Rahova and Orsova. But you may address me by my adopted patronymic: von Carstein.”

“That is impossible,” Klaus, our guide, muttered, “The Valdštejn clan were driven from here years ago. The whole lot of them were warlocks and fiends. They were hunted down with fire and sword.”

The man glared, then smiled broadly, baring his sickle-sharp teeth. “Driven away. And now restored,” he said. His voice was even, but cold fury burned beneath his words.

“What happened to her?” I asked, motioning to the dead woman, knowing the answer already.  

The man glared at me with cold, wolfish eyes: “By your garb, I know you are a tax collector, a lapdog of some petty princeling. That explains your witless question. The woman? Can’t you see she is quite dead? I killed her. Just as I will kill you all.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why not?” the stranger replied. He looked truly puzzled by my question. 

Klaus, who was braver and stupider than the rest of us, snarled and rushed at the strange man. He swung his big axe wildly.

A moment later, Klaus’s head was rolling across the stone floor. A look of shock was frozen on his face. He blinked as blood drained from his blue lips.

The man called von Carstein was among us in an instant.

I remember little of what came next, just the sounds of screaming men, and the sight of blood spattering the old stone walls. Of blades breaking. And limbs snapping. And all around me, men collapsing under a whirling typhoon of claws and teeth.

I fled from the tower. That much I know, but I do not know how I came to be here. I must have run for hours. Again, I remember nothing of my flight, just faint impressions: the howls of hunting wolves and the sight of great bats, flitting between the pines. I do remember this: I heard laughter. And I saw sickly yellow eyes peering at me from the dark voids between the trees.

The wolves are very near. 

There are monsters in these dread woods, beasts which have grown strong on our apathy and indifference. One day, I fear they will leave this place and become a plague upon the good folk of the Empire.

If you find this scrawled parchment, do not cast it away. It is my last testament. Give it to the authorities, who may yet do what must be done. This place must be scoured! These predators must be hunted . . .

I’ve had an on again off again relationship with a vampire for close to 20 years.

I should explain.

I first bought this miniature in 2000, on a family vacation. That was back when Mordheim was still being supported by Games Workshop and when the Vampire Counts were about to be released as their own Warhammer faction. I thought the miniature was perfect. I still do. It encapsulates everything Warhammer vampires—and the von Carstein bloodline, specifically—are all about: barely-contained violence, aristocratic hauteur, and a fondness for theatrical capes. 

Most vampire miniatures are junk. They have comical fangs, which give them bloated, distorted features, and they’re almost always covered in skulls and bats and other gothic bric-a-brac. This is to say nothing at all about female vampire miniatures, which are generally clothed in as little as possible, and exist only as a sad commentary on the Male Gaze in nerd culture. For the most part, the children of the night look terribly silly.

Not this one, though. The sculptors’ restraint, and the miniature’s sense of lift and movement, all work together to create a harmonious statement. There's a refreshingly feral ferocity about him. This guy is deeply threatening.

Anyway, after I bought him, I made him the head of my Undead gang in Mordheim. And then, when Warhammer 6^th Edition was released, I made him the Vampire Thrall in my von Carstein Vampire Counts army. Equipped with the Wolf Form bloodline power and tricked out with the Flayed Hauberk and a great weapon, he was a terror, dishing out strength seven attacks and zooming around the battlefield with an 18-inch charge move. In his time, he dispatched Elector Counts, chewed through Chaos Knights, and assassinated more than a few Grey Seers. He was great fun to play with.

And then, in around 2003, I quit the game.

And when I quit the game, I tossed my vampires, including this one, into the garbage.

But we never forget the ones we love. 

I was lucky and was able to buy this miniature again on eBay more than a year ago. But I was afraid to paint him. I was uncertain in my abilities and wanted to do justice to him. So, he lurked at the bottom on my bits box, snarling at me whenever I opened it up. But a chance conversation with Xanthrodox86 (the proprietor of the It Always Rains in Nuln blog) got me thinking about him again. We had a long talk about 6^th edition Warhammer, and I shared my von Carstein list with him. After that discussion, I knew I needed to paint this guy again.

It felt good to paint this miniature a third time. I painted him in the traditional von Carstein livery of purple and red, and tried to give his skin an eerie, ethereal glow. I was fairly conservative with my choices, overall, and hewed close to the Hammer vibe, even using Cristopher Lee’s Dracula as a reference. I’m very pleased with the end result. It was a strangely emotional project, and I felt as if every stroke of my brush was reanimating a little part of myself that was dormant or dead. I felt as if I was reaching out and grasping my distant past.

I hope you like Baron Miklas Valdštejn, Lord of Rahova and Orsova, Sire of Konrad, and Castellan of Nachtdorf. He was great fun to paint. I always felt most comfortable when I painted deadish things. Rest assured, Baron Valdštejn will not be my last foray into the shadowy realms of the restless dead.