The Bloated One
Well-Known Member
Dear All,
I have had to re-invent myself as the Bloated One so I can log on at work. Apologies if it confuses!
Thanks to everyone for their suggestions on the first draft. I have added the beginning of the next chapter so you can see how it progresses. Adele, the subject of the next chapter is the ******* daughter of Vlad Tepes, half human, half vampyre. She is unaware of her father, having been taken from her Mother on the field of battle, and placed in an orphanage, and then, when old enough into a brothel. This chapter begins 21 years after the prologue.
*Apologies to any native French people reading this. I am after a French translation of, the room of little deaths, or similar. Any help would be appreciated.
Bit of history - Vlad Dracula was killed in battle against the Turks near the town of Bucharest in December of 1476. Some reports indicate that he was assassinated by disloyal Wallachian boyars just as he was about to sweep the Turks from the field.
First Part of the Novel's Synopsis - At a meeting between the Pontiff’s representative, and a Council of Vampyre Elders, The Church threatens them with extinction unless they kill and destroy the bodies of Vlad Tepes and Gregor his adviser. Despite holding back the Ottoman advance, the Church cannot condone Tepes’s wanton killing any longer.
Holding records of every living vampyre, the church’s threat is taken seriously. Six elders disguised as Wallachian boyars, murder Vlad Tepes and Gregor during a battle in 1476 with the Ottomans.
Their bodies, including a ring and casket are spirited away by an elder and hidden at the Snagov Monastery.
During the battle, the elder also ensures that Tepes’s baby daughter is taken from her human Mother, and sent first to an orphanage in France, and when old enough, to a brothel in Montmarte.
Let me know if the style is okay. Someone mentioned it would appeal to teenagers. This concerns me, as due to its subject matter, I am aiming it at an 'adult' audience.
TBO
Prologue
Bucharest, December 1476
Steaming breath burst inside the ice-cold room as accusations, threats, and insults flew about. Amidst the mayhem, a hooded figure sat quietly on a golden throne, listening, only his podgy, ring-encrusted fingers visible under his purple raiment. Finally, the hooded man stood up.
"Quiet!" His voice boomed across the hall with a loudness and authority that belied his small, crooked body. The noise abated. "Listen to me. Do as I say or die." He smiled at his Cardinals gathered about his throne, stretched out a finger and snarled at the Count and his camarilla. "We will annihilate you, you and your race. Agree to what we ask, or face extinction."
Ashen-faced, and with his knuckles white with anger, the Count glared from across the oak table.
Unmoved, the hooded figure lowered his hand, scratched his pointed chin and cleared his throat. "We have coexisted for hundred’s of years, but the Church will not allow the carnage to continue. You and your cohorts must destroy him and all his offspring. You have seven days." His piggy eyes scuttled from face to face, watching the Count and his entourage seethe and churn.
After a short silence, the Count unfurled his woollen cloak and wearily got to his feet. Exhausted by the hours, locked in fruitless recriminations he looked at his colleagues, took an ornate stiletto from his belt, and sliced the palm of his hand. He then slammed the bloodied palm onto the table making the Cardinals jump.
"I give you my blood and my word. We will do as you ask."
The piggy eyes bulged. "Good," rasped the hooded figure, "It’s settled then." He snorted loudly and bowed toward the Count.
The gathering rose from the table and, like a murder of angry crows dissatisfied with their meagre carrion, they lingered, waiting for their leader. The Count bowed deferentially, but his bloodshot eyes burned with hate.
A sardonic smile broke across the hunched figure’s face. Followed by his Cardinals, he stiffly shuffled from the room.
Chapter One
Adele
Adele
As the hot weather broke, rain poured through the Parisian streets, washing away months of summer dust. Adele raced for cover, fearful her velvet gown would be ruined. In amongst the alcoves of the small shops along the Rue de Montmarte she darted, cursing herself for forgetting her hood. Having waited in vain at the café for the rain to stop, she was now too close to her meeting to dawdle; as her Madame often remarked, time waited for no one, not even on her twenty first birthday.
With a skip and a jump, Adele reached the safety of Le Cabonaise. A quick check of her clothing satisfied her that but for a few minor patches she had arrived dry and unscathed. She knew nothing of this appointment, which was strange. Her normally verbose Madam said little of this special client.
Pushing the large oak door open, Bergerac greeted her with a toothy grin. His large creased forehead, bulging watery eyes and stooping gait was almost comical, but for the fact that he was a harsh and sinister man with a dreadful reputation. His family had protected the brothel for years, and it was accepted wisdom never to cross them. Adele smiled sweetly, eliciting an exaggerated windmill of a bow from the fat greasy man. She was half way up the wooden staircase before his swirling arms descended and completed their startling repertoire. He thought he was funny—a troll guarding a fairy castle he would say, but nobody laughed.
Adele ran along the darkened corridor, her damp shoes leaving a silvery trail of water on the crimson carpet. As she ran, cotton drapes billowed in the breeze coming through the open windows. Occasional rays of sunlight broke through the greyness, and shards of white diamonds danced on the floor.
Reaching her room, Adele removed her gown, mud splattered hose and shoes. Sorting through a drawer, she selected a pair of yellow cotton stockings, two pale blue garters, and sat on the edge of her bed to dress. She slipped on her best shoes, took a deep breath and checked her appearance. She pushed and prodded her ample bosom, till it ballooned precariously over her bodice - a trick Madam Bouverie had shown her.
Satisfied with her appearance, she got up and glided regally from her room to the staircase. At the door of the la salon petite mot*, as the girls called it she stopped, inhaled deeply, and slowed her breathing. Composed, she opened the door expecting to see a gentleman, but was puzzled to find a tall woman wearing a small riding hat, veil, and cape standing in the centre of the room with her back to her.
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