A great fire roared in the fireplace of a small tavern in northern Bulgaria. Around it, many men sat drinking beer; the froth spilled over the edge of their pint glasses as they laughed in merriment. The night was cold, and dark clouds smothered the light of the moon and the stars, but inside the tavern, none of that was noticed. A small group of the men sat in a circle around John Thurston, a large spectacle of a man. His face was cleanly shaven, his chest as wide as any other man’s shoulders, and even under his long sleeves, the outlines of his biceps looked like watermelons.
“-and as it reached its claws for me, I grabbed its neck, and plunged a stake right through its heart! It screeched in pain,” the man boasted loudly, before becoming quiet, “and withered away right before my eyes…” As he finished his story, John flexed his muscles subtly, making them look just a bit larger than before. The fellows around him ooh'd and ahh’d at the end of his tale.
“Three cheers for John, the best monster hunter for a thousan’ miles!” one of the men slurred, spilling a quarter of his pint as he raised his glass. Everyone surrounding John followed suit, and soon the floor was sticky with ale. The men cheered, and then the men drank, and John let a small smile creep onto his lips. But just as they were cheering, Arman, one of the local farmers, wandered up to circle laughing.
“He ain’t the best monster hunter for a thousand miles!” the new man slurred - he was just as drunk as the rest of the spectators. “He ain’t even the best monster hunter for a thousand feet!” Arman laughed, and all the others circled around John looked at him inquisitively - at least, as inquisitively as one can look after four or five beers.
But even as Arman insulted him, John let out a roaring laugh. “What, and you are? You couldn’t climb a flight of stairs, let alone slay a monster!” As he finished his joke, he let out another laugh, and this time the rest of the men joined in with him.
“I couldn’t climb a flight of stairs, but I wasn’t talking about meself. Frederik over there, HE’s the best monster hunter for a thousand miles,” Arman said, pointing towards the corner of the room. John followed his finger, where a gruff-looking man was sitting at a booth, hunched over a quickly emptying plate of food. His jaw was covered in black and gray stubble, and he wore an old worn down black cloak which hid most of his body from sight. John flattened the collar of his shirt and strutted over to the table, taking a seat across from the man as if they were old friends. Many of the drunks followed him over like a pack of spying schoolgirls.
“So, you’re a monster hunter, eh?” John said to the man. Frederik looked up from his food, stared deep into John’s eyes, and took another bite, but he said nothing.
“Well then, Mister… Frederik, was it? Have you ever been to Transylvania?”
Frederik almost choked on his ale, and once his airway was clear, he chuckled. “Transylvania? Is that your big boast? Vampires in Transylvania?” Hearing this (or rather not hearing it), the drunken group inched closer.
John was taken aback. “The vampires in Transylvania are the most cunning beasts in the world! You only laugh them off because you have never seen them. I bet you aren’t even a monster hunter,” John scoffed.
“The old vampires were very cunning, but that was years ago. The young ones are nothing special.” Frederik took another big gulp of ale. John stared daggers at him, but Frederik didn’t raise his eyes from his food. He chewed for what felt like an eternity, then looked straight into John’s eyes, and whispered, “If you want to kill what's left of the vampires and brag about it in taverns, go to Transylvania.” The drunken group inched closer again. “If you want to fear the sun going down, if you want to be more afraid of the dark than you were as a young boy, go to India.” Then he looked back down on his food and continued eating, as if John was no longer sitting right in front of him.
The hairs on the back of John’s neck were beginning to stand on end. He was no longer angry at the stranger, but more curious, and deep in the back of his mind, frightened. “And what creatures live there?” he asked slowly. The drunken group inched forward once more, the closest one almost touching the table. Even the barkeep had ceased his chores to listen in.
Frederik put his fork down and leaned against the back of his chair. He eyed John and every man in the group surrounding him. The ruckus of the tavern had been slowly dying down, and now, with all eyes fixed on Frederik, the room had grown silent. “If you want to know, I can tell you. Some of the tales I tell aren’t my own; I ran into many unfortunate souls on my journeys, and they told me terrifying things. But I have some of my own tales as well. If you really want to know, I will tell you about what lurks in the shadows of India.”
Image Credit - Deviant Art