Franz Lohner’s Chronicle - A Twitching Tale

An absent-minded man of mysteries, Franz Lohner relies on his bulging journal to keep track of occurrences, intrigues and arguments around Taal's Horn Keep. Sometimes his notes are even useful, believe it or not. The Franz Lohner Chronicles are extracts from that journal.

I’m not quite feeling it this morning, if I’m completely honest. Not only is there a blazing row going on further up the keep between Sienna, Saltzpyre and an Imperial messenger, I didn’t get much kip last night.

It’s frustrating, if I’m honest. I mean, that shouldn’t put the mockers on my mood. Never got a lot of shuteye in my mercenary days. Them who closed their eyes for a moment longer than necessary often had a lot of trouble waking up again, on account of having had their throat cut or their back perforated by all kinds of things a fellow doesn’t want anywhere near his ribcage.

No, I reckon it’s that dream I had. Well, keep having, given that it’s been a good four nights on the trot. It all starts off innocently enough, prowling through the shadows of a moonlit town. I mean, we’ve all done that, haven’t we? The trouble starts a little way in, when my dreaming brain finally realises that I’m walking with a bit of a stoop. First, I get annoyed. My old mother always put great store by good posture, and though she’s been in Morr’s keeping for some years now I still hold that close. Thing is, it only gets worse from there. It’s the fleas. The fur. The claws … The tail.

Before I know it, I’m scrambling after some fleeing citizen, claws scraping on cobbles. Of course they’re running. I don’t blame them. I try telling ‘em I’m not a monster – that I ain’t gonna hurt them – but it comes out as a horrible, rasping screech. They just keep on running.

The chase always ends the same way. Me pouncing and them going down on the cobbles. That’s when I finally realise where we are. It’s Ubersreik, and the moon hanging low over the River Teufel isn’t Mannsleib’s warming glow but wicked of Morrsleib. Before I know it, the poor sod I’m chasing has gone still. There’s blood everywhere. On my hands. Matted through my fur. My throat’s full of the salt-metal taste of it.

And that’s where I wake up, every single damn time, having nearly bitten clean through my lower lip and trembling like I’ve been bedding down on a glacier. I know it’s just a dream, but I can’t shake it. The shimmer of moonlight, the feel of the breeze … and blessed Ranald, the taste of the blood most of all. More than that, it’s like everything has its own scent. Their fear. My triumph. Turns my stomach in a way I can’t describe.

Yeah. It’s a dream. Has to be, doesn’t it? Too much of Bardin’s cheese before bedtime.

I’m sure that’s it.