The Curse of Quincey Harker

I can still hear the screams of my parents as they lay dying, wrapped in each others arms. Being too young then to understand the thirst I knew not what I was doing, only that the burning voracious abyss inside must be quenched.
For many decades I carried the guilt of what I had done. I wore it as an armor to protect myself from the joys and enchantments of my blood rite. But a man such as myself can only pay penance for so long. There was so much to be learned, so much to be done. Who would have guessed that in my prime I would come to rival the great emperial dictator Vlad himself?
Now that age has crept upon me and the villas and hamlets have given way to sprawling cities and nations without kings I will set right a very old record of my parents, myself and the mentor from whom I learned so much. Perhaps it is best to ignore the circling of my enemies, for they are great and many numbered, but even they must have a part in this the internal sojourn of a dark god.


More to come should intrest be sparked.
This is the story of Quincy Harker son of Whilhelmina and Jhonathan Harker, characters in the immortal story written by Bram Stroker.