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Castlevania: Abstract of Atrophy 悪魔城ドラキュラ:戦乱者の抽象絵画 [PG13+]

Yonowaru in Chaos

gaspard de la nuit
ooh, Castlevania fic. I did this out of frustration out of my old one (and another Chronicles one I was planning), but they're gone with my failed hard drive. So while I'm recuperating, I've decided to write this one.

Oh yeah, and to commerate my 365 days at SPPf. *confetti*

This should probably be a short one, in terms of chapters, but if I decide to include certain excerpts from the games themselves, then it may stretch further than it should. Even so, chapters shouldn't be too long, since this is relatively carefree fic of mine (i.e. not very seriously taken).

As to which games this fic covers, it's centred around the events since the beginning of Castlevania: Bloodlines and (well) into Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin.

*Any* advice is accepted, just don't flatter/swagger me.

If anyone wants to be on a PM List, post it here (or PM me :p).

PM List said:

Contents said:
Mental Journal Excerpt Jan. 27 1912
Georg Corrente's Last Sarabande Aug. 25 1421
That Damned Foolish Thing in Sarajevo Jun. 28 1914 [In Progress]

And so, in normal fic tradition, I bequeath you with a prologue:

Mental Journal Excerpt: Jan. 27th 1912

He was painting again, tonight. It was never a pleasure to sleep while the faint scratches of his pencil echoed through the hollow, wasting house. While it was not unusual to hear him on the canvas again, it did not convince me that he would get any better. I found it annoying, with reasonable justifications, that he should be so stubborn as to try yet again. Even a cat knows not to be curious, twice, and he should’ve known very well that there was no such thing as a second chance.

Quitting, I opened my eyes, to peer through our bedroom door, ajar, with the flickering of the outside candle casting through. Being tired as I was, my eyes did not stay open for long. Instead, before I considered getting up and alerting him, I resumed the struggle with the irritating scratches and closed my eyes, repositioning my posture upon the rigid, creaking mattress. There was no point discouraging him tonight, nor on any other coming nights.

He seemed to hear my tossing over; the pencil strokes quickly came to a halt, and I heard his footsteps on creaking, wooden floor towards my room. I heard him adjust the door, and I felt his inquisitive gaze and the warmth of candlelight on my receding head. He did not remain for long, and quickly resumed.

It was not long, however, before he and I met with another disturbance. I heard the girls’ bedroom door open, followed by a sleepy shuffle of footsteps, too little to creak the floorboards.

‘Painting again, Mister Hitler?’

It was Chloe, her firm voice struggling against her sleepy facade.

‘Yes, Miss Chloe, I was hoping to try something...something new.’

It was not easy to hide his tired voice, and he seemed to meet increasing difficulty in doing so, even in the daylight hours.

‘Father doesn’t like you painting at night though,’ I heard her say. She always had this funny tone of voice when taking me into consideration, especially now, when her usually narcissistic-sounding voice was subdued by her drowsiness. ‘But he says you’re too stubborn to listen to him anyway, so he doesn’t tell you off often.’

She also had a gift at being a bit blunt, whether or not she was aware of it.

I heard him sigh.

‘I’m afraid he’ll have to be patient with me then. With Vienna’s standards, I don’t think I will be achieving any satisfaction from him or the Academy anytime soon.’

‘I’m sure you’ll make it someday, Mister Hitler.’

‘Thank you, Miss Chloe, you are really too kind. But drawings of buildings alone won’t get me far with the Academy.’

That had been one of the reasons why I found his enamoured painting of architecture quite frustrating. I admired his works of the Viennese scenery, but with only that in consideration, his pursuit of professional painting was all but a pipe dream. He had been told again and again that his interests and gifts lay in architecture, but he was tenacious, and despite the Academy’s, and my, recommendations, he continued to pursue an occupation of painting, one that certainly didn’t get him far, with economics taken into account.

‘Regardless, it is only right for Father, Melanie and I to give our support to you,’ Chloe said, her voice reclaiming some of her insistence.

‘I’ll try my best,’ I heard him sigh, before Chloe said her goodnights and resumed to her sleep.

With my ears better tuned in, I realised that there was something different about Adolf’s strokes. Tonight, they were more rounded, and gentle, it could not be; there was a different Adolf Hitler outside. He resented the animate in his paintings for as long as I had met him, and yet, clearly, his pencil strokes were remarkably round and flowing. There was something wrong; I must investigate.

Despite my stimulation to inspect this new approach, my aging bones did not allow me to elevate myself from the bed without expending a veritable amount of effort. When I did so, I reached for the door. He noticed me immediately as the door swayed open, his gaze shifting to the dimmer part of the room where I stood. As I had anticipated, there was no opera house, nor a countryside castle, but rather, an amateur sketch of a female figure reminiscent of those marble figures from the Volksoper. Even to the untrained eye, it may have been the messy sketchwork that would eventually become a grand masterpiece to be hung in the walls of the Louvre. But I knew better.

‘Her arms are too short, Adolf,’ I said, pointing to the arm resting on the figure’s shoulders, her hand pinned on her robe.

He sighed again, resting the pencil, crimson in the candlelight on the aisle bench. He stared at it for a while, not investigating, but a general stare.

‘What is her name?’ I asked. I wanted to help him, seeing as he had finally come to a turn of principle.

‘Germania,’ he said, with the same tired voice. It was hard to discern any expression from his tone; he was holding back his anger again, I assumed.

It would be of no use to comfort him now, so I left it at that.

‘We’ll be moving out of Vienna in about three months,’ I said instead.

‘Thank you for your notification, Mister Brauner,’ he said, still holding his tired, expressionless tone.

‘Do you have a heading?’

‘No I don’t, Mister Brauner.’

‘Do you wish to follow us?’

‘To where, may I ask?’

‘To Ypres, in Belgium, near the French border.’

‘Very well, then.’

He inquired no further.

I went back into the bedroom, shutting the door, but a wind from an open window slammed it with an unhesitant thud. As I went to bed, I heard a violent upheaval of canvas, then a shout of released fury.

It was the last I heard from him before we moved out of Vienna.
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lol Hitler.

Very interesting prologue. Very well written prologue. Very well slap me on the PM list-ed prologue.

Great things are to be expected, Mr. Yono.

Yonowaru in Chaos

gaspard de la nuit
Rargh, this took me a three grueling nights to research and write and it takes you 14 minutes to read through the entire thing >.<

So you got slapped. Real hard.

Oh yeah, and I try to stick to real history as much as possible, despite any evil dark overlords rising out to take over mankind, but yeah, real history.
At least you have produced very excellent quality from that research. It's only natural for the writer to go through more effort than the reader. >_>

Excellent. I am also expecting more Sin-sized cookies here. 8D

Real history makes it all the more interesting. ^_^

Yonowaru in Chaos

gaspard de la nuit
It's hard taking the perspective of a 40-year old man, who supposedly already has the early signs of arthritis, and then trying to describe what seems to be 20-year old Hitler.

And next chapter (which I'm currently writing), I'm completely switching...to the Great War!

Yonowaru in Chaos

gaspard de la nuit
Grr...I'm never using Enhanced Interface ever again.

This came out longer than it should've, so it got released as a separate chapter. Forgive me as I facedesk at this chapter.

Georg Corrente’s Last Sarabande Aug. 25 1421​
I have better choices for you than her, Georg,’ she had always said.

You’ll never go far with that Bartley woman,’ he had always said.

But it was only of my rebellious nature that I should go against the ill-intentioned advice of my parents. To strip a man of free love is to maim his soul, to deny him of liberty and sex, and of course, in this day and age, it is of the most ridiculousness. As lust-driven as I was in this unapproved relationship, I held no qualms in admitting that the passion I had for Elisabeth was certainly romantic in nature.

Of course, I long had a suspicion of her nocturnal nature, and I could not help but think that my lack of sufficient understanding of her would eventually be the breaking point of our relationship, as strained as it was in our continuous midnight meetings. She never gave me a chance to inquire, as much as I had the opportunities to, giving me a lingering feeling that she was hiding something.

It would be at a later time that I should be thoroughly concerned of what this would become as our relationship advanced. For now, we would be plotting an escape to her abode where I would be free of parental custody.

And there I was, in the middle of night, out in the courtyard, waiting for her call. I waited longer than I did that night, being left to the nocturne of insects and owls, instead of what could have been a dance in the moonlight - a pastime of hers’. No matter, though, for the wait was always well worth it. As I stood by the ancient maple by the hedge, animated into a wall of crystal by the moonlight, I heard a flurry of fluttering cloth, before I turned around, to follow.

It was Elisabeth, her crimson dress landing like a descent of roses on the leaf-littered ground. Her dark, emerald hair shining in the moonlight, her peppery lips curled. Her pearly white face, flawless and emanating, was the same colour as the moon. In fact, she was the moon, a Lady of the Night most Graceful.

‘Corrente?’ she addressed. I could not tell from her hollow voice whether or not it was a question.

‘Yes?’ I replied.

‘It’s a fast dance, isn’t it?’ She maintained a low tone, one that drew me in closer. She moved away, though, at a walking pace, as if to emulate the steps of a dance.

‘Yes, a lively one.’ My gaze followed her elegant stride intently; the rhythm and timbre of her enamel footsteps was tune enough for me.

‘Corrente,’ she addressed again, walking back towards me, before reaching for my waist and hand, assuming a dancing posture. I did not expect this- a dance to no music- but I didn’t care. She wanted to dance and as rare as a dance came by, I was not one to forfeit the chance. Her eyes maintained an enamoured gaze with mine; I could not tell which one of us was more delved into the other.

I assumed the lead immediately as confident as I was; she wanted a lively dance, and I would give her one with much flair and passion. Yet, as confident as I was, there was something odd about Elisabeth’s trail. It was unnatural- perhaps it was I- as I pulled her into an allegro, she held me back at largo, but I didn’t stop and readdress. I did not wish to stop; I could not stop at all.

I would do whatever this woman would tell me to, willingly with no regret. Gradually, I felt my mind crash as she directed me to a turn, but I didn’t need to retaliate. A flexible man I was, I allowed her to direct and shepherd, like a puppet, eager to do whatever his puppeteer directed.

As the dance reached ritardando, I followed her waltzing shifts, twisting and turning beyond whatever my physique could handle. I was lost now, but my puppeteer stayed with me, directing my every movement and heading. I eventually became exhausted, as the dance seemed to near an end; my head came to a rest at her shoulders, where she would continue to lead me to the end.

And as the dance came to a coda, our steps slowed. I continued to rest my head on her unusually cold shoulders, her perfume tickling my only conscience sense. Amidst the confusion, she was my alcohol, fuelling this drunken waltz.

Before I regained my consciousness from the hypnotic dance, I felt a sharp jab at the base of my neck, a jab that did not withdraw, and instead, became an injector of a poison that slowly made my body as cold as the snow left outside an abode. I begged the warmth to stay, but it didn’t. It came too quick for me to reminisce, and when it was all gone, I had no morale, I had no will and I certainly did not have a confidant anymore.

<X3 <X3 <X3 <X3 <X3 <X3​

Georg Corrente’s brother, Philippe, bore witness to the murder of his brother. Elisabeth Bartley was brought to court and was charged as a vampire, and for the murder of Count Corrente’s son. Despite her being a vampire however, she was not promptly executed, for unknown reasons. Instead, she became held under house arrest at the Čachtice Castle in Hungary.

It was not until it was discovered that she was the neice of Count Dracula Vlad Tepes that she was brought under a private court trial, and secretly executed. It is rumoured that Bartley was buried in the graveyard local to the Čachtice Castle, but other documents suggest that her corpse was moved to the Bartley family crypt due to complaints of paranoid villagers.

Regardless, in 1914, Dorottya Szentes, a Transylvanian witch would then succeed to revive the Countess, in all her beauty and a refreshed urge for revenge.
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My Bloody
Vampire Girlfreind... NICE.
Put me on the PM list (you had to see that coming).

Can't wait for what comes next... I need to see the castle (not rushing you... I just like the feeling of entering the castle for the first time)

Seeing that you are doing this one, I plan to make my Castlevania fic... more elaborate than I planned. I have spent the last week figuring out the kinks in my plot. SO I will enjoy reading yours, and it will give me motivation to do mine. . (I keep opening the page, holding my finger over the keys, and then I think '**** it')

The three days of research have paid off.
Ooh very nice Yono. *claps* Well written as ever, and an interesting story to boot. Looking forward to the next one.

I don't know why you were so headdesky about it though. Even your PM was rather... unenthused. It's good man, don't think otherwise.

Yonowaru in Chaos

gaspard de la nuit
Vampire Girlfreind... NICE.
Put me on the PM list (you had to see that coming).


Can't wait for what comes next... I need to see the castle (not rushing you... I just like the feeling of entering the castle for the first time)

Bad news, though. The castle isn't going to come in until the end of the fic. Even if I introduce the main plot of Castlevania: Bloodlines in, that would, at best, feature Castle Proserpina, but not Castlevania itself. This fic is more chronicles than anything. Since I'm focusing on Brauner though, you might be pleased to hear that I will be introducing the ideas behind the portraits as real locations (including Nest of Evil. The fact that the Dawn of Sorrow bosses appear first chronologically in Portrait of Ruin makes it all the more manipulable).

Seeing that you are doing this one, I plan to make my Castlevania fic... more elaborate than I planned. I have spent the last week figuring out the kinks in my plot. SO I will enjoy reading yours, and it will give me motivation to do mine. . (I keep opening the page, holding my finger over the keys, and then I think '**** it')

Yeah, that's what I'm doing with my current one...you feel inspired and really excited while you read through a fic, but while Microsoft Word loads...you lose the rush. And yes, then you go '**** it'.

The three days of research have paid off.

It was actually harder now, because I planned to base Bartley off her real person, Elisabeth Bathory (the most infamous serial killer in history) and the two characters kept on contradicting each other.

Ooh very nice Yono. *claps* Well written as ever, and an interesting story to boot. Looking forward to the next one.

I don't know why you were so headdesky about it though. Even your PM was rather... unenthused. It's good man, don't think otherwise.

I feel more inspired when writing at night, but my mind becomes less clear...and I fumble a lot. Not to mention that when I edit in the day, the edits are usually enormous....