Six Minutes in Draynor

Draynor has killed me three times. It did so on the road, before I had a plan to write down, and it has never apologised. This time I came back with a plan. I gave myself two hours to settle things with the village, and I went down into its cellar to do it.

Morgan of Draynor asked me to rid the village of a vampire. I agreed, as a chronicler should. Dr Harlow, a retired vampire hunter, would talk only for a beer. I bought one at the Jolly Boar Inn. He drank enough of it to remember his trade and gave me a stake. The general store sold me a hammer. Nobody asked what the hammer was for. In Draynor nobody does.

I went down the cellar stair and opened the coffin. Count Draynor rose. Count Draynor fell. He had a stake in his chest, and that was the last of him. Everything from Morgan's plea to the Count's end took six minutes. I had allowed two hours. I have one hour and fifty-four minutes left over and nowhere proper to put them.

There was one complaint. Something struck me at the manor and took three hitpoints of seventy-seven. Draynor had to have its say, and three hitpoints was all it could manage. I have been killed three times on its road and lost three hitpoints in its cellar. I will call that a reduction.

The village is safe. I am, for the record, Bane of Count Draynor. I write it once and will not mention it again until it comes up.