...you know my name, for you have whispered
it in fear for centuries, mindful of the horrors I carved upon history itself. Vlad III Dracula, son of the Dragon, and I
will have my throne, my nation will be free- at any cost- and I will bow the knee to no
man, Hungarian or Turk... emperor, or sultan. My story begins with my father, an ambitious
man who fought for many years to take his rightful place as the ruler of Wallachia,
a nation in what is today southern Romania. Stuck between the Kingdom of Hungary and the
Ottoman Empire, our nation was frequently nothing more than a political tool to be wielded
by one side against the other. After having to flee from Hungarian forces,
Sultan Mehmed II granted my father the support of a small army, with which to retake the
Wallachian throne. There was but one condition- myself and my
brother, Radu, would be left behind as royal hostages, and my father was to pay yearly
tribute to the Ottomans, swearing fealty to their rule. With their aid, my father retook the throne
and once more my family ruled- albeit over a land with no true independence, beholden
to powers far greater than itself. Predictably, my father would go on to betray
the Turks in 1444, when the European powers gathered together to try to stop the Ottoman
empire's expansion into central Europe. Despite some initial successes, unfortunately
for my father he was inevitably forced into a peace with the greater power, and sick of
my father's double-crossing, Lord Hunyadi at last invaded Wallachia, chasing my father
from the throne and killing him. My eldest brother, Mircea II was with my father
in the end, and the boyers, rich noblemen of my country, captured the two and put out
his eyes with red hot pokers before burying him alive. I would not quickly forget their hideous violence
against my kin, but like my father, I too would have to bide my time. Surprising, perhaps most of all to myself,
the Sultan did not immediately order Radu and I's deaths after my father's betrayal. The Sultan was always thinking ahead, and
saw no use for the murder of the only two legitimate heirs to the Wallachian throne. Instead he continued to keep us safe in his
care, until fate turned in his- and my- favor. Lord John Hunyadi, backed by various European
powers, launched once more into a campaign against the Ottoman empire in 1448, taking
with him the imposter king he had placed upon the Wallachian throne, Vladislav II. With Vladislav II, Sultah Mehmed granted me
an army with which to re-enter my home and take the throne. Shortly after my return however, the Ottomans
scored a decisive victory against Hunyadi's army- albeit at great cost. The forces lent me by the Sultan returned
to their homes, and with the failure of Hunyadi's crusade, I learned that Vladislav II now marched
upon Wallachia. A king is no king without an army to defend
his right to rule- and sadly, I found myself without said army. Forced to abdicate my rightful throne, I fled
into exile, vowing to return and reclaim what was my birthright. For long years I bode my time in my exile
to the only place friendly to my interests, the Ottoman empire. I found myself still in favor with the Sultan,
though I rankled at the knowledge that to the lecherous old ruler I was nothing more
than a pawn, and my kingdom and homeland, merely pieces of a greater puzzle in the Sultan's
ambitions for Europe. My father's death and my own young life had
taught me the virtue of patience however, and patiently I waited, knowing that the ever-evolving
conflict between Europe and the Ottoman Empire, between Christianity and Islam, would eventually
present an opportunity to return home. That opportunity came in 1456. Vladislav II was no longer as politically
useful to the Hungarian empire as he had been, and Lord Hunyadi offered me a chance to reclaim
my throne, on the condition that I remain faithful to Hungary in future conflicts. You may judge me and my father as you wish,
but know that I am a loyal man- loyal to my soldiers, my kin, and to my people. But I refuse to be the pawn of greater powers,
and my ultimate ambition was always to free my home from the influence of the two kingdoms
it found itself between. I swore my fealty to Hungary, knowing even
as I took that oath that I would one day break it. With the support of the empire, I re-entered
my homeland for a second time in 1456, and demanded that the impostor king Vladislav
II face me in single combat. A king who does not appear great, godlike
even, before his people is not long to rule, and despite my obvious physical superiority
in weapons training and youth both, the fool agreed to face me rather than hide behind
his army, as I and he both knew he must. We matched blades surrounded by a circle of
soldiers and boyers alike. Vladislav was a formidable man once, but age
had dulled his reflexes, sapped his speed and strength both. I toyed with the fool, my blade repeatedly
finding exposed flesh, his blood trampled into the mud underfoot. Cut in a dozen places, the pretender king
refused to surrender, and I could see by now in the eyes of the boyers gathered a silent
pleading for mercy- put the fool out of his misery, I could see their eyes saying, enough
is enough. They had had their fill of blood it seemed;
a pity, for I would drown many of them in a deluge of crimson in the weeks and months
to come. With a single thrust, I slew the imposter
and reclaimed my throne. Patience, as I've mentioned, is a hard-earned
virtue- and at last it would pay dividends. With my throne secure, I immediately turned
upon the wealthy boyers, the very men who years ago had betrayed and murdered my father,
plucked the eyes from my eldest brother and buried him alive. My wrath was immediate, and I put into practice
a technique I had learned during my long years of captivity in the Sultan's court. A greased log, sharpened on one end, would
be laid on the ground, with the victim made to sit upon the pointed tip and held fast
with the use of ropes attached to each leg. The victim and log would then be lifted into
the air, the body's weight impaling the victim upon the sharpened stake from below. I watched with no small satisfaction as the
men who had murdered my father were each in turn forced to watch the impalement of their
wives and children, before meeting the fate themselves. Next, I turned this favored punishment of
mine onto the ranks of betrayers lurking amongst the sycophants of my court, other wealthy
noblemen I knew- or suspected- of plotting behind my back. I would have my kingdom, and I would have
it be free of traitorous rats. During my life, I have held no great love
for the Turks or the Sultan, and yet I am no fool. Upon retaking my throne I began the customary
yearly tribute to the Ottomans, a move which angered my Hungarian beneficiaries. Yet this tribute would be cut off just years
later- my people would not be subject to any foreign power, Hungarian or Ottoman. I knew my move would bring conflict, and I
had long ago prepared for a coming war. Using my intimate knowledge of the Ottoman
empire and its forces, I launched a series of lightning raids across the border and into
Turkish lands, destroying many key provincial outposts and fortresses that could be used
to support an invasion into Wallachia. I took plunder as well, righteous repayment
for my years of forced tribute to the Sultan. As I knew would happen, the Ottomans responded
in force- and in 1462 and army 150,000 strong marched against me. I had no hope of defeating this larger force
in direct conflict, and so I turned the very land of my nation, and its people, against
the invaders. My forces fought a retreating action, forcing
the Turks to push ever deeper into my lands to secure a decisive victory. Yet as I steadily retreated, I poisoned wells,
breached levees and flooded marshlands, even ordered the evacuation of all people and animals
in the path of the Turkish forces. The sultan and his men would find no crumb
or morsel amongst my lands to feed their rumbling bellies, and with supply lines stretched to
the breaking point, fatigue settled in.. I spread illness amongst their ranks as well,
rounding up hordes of lepers, men and women with tuberculosis and other virulent plagues,
and marching them directly into the ranks of the invaders. I could not retreat forever though, and late
one night I launched a daring raid into the Sultan’s camp itself, though sadly slew
instead two grand viziers and not the head of the snake as I had planned. My forces could not stand against the superior
Turks for much longer, even half-starved and beset with all matter of virulence as they
were. I would send these invaders a message then,
a final warning to leave my lands and never return, on pain of greatest torture. Weeks later, my masterpiece would be revealed
to the invaders as they entered the now-deserted town of Targoviste. There, in a field 2,600 meters long and 1,100
meters wide, lay 20,000 souls upon sharpened stakes. Turkish prisoners and civilians both, the
great slaughter on full display held row upon row of families strung up together, infants
pierced along with their mothers. By the time the Turks found them, the birds
had made nests in their entrails. As I have said before, I would see my home
free, of both the Turks and the Hungarians- at any cost. Filled with horror, the Sultan ordered his
grand army to retreat, but left a force at the border headed by my younger brother, Radu-
now turned traitor against his own kin. Born of a gentler persuasion and a natural
charisma, Radu managed to do what I could not, and turn public support against me and
my rule not with threats of violence and grisly displays of torture, but with kind words and
promises of solidarity and forgiveness for past transgressions against my family. Radu, the younger brother I had protected
as best I could for years during our captivity, would now be my undoing as I lost the support
of my people and was once more chased into exile. The value of royal blood has always been greater
than gold, for it can buy more readily that which coin often cannot: political stability. I was captured by the Hungarians who imprisoned
me as an insurance policy, and once more I found myself biding my time, knowing that
in the end I- and only I- would be the one to decide my fate and that of my people. In the meantime, I entertained myself with
an old hobby, and took great delight in the horror of my guards as they discovered the
rows of impaled mice and robins which I had lured into my cell. In 1476, nearly 50 years of age, I was released
from my prison and once more on the march to reclaim my throne, supported by Hungary. Age and imprisonment had robbed me of my youthful
vigor and strength, yet I took to the field of battle regardless. I suppose I knew the fight would likely be
my last, but I would be the one to write my own ending for the histories, and not the
Hungarians or the Turks. Late in 1476, I fell, sword in hand, never
to rise again. Yet though my kingdom had eluded me a third
time, I had won the greater prize in the end, my name written in the annals of history forever
more. My name is Vlad II Dracul, the son of the
Dragon, and you know my name, for you whisper yet in fear, centuries after my death, mindful
of the horrors I inflicted upon my enemies.
"0:36 - ruler of Wakalia."
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Ualachia forever
avea freza de boss
Ce canal interesant... Mersi OP
Doamne ajuta
This is the real Dracula.