Editing Count Joe Kürbisgärtner (section)

==The Legend==
Count Joe Kürbisgärtner appears to be a weathered old farmer dressed in overalls and a hat. In reality, he is a humble [[Vampire Count]] who lives on a plot of land on the outskirts of some damned blighted ground somewhere in the [[Empire]]. He cultivates multiple fields of crops, which he trades in the nearby town found just out of sight of his estate. His secret is well known, but ever since his presence was first reported almost three hundred years ago by a terrified tax collector who found a Master Vampire paying him in chickens and a pumpkin, he has sat on the backburner of the local nobles as well as the [[Witch Hunters]]. After all, most individuals are bright enough not to poke a sleeping dragon without cause.

No "living" being has knowledge of his origins. Only a few clues exist, like his family name appearing on the wall of a crumbling ruin atop an old mountain in Kislev once known to house a company of Blood Dragons; an old polished suit of armor that gathers dust in the corner of his "thinkin' room" in the old Estalian style; a skeletal horse, whose movements seem more deliberate than that of a mere reanimated beast; and a wagon wheel made of Gromril hung ornamentally from a fence post.

Count Joe has never been seen to exhibit a lust for blood in the living recollection of any man in the village. Some of the older gents who spend their days spinning yarns of incensed charging into portals to war on the domains of the Ruinous Powers, races of Dwarfs swallowed by locusts from the blackest of nights, virtuous knights that draw power from the blood of maidens, and similar such nonsense will claim to know what makes their neighbor differ. Sit enough with them on the right day and you'll hear that he was planted in the Earth a sinner and grew into a saint. That like a dog that loses sight but can hear for miles, the lack of light made Ol' Joe attune himself with the soil. That Joe loved a woman from the village, and she bore his child to another man so Joe turned to watch over his kin in the village for all time. No matter the story, the ending is the same. Count Joe Kürbisgärtner is here to stay, and is as good a neighbor and a better farmer than any have ever known. 

When angered, he summons an army of corpses from his blighted locale: the first time because a [[Warriors of Chaos]] army on their way to destroy the Empire pillaged his fields for rations while he was at market. The Emperor, only knowing that the intervention of "a crazy old farmer and his farmhands" saved the day, granted him title and a medal for his service. Joe added the former via simple black paint to the name on his mailbox; the latter hangs proudly on on his favorite scarecrow.

His "field hands" are various skeletal and incorporeal undead. The skeletons who work the fields wash up in the creek every evening, keeping their bones a bright polished off-white color, and the tools they use to work the fields are sharpened, oiled, and re-fastened while their master slumbers during the daylight hours. Phantasms appearing as the perfect visage of leering Death turn shimmering scythes on wheat and whisk them into bunches on the ground to be bundled by their corporeal companions. Joe never utilizes Zombies as he finds them disturbing (particularly to his flower beds), and finds the table manners as well as the outlandish slang and music preference of Ghouls to be offensive. He only ever had one Dire Wolf, an old hound dog named "Rip" who can be found terrorizing (literally) Chaos mutated wildlife down by the creek most days.

His personal symbol is a sunflower growing out of a skull. It adorns the crates he transports goods to town in, as well as an old battle flag that hangs from his barn when not borne into battle by skeletons wearing gardening gloves. When well and truly riled, there are stories that the plant life acts in unnatural ways; trees will leave a plot of land and avenge the owners slain by villains in the night, pathways into the area close before armies of the damned, fields of wheat blaze like fire when raiders attempt to cross them. 

When he and his crew march into battle, the old haywagon is hitched to a team of skeletal steeds. Whatever remains of Count Joe's crop is loaded into the rickety old oak vehicle and thrown at the enemies of the farm. The ill-will felt by scores of cheated laborers strengthens the frame of the wagon and passes into the plump ammunition causing pumpkin innards to wrap around men and strangle them, corn cobs to burn flesh and steel, and rhubarb to strike men with the force of a fully loosed broadhead arrow. 

Count Kürbisgärtner has a special rule when it comes to stragglers and weary travelers: all can resupply and rest in the solitude that is the amber acres of his rule, but you must be courteous, polite, and provide stories to entertain the old man. Those expecting him to feed an army must prove themselves worthy of his boons. There have been many times that Dwarven and Empire soldiers have stopped by while en route to the middle lands of the Empire, their waterskins dry and their cheese as hard as their bread. As travelers approach the fields, their presence has already been reported by the many scarecrows that dot the landscape, each shifting slightly as if buffeted by an unseen breeze in sequence until the sound reaches the Master wherever he may be. If need be these scarecrows are capable of taking care of the more rowdy visitors by shifting on their poles to bring their poisoned talons to bear, tearing into flesh and cutting loose the bone. 

When visitors arrive to the Count's humble mailbox he appears, walking through the golden stalks of wheat. Small groups of travelers are greeted by an old man in stitched trousers waving them inside the house to refill provisions and rest their weary bones. But when bands of mercenaries or armies come to his lands, they are greeted by a far different sight. Out of the tall hay he strides into the light from the starry sky above, clad in full armor and with a countenance more fiercely noble than any who had seen his former adornments could have thought possible. His ancient Blood Dragon armor is more simple in design than that of his former brothers, being made up of overlapping chestplates bordered by smoothed spaulders. A heavy skirt of leather with studs of brilliant copper covers his legs like a long kilt. While most Blood Dragons wield mighty swords of daemonic power, Joe bears an extremely heavy pitchfork on his shoulder which appears simple and elegant in design as if made by Elven crafstmen on Ulthuan. There have been times that the pitchfork has pierced through the armor of Chaos-tainted marauders and embedded into the flesh below, the unfortunate screeching in horror as their legs hardened into wood. Within moments the assailant transforms into a tree, their soul stored deep within the heartwood.

The sight of the Count alone, emerging from the wheat, has caused travelers to flee in panic. Those who stay are often desperately weary and hungry, and ask the Count for food, water, and a place to sleep away their exhaustion. That is when the Count challenges the leader of the group to one-on-one combat and the travelers can earn their vittles and fresh hay to sleep on. If they fail to impress the Count, they are given directions to the town and are promptly stalked by the scarecrows to make sure they do not attempt revenge upon the fields.

Those who are worthy enough to venture forth into the fields are lead down a dirt path. As they walk they are greeted by the sight of skeletons silently farming and tilling soil, plucking vegetables gingerly, and stacking arms upon each other to grab the ripest fruit. The skeletons are not the usual gritty specimens summoned forth by von Carsteins or Lahmians, but polished so their very bones shimmer and shine in the sunlight giving them an almost silvery appearance. Soon the Count shows his guests to the grand barn, made not of hay and wood but of of formed stone and marble, three levels high and just as long. Inside it is clean and tidy, with skeletal horses stomping and tossing false manes while in stalls. The horses show fluidity and personality, as if the '''spirit''' of the horse still finds joy in undeath. Past the stalls are the guest quarters; immaculate yet spartan racks line the walls with cloth covered hay beds in every bunk. On the opposite wall are kegs of wine, beer, water, and stacks of raw veg and fruit as high as an elf. This is where the worthy sleep and recharge to go about their journeys. Everyone from Bretonnian Knights and Dwarven Dragon Slayers to wary Witch Hunters touting droves of pilgrims have slept and gotten drunk in those halls, and all show their thanks to Joe when they leave. As they leave they always see Joe clapping a skeleton on the back and retiring to his room with the rising morning sun barely kissing the horizon.