Magic, Blood & Gunpowder – A Fantasy RP (Closed/TG Approval)

[Greater Latica]

Syliv, Carvania
4E-150

The rhythmic drum beats heralded the arrival of the forward elements of the Golgothan Expeditionary Force, the main part of the garrison was setting up camp not too far from the castle, but a contingent had been sent forwards to occupy the castle. At the head of the column was Prince Marius of Reikstierre, the red and white banner of Reikstierre flying next to him, carried aloft by one of his personal lifeguards. He had been appointed by the Emperor as Golgotha’s new representative on the Carvanian court, and he was determined to make a memorable first impression.

His cuirass and plate armour was polished to a high shine, his hand resting on the hilt of his runefang sword, the symbol of his office as an Elector Prince, as he and his cohort marched up to the Castle. On his other hip was his holstered Borchardt automatic pistol, a symbol of his own personal wealth, and that of his Principality. Reikstierre was one of the wealthier states that made up the Empire. Prince Marius was young, and had been heavily educated by his, now late, father from a very early age in the art of statesmanship, trade, and warfare. These were all things that Prince Marius took to incredibly well. The young Prince had even been tipped to one day succeed Emperor Karl Franz.

The Golgothan troops marched directly into courtyard at the heart of the castle, and Prince Marius stepped forwards, surrounded by his lifeguards, drew his sword and pounded on the thick wooden doors with the hilt, making a loud booming sound that echoed around the courtyard.

“On the orders of Emperor Karl Franz of the Second United Golgothan Empire, I demand that you open these doors, and grant me an audience.” He shouted, loud and authoritatively.

[Cheye]

Donastierre, Golgotha – 4E-150

“Hans you can’t be serious. I love you but it’s impossible.” The Duchess scoffed, her sophisticated accent betraying her status as the cloaked pair sauntered down the street towards the docks.

“It’s not. Your son is only a boy, everyone knows you’re the real power behind the throne here in Donastierre. Why shouldn’t we?” The voice of an equally sophisticated middle aged man let out.

“Because it’s wrong Hans. The Dona will freeze over and the dead will rise again before my lecherous husband gives up his throne.” She replied.

“The Dona used to freeze over didn’t it? Back in the 3rd Era the armies of Nordland fled across the ice to escape the old Ascendancy, if I’m not mistaken the dead were kicking about back then too.” Hans let out coyly.

“Well when you put it like that…” Duchess Helena sighed, imagining herself being finally free of her boorish fool of a husband and able to do whatever she pleased with whoever she fancied.

“Now my sweet I must depart. My ferry won’t wait all night, rest assured I will return with a solution to all our problems.” He grinned, turning to face her.

Slowly he brushed a hair from her face and kissed her passionately. There, on the street, in the middle of the docks, for all to see. Not that the wretches nearby cared about two hooded strangers, at this time of night people tended to avoid this part of town and those who were about scuttled off with better places to be.

“My darling Hans, solve my problem and my heart is yours.” She grinned wickedly, and quickly turned to leave.

Syliv, Carvania – 4E-150

“On the orders of Emperor Karl Franz of the Second United Golgothan Empire, I demand that you open these doors, and grant me an audience.” The voice rang out.

Slowly the great dark-wood doors creaked open and the Golgothan delegation was ushered inside, up the mahogany staircase that dominated the central lobby and through a doorway that led to the throne room.

At the far end, Prince Francis Van Der Barr sat, a silver crown adorned with black onyx gemstones on his head, a fur blanket covering his legs; his court were assembled around him and they grew instantly silent as Prince Marius approached.

“Marius.” Francis let out with a smile as the other Prince approached. The rest of his court bowing respectfully to their guest. “We are honoured to have you here. May I express my most sincere condolences for your losses at the capital and I pray that together we can find justice.”

Josef Van Der Barr stepped forward to the right of his father and added; “My father has decreed that I now command the witch hunters working within the city.” He was clearly quite proud of this fact and smiled confidently at Marius. He too wore a shining cuirass for the occasion, a memoir of his time in the Imperial Army back when the Van Der Barr’s spent more time in Golgotha than in Carvania. “I will personally ensure they do all they can to assist you during your stay.”

[Sarrin]

Mouth of the Galbridge Pass
4E-150

THUD. THUD. THUD.

The smash of the axe hilts against the wall of Blood Oak shields boomed through the pass roaring at the oncoming Templars. The gleaming armour was now merely a charge away from the wall and solidifying their formations as marshals ran up and down the ranks. The Garnians were in a tight wall shield with the front line shields covering the mouth of the passage and the second line ready to defend against arrows. Jarl Clew himself had found a place in the center of the line and brandished the ancient Sword of Thorns carved from the bones of the dragon Tharamyx. All Jarls of Garniem possessed such a weapon or item made from their portion of the dragons corpse but few brandished them as openly as the Clew’s of the Dark Forest. The Sword of Thorns itself was a razor sharp blade with a dark green emerald engraved into its hilt. Legends said those who felt its sting became infected with a vile corruption that drove them mad until they descended into being little more than savage beasts.

As the Garnian force continued its beat a division of archers moved to the front of the Templar army. The Garnian second rank raised their shields to provide aerial cover.

“Draw and Ignite” yelled out the Templar commander from atop his horse as the archers readied there shots igniting them on fire before raising them to aim.

“Loose” he cried as they released their arrows each one descending upon the Garnians like drops of rain only to be caught in their shields.

“I hope you’ve got more than that!” Clew called out causing laughter to break across his ranks antagonising the Templar commander.

The commander grunted and issued another call for arrows to be released. Like the volley before they made little impact to the resilient line furthering his irritancy. As he signalled the archers to prepare the next round he raised his hand to the sky and signalled his heavy forces to advance.

“Jericho, Eastgate, Advance along the flanks, Archers Draw”

On que the two largest divisions of heavily armoured Templars advanced along the sides of the archers towards the pass. They were mostly shielded on the front lines with longswords but behind them were taller men armed with great swords. There heavy plate armour shined blinding some of the Garnians with the sun’s rays. When the archers let off their next volley the thunderous banging of the Garnian shields stopped as they dug themselves in ready to hold against the Templar charge.
Clew watched carefully as the archers didn’t draw a new round instead leaving the fighting to the slowly approaching Templar legions. He tapped the shoulder of the soldier in from of him and let out a visceral howl accurately reflecting the sounds of wolves on the hunt in the Dark Forest. As he did so the second Garnian line lowered their shields from its defensive point and drew their bows ensuring their action was concealed. Each carefully drew an arrow into their bows and waited for the signal to fire. Clew waited as the Templar heavy line got steadily closer only shouting once they had begun to raise weapons and expose small vulnerabilities in their armour.

“TU’LOCK BRIGAR” he shouted as if summoning a wave of arrows from the earth itself. The second Garnian line quickly let lose their arrows with onto the unsuspecting Templar lines. Nearly every arrow hit at a strap or gap in their armour collapsing many of the line and disabling others entirely. Perhaps the most amusing result however had been the single arrow that had collided onto the head of the commander’s horse. Striking through its eye with a precision that only the most skilled huntsman would have been able to achieve the horse toppled collapsing the commander under its weight who found himself entirely immobilised.
Despite this wave however the Templars continued their charge, albeit with now distracted force, and smashed into the Garnian wall’s sides. Clearly expecting the shields to be far weaker some of the Templars found themselves pushed back by the unyielding housecarl as others began to thrust their swords over the lines in hopes of striking at the defenders. The Garnians began grabbing Templars from over the line and throwing them to the floor behind it where other members of the housecarl smashed through their armour with primal brutality. Clew himself joined this second line in their slaughter of the shocked Templars none of whom had expected, or even believed, that they could be lifted in such heavy armour let alone butchered with such ease.

When at last the commander managed to escape from under his horse with the aid of the archers he ordered a new division of pike men to charge into the center. The Templars on the flanks had begun to adapt themselves to the Garnians and struck at the grabbing giants before they could be stolen. Still however they found their numbers slowly reduced while making little ground with the strikes they made being largely shrugged off by the now seemingly bestial creatures before them. The Garnians appeared entirely at lost with their humanity the front line even occasionally making small gaps to thrust a blade into the unsuspecting Templars hearts. Their eyes filled with a ruthless hunger and ferocity that instilled terror into the Templar forces.

This stalemate continued for hours until the sun had risen and descended from its perch. Around the pass were fields of Templar corpses with the Garnians finding themselves without a single casualty though with many being significantly wounded with fingers and eyes missing. The commander was aghast at the lac of progress when at last the rest of the Templar force arrived announcing themselves with the percussion of their marching feet. While the vanguard had been few more than 700 men the full force now extended their ranks to over 8000. As he saw their forms appear over the hill Clew bowed his head before looking to his men. The Templars had retreated on the emergence of their forces now leaving the Garnians finally with a break that they greatly needed. His men were tired and wounded and now escaping their blood rage they found their wounds more severe and needing treatment. Worse still they could see little of the newly arrived force and found themselves largely concerned by new force. An air stirred in their ranks waiting for their Jarl’s words which he gave with a stoicism they needed.

“We’ve done Morgath proud and we’ve done Garniem justice. The messenger will be close enough now to the King that when they break our line they will be powerless to feel our people’s rage”

The Garnians nodded the wounded beginning to return to their positions as the heavy feet of Templar soldiers could be heard approaching their lines.
“We could hold this wall against another hundred or maybe even a thousand but there’s no fun in that. Worse still these torches will probably use some sad old tool to break through given they have about as much honour between them as a dragon’s shit”
The soldiers let out a roaring laugh now ready to fight.

“So why don’t we deny them that sick satisfaction and show them the same aggression they greeted us with. These shiny men remind me a lot of goblin war parties with their little trinkets so who says we do to them as we would to rats?”

The men cheered as cries of “TU’LOCK BRIGAR” called from the ranks. The second wave reassembled themselves and some dug shields into the ground like ramps taking a new axe, sword or dagger from their belt. On perfect timing the new offensive began as they finished their prep and claymore wielding Templars collided into the front line which gave them small ground leading to many Templars experiencing renewed confidence in their abilities. This however was short-lived as the second line leaped over the shields and onto the unsuspecting knights crushing those they landed on and quickly clearing their immediate vicinity with brutal efficiency. As more descended disorder filled the knight’s ranks as they turned away from the wall to deal with the attackers exposing their less protected backs. Seeing this the wall opened and the attackers found themselves surrounded and slaughtered on all sides.

This victory was short lived however as more Templars quickly arrived as reinforcements. Slowly the Garnians began to fall under the overwhelming offensive often continuing to kill the knights right up until the last threads of life were snapped and even ten often collapsing onto unsuspecting soldiers immobilising them. Those who made up the wall continued to largely hold their line though now fighting less as an interlocking force and more as shielded aggressors. When at last one fell Templars began to pour through soon surrounding the other attackers. The most elite of these soldiers approached Jarl Clew who had been firing off arrows over the line harassing the Templars and killing the less well armoured.

“Surrender and you may be shown mercy Vampire” The highest ranking of them demanded as they surrounded the bloodthirsty Jarl.

“Vampire eh? Well I suppose you got the bloodlust right” the Jarl retorted before leaping at the ranks slicing through their armour as if it were paper with his dragon bone sword. Indeed his ferocity was unmatched even by the other Garnians as he evaded the enormous blades of the Templar ranks. As more collapsed around him the last of the Housecarl collapsed and soon the entire offensive force were attempting to claim the kill or disable him. Despite the highly trained forces it was an inexperienced pike man who claimed the first hit managing to spear the Jarl’s foot as he decapitated a heavily armoured captain. The pike was quickly slaughtered but soon the Jarl began to take other blows as his mobility had been taken aback. When the last blade pierced his heart he let out a savage howl collapsing onto his attacker blade first ensuring a final beast would await him in the Great Hunt.

The field was littered with hundreds of corpses many facing wounds that brutalised their bodies but worst still the fight had yielded little real gain for the Templars as they soon found the thick thorny vines that had enclosed the pass were near impenetrable and indeed struck back with brutality at those that sought to break them or those unfortunate enough to so much as approach with fire.

[Greater Latica]

Ancelstierre 4E-150

Everything was clear in Ancelstierre’s ‘undercity’, the criss-crossed streets built into the very foundations of the city above. After Ancelstierre was rebuilt following the Vampire siege, much of the new city was built directly on the top of the old city, now buried and forgotten under earth and stone. As Golgotha had industrialised much of it had been hollowed out, forming slums for Golgotha’s poorest and most exploited, and as such it had become a haven for criminals and miscreants. The antics of the undercity’s inhabitants was tolerated, it kept them out of the upper levels and away from the eyes of the nobility, and kept them separate from the law abiding people in the workers villages.

A distant rumble like thunder broke the silence, as an early morning train clattered over one of the steel bridges that crossed the undercity, ferrying people from the workers villages to the factories. Covered by the noise of the passing train there was a sudden flurry of movement in the street, the sound of boots on cobbles inaudible over the train. Golgothan troops moved quickly darting in and out of alcoves and alleyways, trying to maintain the element of surprise.

An officer strode out from the shadows, crossing the street to a door, with a small coloured oil lamp hanging next to it. He raised his hand and pounded on the door with his clenched fist. The door opened a crack, and a cautious eye looked the man up and down, “We’re closed, come back later when we’re open.”

“I need to see someone upstairs its urgent,” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a brassy coloured 10 mark coin and placed it into her hand.

The door slammed closed, the lock chain clicked, and then opened fully. Faster than she could respond, he shoved the door open, and rapidly drew his long barrelled revolver, placing the muzzle against her stomach. She shuddered at the cold metal’s touch. He reached out with his other hand and grasped her wrist, leant forwards and whispered into her ear.

“Take me upstairs to whoever owns this place. If you scream or draw attention, I’ll make you regret it.” He nudged her with the pistol, “Lead the way.”

He followed her across the room to a small spiral staircase tucked away in the corner of the room. They climbed up and into another room. The change in decor was drastic, the upstairs was elegantly furnished, with expensive fabrics and woods decorating much of it, and lit with bright gas lights. There were no drunkards slumped on the floors sleeping of the worst of last night’s merriment, like there were downstairs.

“Madame, Madame Rosalind?” She called out nervously, “I need to speak to you.”

An office door at the end of the main room opened, and a woman walked through sporting a quizzical look, but before she could speak, the officer stepped to his side and raised his pistol pointing it directly at her.

“So this is the famous Madame Rosalind, pleasure house owner extraordinaire?” he said with a snide tone. He started walking towards a table at the edge of the room, keeping the pistol trained on her as he moved. He sat himself down on the corner of the table, crossing his knees. On the table was a fruit bowl, he peered into it, and pulled from it a green apple. He took a large bite, the crunch breaking the tense silence.

“I hope you don’t mind, if I help myself?” taking another bite, making a conscious effort not to break eye contact, he gestured to the maid that had led him up here, “I’ll have a whiskey, don’t skimp on the ice. You know it’s funny, for a civilisation as advanced as ours, how we haven’t sussed out how to make something as simple as ice on demand.” Finishing his apple, he took his drink from the barmaid, raised it to his eye, peering in at the ice, before taking a sip, “We have to transport this stuff from Nordstierre every winter when the Dona’s tributaries freeze up. I’ve heard the engineer’s guild is creating this machine that uses a steam engine to make ice, how mad is that? Using a heat powered machine to make something cold? It’s almost as mad as a human, helping vampires to bring down humanity. How does it feel to be a race traitor?” His expression changed as he stood up, “Oh we know Ms Rosalind, we’re the government, of course we know. Now I need you to tell….” There was the sound of tinkling glass, as the bottle smashed across his back, soaking his tunic with whiskey. The barmaid had struck him with it hard, cutting him off mid-sentence. As he fell from the table his pistol fired, narrowly missing Madame Rosalind.

There was the sound of splintering wood from downstairs, as the troops forced their way in, before filing up the spiral staircase.

“Arrest everyone inside, shoot anyone who resists!” The officer shouted, collecting himself and climbing to his feet, "Move quickly now, I think they went this way."

Syliv 4E 150

“Very good,” Prince Marius smiled, “It’s nice to see you’ve been proactive. We should consolidate our efforts, it’ll be more efficient that way. I have a man, a witchhunter, a Mr Gerhardt, who will be of some use to your investigation. Hopefully with some work we can resolve this issue, and Carvania can get the recognition it deserves as an incorporated Principality of the Empire.”

[Cheye]

Ancelstierre, Golgotha - 4E-150

Rosalind hurried quickly up into the loft-room that served as a special private boudoir for higher end clients, an overnight customer and the girl he was with had risen quickly from the bed at the sound of the gunshots and began to protest her interruption as she dived towards the upper window and furiously unlocked it.

From below a scream and another gunshot rang out and the footsteps of the soldiers rushing up the back stairs to the loft room shook the floorboards. Rosalind unlocked the window and was about to clamber out when another gunshot rang out and a sharp pain went through her collar. She didn’t stop, leaning out of the window as a second shot pierced her chest. That one hit something important and she cried out in agony, slumping forward and coughing blood out through the window into the street far-below.

“We’ve got you now, traitor!” the soldier’s voice rang out as he crossed the room to her, the couple by the bed hurriedly covering their nakedness with bedsheets.

More soldiers stormed in, their weapons pointed at Madame Rosalind as the first grabbed her and pulled her away from the window, letting her collapse into a fragile dying bundle on the floor. As the officer arrived, she grimaced; “Guess that fucking Vampire has killed me too…” She sighed, or attempted to sigh, as blood trickled out of her mouth instead, making her cough; “…Figured he would sooner or later.” She looked up into the officer’s eyes. “Don’t let me come back like one of them.”

“You won’t. It isn’t too late to help us; you can still do your duty woman?!” The officer pressed, leaning down towards her as he looked over her fatal wounds.

“Hans Von Richter….” She said hoarsely, struggling for air. “…Donastierre… You must act… or… or…” Her eyes closed and her voice faded, with her dying breath she finished the sentence; “…or there’ll be… war… a..a…a…and death.”

The Neuhassen Wilds, North of Golgotha – 4E-150



Hans had passed through seven villages now on his trek into the pinewood forests northeast of the Dona. At first he had maintained the guise of a hooded merchant, travelling north to barter for furs. He had fed glutinously in each village but was careful not to kill anyone and leave no sign that a creature of the night was on the prowl this far north save the tell-tale pin-prick marks on their necks. When the roads became more sparse and the villages further away from one another he had embraced his pure-blood powers and turned into a brown wolf, bounding through the woods and preying upon the forest creatures for some semblance of sustenance.

That was dangerous. Stories told of Vampires going insane from drinking the blood of animals and losing their hold on reality. Some became stuck in their animal forms, others reverted back in body but not in mind, their personality replaced by the carnal nature of the wolves, bats or cats they had become too closely linked with.

Hans blocked such thoughts from his mind as he pressed on, bounding uphill through the forest as he rushed towards his goal. He knew he was close now. Not just close to the legendary battleground he was seeking, but close to liberating his lover, serving his purpose and fulfilling his destiny. When the Ascendancy was restored he would be remembered as the Vampire that played the most important role in restoring it. Jacques de la Grey may have given him the means, but Jacques was a fool if he thought Hans wouldn’t use it.

As he reached the brow of the hill he transformed back into his human form, slicking his smooth black hair back with one hand as he looked out over the sight in front of him.

It was not a hill he had raced up, but instead the side of a gigantic crater that stretched out for a good few miles in every direction. Inside the crater, everything was dead; the trees, the grass, the air. No breeze blew through the crater as Hans descended it into it, no insects hummed and no birds sang, it was as if this entire stretch of forest had been exterminated entirely and had never grown back.

Hans knew what this place was. He strode down into the crater, his long dark cloak billowing out behind him as he went. A skull looked out from the dirt below his feet, then he noticed the spears littering the ground between the dead trees. More bones and long-dead bodies appeared as he pushed closer to the centre. The stories were true.

During the height of the Vampyric Ascendancy the roving war bands of the Ice Queen Pryscylla, who claimed to rule the lands far to the north, had invaded down through the Wilds, preying on the many humans who had fled into Neuhassen and Oberdon to escape the Vampires south of the river. Pryscylla’s hordes had once regularly crossed the Dona’s tributaries and raided Nordland which Vlad Van Drak had refused to tolerate after absorbing the kingdom into his Ascendancy. After seeing off several of her attacks, he ordered Cecilia de la Grey to cull the populations of Nordland, Neuhassen and Oberdon to raise an army large enough to dwarf the Ice Queen’s war bands and march north until she met them in combat.

This spot was where that epic battle had taken place. Dubbed the Battle of the North by Vlad’s court historians it had been presented to the Vampires at court as a victory despite the fact it had ended with a blue magical explosion that had consumed the forest for miles around when Cecilia’s zombies and ghouls had overpowered the Ice Queen’s life guard and surrounded her. The explosion burnt the flesh from the bones of Pryscylla’s own army but had also killed Cecilia de la Grey and broken her hold over the army she commanded in the process.

Now that army was just lying there, abandoned and dead like everything else in the crater and thanks to Jacques, Hans Von Richter now had the means to revive it.

As he reached the centre of the crater, he began to spot piles of ash; the magic that had generated the explosion and killed even the air inside the crater still lingered and left the ashes undisturbed. One of those piles was Cecilia de la Grey, he thought as he pulled the page of the Larashel Necronomicon from his pack. The page that her blood-brother had given to him.

He looked out over the blackened horizon as he drew his sword and began to speak the words…

[Pageon]

Corynx slowly awoke laying face down on a sandy beach, his head pounding and as he touched his scalp he could feel the sickly warm drip of blood from a cut to his forehead. As his memory slowly came back to him he remembered his compatriots that had been travelling with him aboard the elven ship, Swift Wave, a mercantile vessel that had been taking them to the elven trading post on the Golgothan coast. His frantic searching led him to the realisation that he may have suffered a concussion from whatever had happened on the ship, the pounding in his skull with every sharp movement of his head would intensify to the point where he thought he would pass out. He continued to push past the pain to find the other elves who were no doubt shipwrecked along with him, so that as a group they could determine where they were and how to reach their destination.

His methodical movements designed to provide the least pain in his head kept him moving up the river into the mainland, his attempt to find his compatriot elves of little use. Either they had all been killed in whatever had happened, or they were just as lost as he and had maybe headed further in land away from the water, as he slowly kept moving he began to make out the outline of a small village and as he slowly made his way into town the stares of the villagers were apparent even in his dazed state, he only made it several feet into the central area of the village before he collapsed once more.

- Several hours later -

He slowly awoke once more this time the trail of blood that had been coming from his forehead had disappeared and his head was bandaged, his body was still weak and his head pounded only slightly less than when he first awoke on the beachside. His body was ever so slightly more awake than it had been on the slow walk to the village, the room he was in was dark, with stone walls on all sides, a wooden door was the only entrance in, or exit out. His nerves suddenly raised, the combat drills instilled in him over centuries and that slight awareness gifted by his bond caused him to tense up, to feel threatened. But he could not deny the weakness in his limbs, his muscles would not listen to his commands fully. He could barely sit up, and swing his legs over the bedside let alone make a run for what he assumed was freedom, though in a foreign land.

It was at this moment that the door into the room slowly opened up and a small elderly man shuffled inside, his clothes were obviously that of a human peasant, but it did not denote of which nation he belonged, Corynx could remember he was on a mission to Ancelstierre to deepen relations with Golgotha and the Elven people, but of his ship he still had no clue

"So you are awake my pointy eared patient hm, heh heh heh, never had the privilege to be visited by one of your kind hmm" The old man said, his tone a jovial one, though Corynx still did not trust the mans motives, despite his willingness to learn from the humans, he could not trust them his people had such deep grievances with their kind, and the elves long lives ensured such grudges ran for centuries if not longer.

"I am awake, and can you tell me where I am old human, I wish to find the others of my people that were with me" Corynx replied his tone one of authority, even in his current state he would not allow a human to believe that they had power over him.

"You are the only elf I know of, my lord" the last bit said with a strong hint of sarcasm, so even human peasants knew of how far his people had fallen to slander a Dragon Lord so, "But you appeared injured and we are not so barbaric to leave someone injured in the middle of our village"

Corynx begrudging looked towards the man, he seemed to bear no ill will at the Dragon Lords harsh tone, possibly having been accustomed to nobles above him speaking in a similar manner. Corynx felt shame for the first time since his childhood, and he bowed his head towards the man "I apologize if I seeemed harsh when I should be thanking you for helping me, but I was travelling to the capital of Golgotha with 20 elves attending me, I worry for their safety. And I desire to find them and help them if I can"

The old man slowly stroked his long whispy white beard "I'm afraid you wont be much use to them as you are, you had some atrocious wounds, and I notice concussion when I see it, I was in the Golgothan army you know and they did teach us some useful things" he gave a wry smile "But have no fear, we will take care of you until you are well enough to travel again, and we will also stay on the look out for any more of your elven fellows. But you must rest now, if you don't I fear that concussion of yours will cause some permanent damage, and if you are a bigshot elf we dont want you dying on us and bringing the retribution of your race upon our small village"

Corynx slowly nodded the logic was undeniable and he settled back down, the old man brought over a jug of water "If you get thirsty" He placed a wooden cup down next to the jug and then left the room, leaving Corynx to think in silence till slowly he drifted back off to sleep.

- Gerriol, King's Chambers -

"What do you mean you have yet to recieve Corynx?" Orion irrately asked the ambassador through their connected mirrors, the ambassador tensed slightly but relaxed he had no knews beyond what he conveyed

"I mean what I say, he has yet to arrive and there have been no storms, he should have arrived with his entourage by now, even giving the possibility of being waylaid, I am requesting your permission to send some of my guards to search for him along the coast and river" the Ambassador bowed, he had long displayed great loyalty to the crown but also to the Ferronguard blood line, Orion could not blame him wishing to search for the individual he placed his loyalty.

"No you know the humans will view that poorly, but inform their ambassador that a high ranking elf has been lost travelling to discuss with their emperor an alliance and deepening of ties between our two cultures, and that if he is not found that we will retaliate with all of our might. Hopefully the myths of what our people are capable of will be enough to spur them into action, if you believe it better not to threaten them then so be it, but get the humans to search for us so that we dont cause any diplomatic incidents. This is already enough of an issue without the possibility of war resurging, especially when the vampire covens are growing and attempting to regain their lost power"

"As you wish your majesty, I will convey this to the Golgothan diplomat to us. Shall I inform them of how important he truly is? Possibly to both our peoples?" the ambassadors eyes showed his worry and hesitance, Orion knew he had to be strong and decisive

"Yes inform them if you have to, but they must find him with all haste, lest his dragon go mad with rage and possibly grief, and we can not control a dragon in such a case"

[Cheye]

Syliv, Carvania – 4E-150

Several weeks has passed since Prince Marius had first arrived in Syliv with the Golgothan garrison. Josef Van Der Barr had left the city alongside a contingent of Carvanian and Golgothan witch hunters after rumours reached them of an undead horde marauding in the Drak Wood.

Despite the initial panic that he had felt upon hearing word of the attacks in Ancelstierre, Vaas Van Drak had settled into life with the Golgothan presence at court, and had even wormed his way into the company of the two Princes when they met twice a week to talk one-to-one about Carvania’s future concerning both the Vampires and a possible accession into the Empire. Jacques de la Grey’s plan to deal with the treacherous Von Richters and thus ensure the security of the pure-bloods for the foreseeable future was a good one, and even as much as Vaas continued to covet Francis’ demise, he already understood how to play his part in this new plan…

“A report from Lord Josef, my prince.” Vaas said, handing a small scroll of paper to Prince Francis as he slowly walked across the battlements, leaning on a cane, alongside the younger Prince Marius.

“Ah good.” Francis wheezed, coming to a halt. It was a cloudy day, but rays of sunlight peppered the large castle intermittently. Taking the scroll he unfurled it and attempted to read it. Struggling, he raised it closer to his eyes before growling out and thrusting it back into Vaas’s hands. “Summarize it for me please Wilhelm.” He growled, before adding more softly; “My eyes are not what they once were.”

“Lord Josef has secured Drakwold and seen off a legion of the dead over the course of two nights, the witch hunter Gerhardt believes the horde are disorganised and aimless, and may have been raised by a lesser Vampire rather than a more powerful being.” Vaas glanced at Marius who was nodding in understanding. “Lord Josef hopes to press into the Borag foothills and hunt down the creatures before returning with good speed.”

“I pray that the Holy Flame brings him back to me.” Francis said quietly.

“Prayers won’t do that, but our riflemen just might.” Marius quipped, a little too confidently.

“Well that is why you’re here.” Francis sighed as they walked on along the battlements. Vaas fell into step behind them, keeping close enough to hear and interject if he was needed, but far enough away to respect the magnitude of the two Princes.

“Are such roving hordes a common occurrence down here?” Marius asked curiously.

“Oh now and then. We usually keep them at bay but ever so often one springs up unexpectedly. Josef will not let me down.” The old Prince smiled confidently. “You wish to learn more of Carvania then, Marius?”

“Of course, as I expect I will be spending much of the foreseeable future here.”

The older Prince smiled wryly. “Good… Very good. In fact, I have an offer for you. It may seem inappropriate this early into your stay, but I’d rather not waste time.” He sighed. “As you can see, I’m not getting any younger.”

“And what would this offer be exactly?” His curiosity piqued

“I trust you’ve had a chance to meet my daughter Amelia?” He asked, his tone only slightly suggestive.

“I have not had the pleasure as of yet….”

“A pity, I’m told she’s been watching you ever since your arrival.” His tone hardened as they walked on. “Let me be frank Marius, if you’ve not yet considered that Carvania could become a ripe arena for Imperial politics moving forwards, you’ve no business being here… A Carvanian bride might help you navigate it?” He stopped walking and looked up at the younger Prince.

“We may have to be introduced, however we Golgothan Princes are in high demand.”

“I am well aware. Let me arrange something and we will talk again soon.” Francis nodded respectfully before turning towards the doorway that led back into the castle.

Vaas stood back, mulling over what he had just heard, in his mind the brat girl and the smug prince would make a perfect couple, right before he slit their throats anyway.

“Wilhelm, what do you know of Lady Amelia?” Prince Marius turned, looking to him, Vaas had hoped the Prince would forget he was there so he could slink away, evidently not.

Vaas smiled, as falsely as ever, “She is a credit to Prince Francis; she possesses both confidence and virtue in equal measure.”

“Maybe she might be worthy of my considerations….”

“Indeed, your grace.” Vaas said, backing away before turning to leave in the same direction Francis had gone in, leaving Marius alone with his thoughts on the battlements.

[Sarrin]

Following the Battle of Galbridge Pass the Templars had swiftly consolidated their position. As well as spreading word across the Eastern Kingdoms that vampirism infested Garniem, Argus, now acting as Grand Master, called for aid in their cleansing. The Eastern Kingdoms were already answering the call many invigorated by Argus’ claims that this was a new crusade.

Marshall Saxon, who had been the only remaining obstacle to Argus becoming Grand Master, had been dealt with. Murdered by unknown assailants and found with the classic marks of a vampire attack on his way to Ancelstierre.

In Galbridge Pass, Templar mages tore down the wall of thorns erected by the Garnian Shaman only to find the pass empty and the Great Gate once again sealed tight. A hastily-put together siege had begun and for the last week the armies of the Eastern Kingdoms had launched all manner of artillery at the gate to no avail.

Despite this the forces continued to grow each day and now an enormous force of 15,000 men stretched across the pass fuming and ready for war. Perhaps most fearsome was the totem at the front of their horde. Crucified, mutilated and burnt to extinguish any life; the rotting corpse of Jarl Clew was left visible from the Great Gate, a final taunt to those that dwelt within…


The Great Gate of Garniem, Galbridge Pass - 4E - 150

Illuminated only by the full moon Stefan rode through the camp in fine Medina armour which bridged the military appearance of the Golgothans and the armours of old. With him was his handgun which had been a gift from a visiting elector-prince. While it was nothing compared to the empire’s new equipment it was far superior to most of what was found in the Eastern Kingdoms.

He had been appointed commander of the invasion force by the Templar led coalition. In doing so the Princely State had sent 5000 soldiers. While the Medina army was more advanced than its neighbours the most important asset they had brought were their cannons. Having been originally smuggled out of Golgotha and replicated by the finest craftsman they didn’t compare to imperial craftsmanship but where still a strong competition. While the majority of his camp rested a small guard of around 2000 stood guard ready to sound the alarm if the gates finally opened.

When at last he made it to his forward guard he looked at the once brave Jarl’s body which now hung desecrated and broken. Stefan knew little of the traditions of Preathism but even he knew that the brutalities committed to the body meant Clew would have little to look forward to in his afterlife. It had been a controversial move to show such callousness to the corpse but despite protestations it had proven to be a uniting act and many soldiers rallied behind the ‘vampires’ remains. Despite this Stefan still felt at unease around it fearing what repercussions may face them if the Garnian’s were able to find victory.

“It truly is incredible” Stefan exclaimed as he dismounted and approached the guards before the gate.

“Yes sire, it’ll be a shame to tear it down once we find it’s weakness but the Flame teaches that we must not allow vampirism to flourish”

Stefan nodded looking up at the great heights of the wall before turning back to the guardsman

“With hope they will open the gates to meet us so we might preserve it’s beau-“ As he spoke he glanced at the mountains side looking as the darkness seemed to crawl down it. He tried to focus in on it but was left still unclear. The soldiers looked at the wall and shrugged before speaking.

“It’s the night playing tricks on you sire, I suspect we’d hear if there was any real movement down the walls”

Stefan nodded his gut feeling discomfort at the thought.

“I suspect your right and I doubt my lack of sleep is helping…I should get to bed”

The soldiers bowed their heads in respect as Stefan mounted his horse. As he rode he couldn’t shake the thought of the moving shadows. He glanced again at the mountains whose darkness seemed to still move like rivers down the walls. He knew he must have been tired to have seen such darkness but something irked him. A feeling in his gut that something had been missed but what it was he couldn’t be sure. He dismounted and entered his tent looking at his orders in case he had missed something. As he carefully read through the lines he heard a shuffling at his tent door and the sounds of swords rattling. His heart raced and he drew his blade ready to strike. As a figure entered through the door he rushed and grabbed it by the throat pressing his blade against its chest.

“Sire, please I bring the census of our soldiers you asked for”

The figure, who spoke in an unfamiliar accent, sounded frantic as Stefan acknowledged what he said and sheathed his blade releasing the figure. He took the census and placed it on his desk before turning back to his visitor.

“Sorry…I haven’t slept in a while I suspect I…I suspect I’m a little on edge”

The messenger smiled and took a pouch from his back pocket taking a mushroom out and offering it to Stefan.

“If you need assistance try one of these, they’re called Nocturn’s and help you get a good night’s sleep. I had once last night and was out for hours”

Stefan smiled and gladly accepted the gift thanking the messenger before sending him back to the front. As he looked at the census a sense of contentment filled him as he accepted it as being the likely cause of his discomfort. While he couldn’t remember asking for it he knew he had intended to. As he undressed he thought of the messenger only now realising the unfamiliarity of the accent. The soldier likely hailed from the Blackrock with all its quirks and diversity but something still seemed off. He looked again at the mushroom and smiled at the kindness consuming it before getting into bed and descending into a long slumber.

When at last he awoke he smiled with glee. The familiar sound of boots marching echoed outside accustomed by swords clashing in the early morning training rituals. Though surprised by the absence of his squire he decided to dress himself instead of making a fuss. He made a mental note to inquire when he next saw the man before finally equipping his pistol and approaching his tent door. When stepping out his smile grew even wider as he realised the sun was at its highest point and that he had managed to sleep until midday making up for the numerous hours of sleep he had missed since his arrival.

As he lowered his gaze however that smile was quickly shattered as he saw the Great Gate stood open. He quickly looked around at the surroundings and saw marching forces heading out of the pass and bearing unfamiliar banners. The floors were stained with bodies of dead men resting peacefully as if killed in their sleep. He stepped back nearly tripping when he heard a commanding voice.

“You must be Prince Stefan, your squire spoke highly of you…before we gutted him”

Stefan shuddered for a moment before looking at the man. He was old and tall wearing thick furs and sitting at the table Stefan had erected outside his tent to conduct his morning briefings. The man noticed the shudder and stood as he spoke again approaching Stefan his voice no longer simply but angry but now full of rage and hatred.

“He decided to keep quiet, you on the other hand won’t be able to make that decision. I want you to know how much of a failure this little horde has been before we flay you and I want you to tell me where your pathetic king is if you want even a semblance of kindness”

Stefan moved to draw his sidearm only to be knocked to his feet and restrained by two men who had snuck up on him from behind. Stefan spoke quickly as his knees hit the floor.
“Who are you Vampire? Do you serve Van Drak?”
The figure and his men chuckled as he approached grabbing Stefan’s neatly cut hair.
“I am King Godfrey Brannon of Garniem and I serve no one but Morgath himself. Now tell me who commands you and I might show you a mercy you denied Clew”
Stefan gulped as the danger of the situation quickly dawned on him.

“Please King, I am only a Prince of Medina, it was Grand Master Argus of the Templars who burned your commander but can you blame us? How else do we kill your Vampyric kin”

The man scratched his chin and released the young prince.

“Vampire? You think we are the filthy pests of Isillion?”

Stefan looked in confusion and horror at the figure

“We are no Vampires boy, we are something far more blessed than that”

He looked to his men and spoke of Stefan dismissively highlighting the little value he now saw in the Prince

“Take our friend here to the tanners. Let him feel his legs and arms be flayed but slit his throat before the body. When he’s finished tear of an arm and send it alongside his pretty little signet ring. Let them know what fate awaits any who defiled Clew or protects those that did”

The men nodded and pulled Stefan away as he let out grave screams and struggled to break free. Godfrey merely laughed and sat again at the table drinking wine from his goblet as the Prince who had, not hours before, ruled over one of the largest armies the Eastern Kingdom had ever seen now found himself powerless and awaiting death.

[Cheye]

Syliv, Carvania – 4E-150

“I think you have a lovely smile.” Marius let out, a little stiffly as Amelia Van Der Barr giggled next to him.

“Well as I understand you’re one of the most powerful Princes in the empire so I guess you’d know.” She quipped once she finished giggling.

It was a warm and bright day in Carvania’s capital, birds sang and the city hummed with activity as merchants and guildsmen all went about plying their trade. Amelia seemed in especially high spirits to be out of the castle for a change and Marius too had been pleased to satisfy his curiosity about the lives of the smallfolk in the city below the castle, as well as spend time with the Lady Amelia, of course.

“Jewels and gemstones from the Dwarven Mountains!” One merchant cried, from a stall that sat next to the entrance of the main city square. Amelia craned her head to look at his wares.

Marius nodded to his guards and they approached the merchant and exchanged a few words with him before nodding the all clear, he then gestured to Amelia; “Let’s see if he has anything nice.”

She grinned at him and eagerly approached the stall, Marius followed her over.

“It’s beautiful.” She let out, looking over an ornate silver amulet.

“Then you shall have it.” Marius smiled at her nonchalantly, he’d barely looked at the amulet, but he knew well enough the unwritten rules of chivalry that governed the actions of men like him in situations like this.

“Thank you Prince Marius. You are very kind.” She grinned, looking between him and the amulet as the merchant also grinned disbelievingly at how easily he’d made a sale.

As Marius’ guards dealt with payment, Amelia raised the amulet to her neck and Marius helped her tie it before they linked arms and began a gentle stroll back towards the castle.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

When they finally returned Prince Francis was waiting for them in the courtyard underneath the long-dead oak tree. He was not alone however, next to him stood another old man, who Amelia wasn’t sure she recognised.

As they approached, Francis spoke; “Prince Marius, I have the privilege of introducing an old friend of mine from the distant land of Garniem; Cormac.” He looked to the bearded man at his side; “Cormac, this is Prince Marius, the Emperor’s emissary to my humble lands.”

“It is a pleasure.” Marius nodded, smiling and bowing his head slightly. Amelia remained quiet, at nineteen she was old enough to be considered intelligent, but still too young to be properly included in her father’s business.

“The pleasure is all mine my lord, I imagine this placement is quite fortuitous for your imperial ambitions.” Cormac said bluntly, Marius’ smile faded.

“Cormac has been keen to meet you for some time, Prince Marius.” Francis said, inclining his head towards the man and seeming to ignore Cormac’s comment.

“Oh, has he now?” Marius raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“Indeed my Lord, I’ve been observing your rise in the court for some time and it is impressive. I suspect your support would be invaluable in bringing the Emperor to Carvania for a formal meeting with my King, Godfrey Brannon.”

Marius smiled wryly and shook his head; “I will tell you what I have told Francis; you would be naive to think the Emperor would travel to the old Vampiric homeland after the recent attacks. Perhaps if your King would arrange to travel to Golgotha, perhaps to the Imperial Palace in Tabekcelstierre, the Emperor would be happy to accommodate him?”

“Francis told me you had reservations, it is a shame the Emperor displays such cowardice in the face of an attack but such is often the way.” He paused for a moment judging Marius’ reaction but speaking before the Prince could respond. “Of course we cannot go to your capital, it would be too great a journey and my people cannot afford for our King to be so distant for so long. I had thought Carvania would be an appropriate middle ground especially in light of the attacks. It would show strength and unity and if you could persuade your Emperor I’m sure it would be a fine display of prestige; you would surely gain politically were it a success. ”

“I suppose if your country can’t spare the eight marks for the train ticket, perhaps I ought to question your nation’s importance.” Marius retorted, blatantly offended. “If the rumours are true and Garniem is infested with Vampires, that’d make me question not just your importance, but your threat to us. You wouldn’t want that.”

Cormac chuckled “It is always refreshing to see your people lose the pretence of diplomacy, it took Karl Franz months before he spoke to me in such candor! Besides I’d have thought it above you to believe rumours from men that you denounced as zealots and fools at the last convergence of the Elector Council.”

“Well, there’s no smoke without fire…”

“Gentlemen please.” Amelia let out, her voice loud and strong for the first time. “Prince Marius has made the Golgothan view known, Lord Cormac has conveyed the disappointment of Garniem at this outcome. Now I suggest we move on and settle our differences over food and wine.”

Francis and Marius looked at her and then exchanged glances, surprised by her intervention.

Cormac smiled “Well said Amelia, you’ve become an able diplomat, I have no doubt a bright future awaits you.” He looked to Marius “Perhaps I spoke harshly of your Emperor, I know Karl Franz to be a brave and honourable man and while I am disappointed that you will not be able to bring him to my dear friend’s halls I’m sure we can find a compromise. Francis, perhaps you can think of an appropriate place?”

“I will consider it, now Cormac I suggest we retire and let Marius and Amelia enjoy the rest of their day?” Francis replied, sighing tiredly.

Cormac nodded placing his weight upon his ornately carved staff “Of course, I believe your steward offered to show me some of the catacombs beneath the city.” He looked to Marius once more; “We must speak again my lord, perhaps on a hunt?”

Marius nodded and the two older men turned to enter the castle, leaving Marius and Amelia to do as they pleased. High above them, a single solitary cloud slowly crossed the sun, darkening the sky on what had otherwise been a beautiful day...

[Sarrin]

Princely State of Medina - 4E-150

War brought little change to daily life in Medina. The hustle and bustle of the citizenry continued with little care for the wider world. Indeed the crossroad city was the grandest in the Eastern Kingdoms and rivalled even Ancelstierre in architectural beauty. It had served as the capital of the Eastern Kingdoms during Vampyric Ascendancy and thus enjoyed a great deal of wealth and protection from the pillaging of the other lands. At its heart sat an enormous building ornately carved and shining with gold buttresses known as the Grand Hall of Medina. Within the mighty temple to Medina’s wealth and glory was the legislative chamber known as the Aristozia, seats of which were granted to the most prestigious and wealthy families with new members requiring the sponsorship of 3 noble families, a majority vote and a minimum income that was constantly adjusted. While this was intended to ensure the members were all prestigious and noble it instead led to enormous corruption as the most powerful families ascended new members to secure themselves additional votes and power.

Argus was nauseous at the thought of entertaining these cretins but he knew he had no choice. While Medina had already offered a great deal of support to his cause Argus had far higher plans...

With the Kingdoms united in war Argus conspired to achieve what many before him had failed and form the Sunset Empire. A unified imperium of the Eastern Kingdoms with him as its leader would be a mighty force and solidify his position against Garniem. Medina had always been idealised as the de facto capital of the Empire and if he could convince the Aristozia to support his aim he knew the other Kingdoms would soon rally behind him. This was no easy task however as many within Medina believed that the new responsibilities and worse, foreign royals, would pollute and strain Medina forcing distribution of wealth across the Kingdoms and away from their greedy hands.

As he pondered he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Simeon Gotha, the Siege General Stefan’s brother, and representative of the Gotha family in the Aristozia.

“The Aristozia has gathered Argus but I’m not sure if this will go as you expect. This isn’t like your call to arms; the votes will be unpredictable”

“Is there anyone I should be cautious of?”

Simeon scratched his chin and paused for a moment before nodding.

“There are two key families whose voting blocs would certainly swing the motion in your favour, though even with them there is no guarantee.”

Argus raised an eyebrow and gestured for Simeon to continue.

“The Lancels control the largest voting block and are represented by Gideon. A quiet young man but far more shrewd and cunning than his silence would allude. Their family are the uninfected survivors of the pure-blood line so how they’ll vote about an anti-vampire move will be closely watched. The Martello family are also up for grabs and while they only control a small voting block they dominate popular politics and can win you hearts and minds.”

As Simeon finished the doors to the chamber swung open and the Viscount emerged. He was a tired and elderly noble who had been elected to the position following the last election after the chamber was gridlocked and few expected him to survive long past his term.

“Grand Master Argus of the Templar Order you are invited by the chamber to speak following your request.”

Argus smiled at Simeon and the Viscount before marching into the chamber. It was an enormous dome with seats carved into huge encircling stone. The chairs were decorated with silk pillows and mats with sections divided by ornately carved wooden palisades placed by the most powerful to distinguish there powerbase from each other. At the front of all 13 of these divides was a golden throne each different but equally decorated with various treasures to highlight the prestige and wealth of those resting. Simeon entered first and took his place behind the representative of House Wolff, an old and powerful house that would have been wiped out during the Vampyric Wars if it wasn’t for Johann fleeing to safety in Ancelstierre. They were a family of zealots and there was no doubt he would support Argus and his anti-Vampyric agenda. Sitting opposite and wearing the Signet Ring of the High Chancellor of Medina was Gideon Lancel who looked curiously at Argus as he entered the room giving away nothing. The Viscount assumed his throne, a simple wooden chair that was otherwise indistinguishable except for it being slightly raised and began the formal proceedings.

“Proud and Venerable members of the Aristozia. Before us stands Grand Master Argus Reznik of the Templar Order who will speak on the topic of the creation of the Sunset Empire and subsequent unification of the Eastern Kingdoms under the banner of the Eternal Flame.”

Scoffs and discontent echoed through the chamber especially from the blocs of the Gilman and Trove families but many others adjusted their seats eyeing up the new arrival with fascination. Argus had never personally visited Medina before and usually spoke through supporting families. Argus looked around the chamber before speaking in an authoritative and firm tone.

“Mighty Lords, Princes, Merchants and Dignitaries I stand before you a mere servant of the Flame, humbled by the honour of your attention. I am at a disadvantage to many of your honoured guests in that this is my first appearance but hopefully, if such an honour could be continued, it will not be my last.”

The chamber resonated with nods of approval.

“I inherited my title not from a conclave as those before me often have but from necessity as our order was attacked by treachery and barbarity from the very creatures we seek to destroy. With hope I may prove myself to be as worthy as Grand Master Horvak did when the responsibility was thrust upon him. The nature of my election is however the first proof I put to you of the need for our unification. Vampirism has infected every court and home in our Kingdoms and just as it was in Van Drak’s day, it will be the Eastern Kingdoms that fall first. Divided we are weak but united we are strong.”

The chamber watched eagerly and many spoke the old mantra alongside him. For centuries before the Vampyric Wars the Eastern Kingdoms had been united under the Mayfair Pact that swore them to mutual protection under any threat from outside influences. This had ensured their independence and been popularly remembered by the mantra; ‘Divided we are weak but united we are strong’ and merely reciting it still stirred up warm feelings.

“While you have already blessed me with your kind soldiers and tools we both know more is needed. Vampires do not fall easily and if we, the people of these mighty lands, are to overcome the infectious threat again we must strike not in retaliation but in preparation. Divided we cannot hope to be ready but united we can overcome any threat and liberate the world from the midnight plague. Golgotha will not aid us in this war, they are clearly infested and paralysed by fears, but the Sunset Empire may yet save us. Medina alone has the power to make the dream of unification a reality and transform itself from a powerhouse of commerce to a superpower of trade, might and purity. Let the banners of the Eternal Flame once again march through the streets of our cities. Let the chants of Eternal Flame once again fill our hearts and minds. Let the gifts of Eternal Flame once more flow into the pockets and treasuries of our cities. Golgotha believes itself to be the masters of the new world order but it is through our streets, on our backs and with our swords that this world travels. May the Flame forever burn bright and may the Sunset Empire arise from the ashes of our former greatness. Stronger and mightier than our greatest dreams!”

As he finished the Aristozia were silent, each member reflecting on what he had said. Those on the back seats carefully watched the leaders of their blocks for any hint of approval or dismissal but having earned their seats they all concealed their emotions beautifully. After what felt to Argus like an eternity Gideon Lancel stood from his throne and began a slow but erupting applause that spread across the room as more joined in. When at last the applause finished and the Viscount signalled to the members to seat themselves only 3 blocs had remained silent the others all clearly showing support. While this did not ensure his motion would pass and the formal debate of the chamber was still to come the approval from Martello and Lancel suggested Argus would succeed where others had only dreamed before.

[Greater Latica]

Donastierre 4E150

The Golgothan troops dismounted from the six wheeled steam wagons outside the Duke of Donastierre’s residence, their boots pounding on the stones as they jumped clear. A small steam walker stood idly in the corner, towering above the trucks and soldiers, like a colossal guardian angel.

“What is the meaning of this? Troops in my City?” The Duke protested from the marble steps leading to the doors, “And out of state ones at that!”

“And a good day to you too, Arch Duke, but we are here on the orders of the Emperor himself. May I be invited inside?” The Commanding officer asked, climbing up the stairs to meet the Arch Duke.

Begrudgingly the Arch Duke beckoned for the doors to be opened and walked inside. Once the doors had closed, the officer began to speak, silencing the Arch Duke’s protestations with a wave of his gloved hand, “I am Brigadier Weissmann, and I have been informed that I am to relive you of your position, Donastierre is to be placed under martial law.”

“For what reasons?” The Duke fumed, “We have resolved the issues with the anarchists!”

“No, my Lord, I am afraid this is much worse than the Anarchists. We have it on good authority that that hidden within Donastierre are a number of Vampires, capable of wreaking untold havoc. We have been tasked with rooting out them out and flushing them into the open, where we can deal with them appropriately. You and your staff will still manage the day to day running of the region, however you will need to report everything to me.” Brigadier Weissmann unclipped a canister from his belt, opened it and handed the contents to the Arch Duke, “Here is the copy of the Emperor’s decree, bound and sealed.”

The Arch Duke carefully inspected the wax seal, before opening the parchment envelope. He read the letter within quickly, before discarding it to the floor, and turning away, “Who am I to question the Emperor’s wisdom and authority. I dislike it immensely, but I shall do as he commands.”

Weissmann kneeled down and collected the discarded letter, and replaced it into the canister and reclipped it to his belt, “I’m so glad we could come to an arrangement over this. I assure you that we will be here no longer than is necessary.” Brigadier Weissmann turned and left, his cloak swishing behind him. He walked out through the large wooden doors and onto the steps, over looking the troops unloading their vehicles. Smoke rising into the sky.

“Colonel Heintze, to me, lock down this square with your armoured dragoons, we have a job to do.”

[Pageon]

Haberhoff, Prestierre, Golgotha - 4E-150

Corynx laid one gold elven coin on the bar rolling it with his finger fidgeting, he had only recently become well enough to leave the cottage room he had been confined in but he was still rather weak. He had been fed and given water adequately to heal, but he still craved some of the finer things an elf of nobility was used to he finally pushed the coin forward to the barkeep.

"What wines do you serve in this establishment?" he inquired, the barkeep looked him the gold on the top more than he had seen in most of his life, such an amount could feed his family for months. He swallowed, his throat had become slightly hoarse.

"We, um, don't have any wine" he looked down and continued to clean the glass he was holding.

"Well what do you have sir" Corynx was getting annoyed.

"We have mead or... uh mead" The barkeep responded "We also do food, I'd recommend the sausage and our finest bread."

"Well I guess I'll have that, how much for a glass of this mead and the meal" Corynx seemingly satisfied at last asked.

"Usually 5 Marks, sir."

Corynx pulled out four more gold coins and left them on the top with the original gold coin, and moved to a nearby table and sat down on his own. The other villagers who were in the pub milled about but avoided the elf in peasant clothing, his own clothes having been ruined during the ship wreck. It was actually quite the miracle his coin purse had survived. He quickly opened it up and looked inside, he still had another 40 or so coins, it was not ideal to have so little on his person, although each coin was a golden one engraved with the symbol of Alaina the worth of these coins in Alainasta was not that high but could buy you most goods at a decent price.

A pretty young girl probably about 18 or 19 carried over Corynx's food and drink, she was a petite young woman with copper hair and blue eyes, she set the food and drink down in front of the elf and quickly turned around. She, like the rest of those in the establishment, avoided him like he was the plague. Which to be fair as an elf wasn't far from the truth in their eyes. But his eyes were drawn to this girl. He watched her as she moved behind the bar to talk to the barkeep, from what he could see they had a small argument and she was sent off, storming out the door. Corynx was strangely intrigued, he had seen nothing truly worthy of his attention until now. He quickly ate the food, which to him tasted lackluster, and the drink which, while highly alcoholic, tasted how Corynx imagined urine might.

Hastily leaving after his meal, curiosity led Corynx to follow the sound of sobbing to the back of the inn where he found the copper haired girl, leaning on a fence, bawling her eyes out. Unsure of human custom during such displays of emotion, he cleared his throat gently to make her aware of his presence.

She looked up suddenly. "What do you want, knife-ears?!" She snapped, a fiery temper breaking through her distress.

"I...I saw you arguing with the barkeep and then heard you crying..." He said, taken aback by her outburst. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I doubt it." She groaned, the anger in her voice returning to sorrow. "My father is a stubborn bastard."

"The barkeep is your father..." Corynx muttered.

The girl nodded, tears still streaming down her face. "He wants me to marry Igor." She wailed, as if the name should mean something to the strange elf.

"What is an 'Igor'?" Corynx raised a brow.

The girl smiled at that, for some reason, a quiet laugh puncturing her sobs for a few seconds. "Igor is the butcher's son. He's a fat little brute. I... I couldn't...."

"I see." Corynx finally understood. "Leave it with me." He said confidently.

She looked at him disbelievingly as he turned to leave.

Returning to the tavern, Corynx stormed up to the bar.

"Good sir, I might speak with you regarding your daughter's betrothal." He said, waving over the barkeep.

"Mind your own business, elf!" The barkeep shot back, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

Corynx sighed, human behavior was so... odd. If a stranger knew of one's family matters, was it not obvious that those matters were being broadcast by a discontent member of the family because they were not satisfactory to those involved? Regardless, Corynx pressed on. "Please sir, your daughter is horrifically upset by this arrangement. Can I ask what you stand to gain from it?"

Again, the barkeep narrowed his eyes, unused to the elf's openness. "I won't discuss my daughter with strange elf creatures."

Corynx sighed. He barely dodged the blow he detected coming his way from the corner of his eye. A disgruntled patron? Igor the butcher's son? No, his attacker was armored.

Corynx dived back, swooping under the arm of another assailant who had been attempting to sneak up on him. His injuries left him sluggish however, and a kick from the first attacker connected with his leg.

"Hey! No trouble in my pub!" The barkeep yelled, distracting the attackers as Corynx staggered back.

"We've been looking for this elf only to find him harassing you, let us take him off your hands!" One of the attackers pleaded.

The distraction was all Corynx needed, springing into action he darted behind the second assailant and with a quick gesture, snapped his neck. The first caught sight of the movement and foolishly stepped towards Corynx who extended a leg and tripped him over, before bringing his heel down on the man's skull.

"Get out!" The barkeep yelled angrily at Corynx.

"I was attacked!" Corynx pleaded, looking over the two unconscious attackers. Their armor identified them as mercenaries.

"I don't care you filthy monster get out of my pub!"

Corynx was fuming at this stage, he had been attacked and was also being threatened by this rather portly fellow, but his elven honour would not have him stoop so low as to engage in a brawl without due reason. So he left, pushing out of the pub and into the village street he decided he had, had enough of the quaint human village. He needed to return to his own kind and complete his mission, quickly purchasing a few loaves of bread with one of his coins he began to trek north towards Ancelstierre, where the Elven delegation were beseeching the Emperor of Golgotha to find Corynx.

It was late that very evening when Corynx noticed the mottled orange and red behind him. Scanning the horizon from where he had came he could notice the smoke rising. The realization then hit him the village was on fire, he turned his head back towards the north then he heard the crack of a rifle and he snapped around his elven agility and the dragons gift showing itself as he sprinted at full speed back to the village, as he neared he could clearly see armoured humans moving between the villagers homes with torchs and pitch. They had surrounded the village, there had to be at least 50 of them. It would seem a complete mercenary outfit had come to the village. That's when he heard the screams of the villagers burning to death in their homes, his enhanced senses picking up the sickly smell of burning flesh. As the screams subsided he could hear the crackling of the fires, he knelt down closing his eyes, offering a prayer to Alaina that the humans souls would find rest.

"So, WHERE IS THE ELF YOU SCUM!?" The sound of a gruff man could be heard above the crackling fires, from what Corynx could tell from atop the hill the man was in the center of the village, the fires surrounding him.

"He left here several hours ago, you bastard, just let us go please you've burned everywhere he could have been hiding!" The pub owners voice was low, defeated, there was no fight left in him.

"I could do that, but we were paid to leave no witnesses, and you have all met the elven scum, men kill them all"

Corynx in one swift motion was on his feet charging into the village, without a plan he was one elf with no weapons or armour, but he still had that intrinsic advantage all elves had, he ran head first into the mercenary leader punching the man in the head, whipping the mans head around breaking his neck, Corynx had little time, the sound of the mans armour clattering to the ground had probably alerted the others. He quickly knelt and yanked out the mercanarys sword, a crude gladius compared to a beautiful elven curved sword. But a weapon was a weapon, and in his other hand he began to form a bolt of lightning, as one of the mercenary's rounded the corner from the villages center he was struck in the chest, his body unable to function with the sudden change in voltage fried his nervous system his armour providing him no protection, but as he fell two more took his place and Corynx had no time to form a second bolt. He clashed swords with the second man that had rounded the corner, the mans style was much the same as any humans, lacking grace or speed, relying or pure strength.

Corynx blade slid along the mans, until in a sudden movement Corynx seemed to glide around his opponent, and in one fatal thrust stabbed between his enemies armour, ripping the blade up cutting the mans insides open. But this movement had lodged the gladius in the mans rib cage, and as the surviving scout came at Corynx, blade aimed to cut him in twain, Corynx a veteran warrior simply let go of the now useless gladius and spawn around kicking the man in the back, launching him at his dying comrade. Corynx then sped past them towards the villages center, he heard a scream as a prisoner was executed, they were making it messy, cutting them openly and leaving them to bleed out. There were five mercenaries in the village center and only three hostages left, the pubs owner and his daughter as well as the old man who had nursed Corynx back to health. As Corynx charged at the men, three barred his way while the last two grabbed the old man and cut his throat, the man for his credit did not falter, slowly dying on the ground as his lifes essence seeped into the land. Corynx was enraged by this beyond any humans comprehension.

Corynx was not a normal elf as well he was essentially due to bonding with a Dragon, an Elf-Dragon hybrid. And the fire in his heart had been enflamed, Corynx commanded the earth to rise around the pubs owner and his daughter, protecting them, while his gaze fell upon the 5 mercenaries, with the remaining one he had kicked coming around behind him, the eternal flame that all dragons are blessed with he kindled in his hands, considered the most basic of magic fire magic was also the most destructive and when wielded by a Dragon Lord, it was akin to a Dragon itself breathing flames at you, and these mercenaries learned this in the worst way.

With the remaining mercenaries nearby eliminated Corynx released the pubs owner and his daughter from the protective earth cage they were in, his own magical reserves depleted he panted heavily. To invoke the Dragon was a dangerous and draining task, he simply collapsed right there, for without his bond brother he had taken the entire physical brunt of the invoking. The last thing he sensed was being hauled up and dragged somewhere, and then in his mind he could feel the flicker of the dragons flame in him relighting and growing slowly.

[Cheye]

Donastierre, Golgotha – 4E-150

The Arch Duke watched silently as the stranger crossed the small throne-room towards him. His castle was a small one by Golgothan standards and was really more of an after-thought, built to protect an already massive town in the middle of the 3rd Era. The throne-room was more of an anti-chamber to the great entrance hall than anything designed to hold balls or host dignitaries, few socialites came this far north before the 2nd Golgothan Empire rose and now that they did, Donastierre had other larger and grander halls to host them in.

This meeting had been a long time coming. The Arch Duke had suspected that his wife had been having an affair for some time, but now he had proof; intercepting a letter that revealed her lover had returned from some expedition into the Neuhassen Wilds when it had arrived the night before. He knew the man would come to the throne room tonight to seek her out, and he was here instead; waiting.

“So you are the one my wife has taken as her lover then?” The Arch Duke sneered, hoping to surprise the man.

“My lord…” The stranger started. The Arch Duke cut him off.

“Oh no, don’t grovel. I will ensure you meet a quick and clean end.” The Arch Duke slammed his fist on the side of his wooden throne dramatically. As the man approached he looked him up and down. The stranger was both taller and more muscular than him, though not much younger, his face sporting distinctive cheekbones and his slicked back hair; dark brown verging on black, had more than the odd hint of grey. “Before my men take you away, I just want to know… What does she see in you?” He mused.

The man eyed him confidently, a little too confidently for the Duke’s tastes. “Power.” Hans let out.

And suddenly there was chaos. A blast of gunfire from outside the castle signalled some kind of attack, and as the Arch Duke struggled to adjust himself, Hans Von Richter was leaping towards him with the ferociousness of a beast.

The Arch Duke dived from his throne, clambering to a side-passage nearby. He rose to his feet to find the Duchess, standing there, blocking his retreat. “My poor Duke.” She let out, her tone menacing. “I always hated you.”

The delay was all Hans needed. Coming up behind the Arch Duke, he grabbed the man’s hair and yanked him back, paralysing him in a cold embrace as his teeth sunk into the Duke’s neck.

Gunfire and desperate shouts were heard from outside, no doubt from that troublesome garrison that had turned up three days back to hunt for Vampires. They wouldn’t leave disappointed, Hans thought as he sucked the life from the Arch Duke of Donastierre, if they left at all...

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Outside, in the waning light of the sun, Brigadier Weissman and his men found themselves quickly being surrounded by an increasing number of walking corpses that had seemingly burst from within the castle itself and had emerged into the courtyard where the troops had erected their encampment. All of the undead were armed, and many well armoured. Most notably to Weissman; they had a real sense of purpose in their attack, striking first at the gate-house and cutting off access to the city, before moving to push the Golgothans from the walls altogether.

A lumbering brute of a corpse, wielding an ancient battle-axe of unrecognisable origin lumbered towards the Brigadier, he put a pistol shot clean through the brute’s mouth, but the creature kept lumbering forwards, forcing the commander to dive backwards and reassess his footing. Staggering away from another blow, Weissman was left shocked as a young Golgothan soldier turned and decapitated the creature with a clean sword-swipe.

The boy didn’t live to hear his commander’s thanks however as a spear suddenly pierced his neck from behind, and the skeleton that had thrust it there, just as quickly withdrew it, charging further into the melee as Weissman watched the boy die.

A loud scream suddenly pierced the air as the Duchess ran shrieking into the courtyard from the main castle. “They’ve killed him! The Duke is dead! My husband is dead!” She cried, her arms flailing in distress.

Pushing his way through to her to stop her from getting too close to the advancing undead, the Brigadier yelled out; “Is the keep secure!?”

“I think there’s… there’s a Vampire in there, he’ll be hunting for my son… The new Duke… Please… Please, we must save my baby!” She screamed, her voice hysterical.

The Brigadier looked back to his men as the undead horde that had emerged from the towers and side-buildings around them now swelled, leaving them literally fighting over the small patch of ground near their tents.

“Very well! Colonel Heintze, pull your men back inside, we cannot hold the courtyard.” He shouted over the roar of battle. He fired another pistol shot as a skeleton came charging into range, shattering it’s skull into pieces. Whirling around, his cape fanning around him, he directed the Duchess back inside.

Slowly the Golgothans fled in the direction the Duchess had come from, through the main doors into the keep, a few brave souls remained outside to buy their comrades time to retreat as Heintze slammed the great doors shut and several of his men rushed to brace them against the inevitable push from the undead outside.

“Where is your son?” Weissman asked the Duchess.

A tall, middle-aged man rushed over to them. From his outfit he might have been a guest of the Duke’s, or maybe even a chief servant; “The governess has taken the children down to the kitchen cellars to hide, my lady.” He let out, his voice shaky.

“Oh how horrible….” The Duchess wailed, turning to cry into the man’s shoulder.

He comforted her, stroking her back and giving a stern look to the Brigadier; “There are many passageways that the dead could use to get in there... Your men must be quick.” He said, raising his other hand towards the corridor that led to the kitchens…

As Weissman and a handful of soldiers departed down the hallway. Hans Von Richter turned back to the men attempting to bar the door.

“Look away my sweet.” He muttered, as he released the Duchess and took a step towards them, his hands outstretched towards the great wooden doors. He lowered his head in concentration and then reached out with his magic to pull them from their hinges.

With an almighty bang, the doors collapsed onto the beleaguered defenders.

The undead were merciless, cutting down everyone between them and Hans; their unliving master who, once the slaughter was complete, turned and directed them in the direction of the kitchens with a commanding swing of his arm.

As the horde passed him, he took his Duchess’s hand and squeezed it tightly, revelling as he sensed both her fear and excitement. He too was excited… The next great Vampire War had begun.

[Sarrin]

Morthin - 4E-150

As fog fell onto Morthin few failed to see the fickle irony of the gods. The future like literally everything before them was a mystery and entirely uncertain. Had the Garnians arrived a week before when sunlight danced across the sky perhaps a true conflict would have met them but instead they arrived today after all that had occurred and undermined the occupiers.

In the 5 days since the siege encampment had gone silent unrest had spread like wildfire. On the 2nd day word began to seep through the city and the Morthinian populace, often wielding a grudge against the Garnians for sealing their gate, welcomed the news of their northern liberators marching against the city. The rioting and resistance that had existed, though significantly crushed in the first week through brutal and public punishments, was reborn and the Templars were once again pressured into maintaining order. This would have been manageable if not for Argus’ orders to send the bulk of the occupying force to Medina to reinforce a new army. This had forced the few resources left at the Templar Commander’s disposal to be stretched thin worsening an already deteriorating position. On the 4th day resistance forces burned down a grain stockpile meaning that this very morning and lunch the Templars would have been forced to eat half a normal ration. In response, and not expecting Garniem to arrive, the commander had instituted a mandatory fast. Unfortunately, this had not proven to rally the men behind faith but instead only severed the already frail morale of the men who could now add hunger to their growing list of displeasures.

Despite this they still ran to the walls at the horn. And through the mist they could make out the approaching army. Not a few hundred like the scouts had claimed but tens of thousands. Faceless blurred outlines of brutish giants charging through the fog shouting cries in their dead tongue. The Templars readied their bows hesitating as rumours spread through the lines of beasts on all fours charging along the flanks when they let loose they could hardly see if any effect had been made. Among them were two new recruits Carson and Gareth, young men who had joined months before after an altercation with a Medinian Patron. Now they stood together guarding a stretch of wall that demanded at least half a dozen barely able to see the other soldiers, let alone each other, across the battlements.

The Templars let loose their flaming arrows specially coated to engulf any standard vampire on impact.

“I’ve hit but they don’t care, he’s still running! LORD OF CINDER HE’S STILL COMING”

The voice was frantic and ended as suddenly as it started with a bloodied blurt. The duo tried to look to him but saw nothing through the fog.
“No more talk, ready the bows for another volley”

The Templar Commander yelled out sharply his tone telling clearly that he had killed the frantic soldier. As the next volley launched some Garnians appeared to fall though it was uncertain in the fog if they had not simply paused for something else. Another bloodied gurgle was heard from the wall, then another, a third. All from different places then a shriek from the commander, no longer as confident as he was only moments ago.

“They’ve climbed the walls, to arms!”

Gareth and Carsen drew their blades and went back to back, a standard formation for the regular armoured infantry. Noises could be heard from around them of swords clashing and howling as if coming from the woods itself.

“There god had a wolf doesn’t he? Is that him taunting us? Has the fire betrayed us?”

Gareth gulped not daring to answer and gripped his sword tightly before hearing a monstrous thud. He turned and saw before Carson an enormous hulking beast of a man. Standing about half a meter over them and bursting with muscle. His body was so scarred and littered with hair it was impossible to tell where his armour started and ended, if indeed he wore any, in his hand was a giant axe engraved with some pagan story but seeming normally sized in his titanic grip. As they finally looked up to his face past even the huge wooden shield covering his back they saw something more than a mere man. His right eye clawed out and left sporting a ferocious hunger that filled their hearts with fear. His long hair and beard were all weaved into a careful design held together with golden bands.

Carson froze dropping his sword and falling to his knees in supplication.

“Mercy, please, oh please mercy in the name of the Flame”

The creature before him paused for a moment and laughed lowering his axe. The pair sighed in relief and Gareth lowered his blade. This would prove to be a grave mistake as with the end of his laughter the monster struck at Carson slicing him in half with his mighty axe and knocking Gareth out with its hilt. As Gareth began fading out of consciousness he watched as the beast turned and disappeared through the fog with more of his monstrous pack climbing the walls beside them

Bleeding Square, Medina – 4E-150

“In this home lives a man who wishes to rule you, wishes to control you and wishes to rob you! HE believes that power in Medina lies in his hands as it did his filthy kin not long ago but WE know the truth. Power doesn’t lie in the hands of the few. In MEDINA it lies with the people!”

Madeline Martello stepped down from her podium as the gathered crowd went wild with praise. None could deny the Martello’s controlled the popular vote and indeed they had ever since they arrived in the city only decades before. Indeed the great struggle in modern Medinian politics was between the Martello and Lancel families though never before had such a vulgar move been made by either side. Even the location embodied this struggle as the Bleeding Square sat directly in front of the Lancel's home a reminder of both the horrors and wealth of his family.

The square itself was about half a kilometer either side with a once bright mosaic decorating the floor immersed with jewels. About a quarter of the way in from the four corners stood huge gold plated pillars with enormous steel chains hanging from them that had once been used to bind prisoners. In the centre was an enormous ruby which legends claim to have been a diamond stained by blood and around that was intricately hidden drains that led down into a huge tub once used for lesser vampires feeding. It, perhaps as a fitting metaphor, had fallen into disrepair since the Vampyric Ascendency ended but was still a terrifying and beautiful marvel of the wealth and power of its owners.

The Lancel Family represented ‘old money’ and could trace their lineage back centuries. Their business was based on slavery, gold and the luxuries enjoyed by the wealthiest of Medinian society and as such their soirees, private and mysterious as they were, had all of high society fighting for tickets. Until the Martello’s began to make plays an invitation to the Lancel Yuletide Ball was largely considered the benchmark of success among the wealthy with Gideon recognised, by those who were experienced in the game of politics, as the true ruler of Medina.

By contrast the Martello’s were the embodiment of ‘new money’. Having been ascended to the Aristozia by the Lancel’s in 4E-007 they quickly made a name for themselves selling furs, ale and woods from Morthin. They purchased an old and small Lancel estate which became their center of operations quickly growing to match their power. After 30 years they unexpectedly left the Lancel power block and began sitting among the independents using their goods and wealth to buy favour not from the Aristozia but instead the vast and impoverished masses. When Hugo died and his daughter Madeline ascended to the chair she quickly grew the Martello power base forming a block of 12 votes in only 6 years. With this she gained the once ceremonial role of Prefect in the Aristozia which, using previously ignored and forgotten constitutional conventions, she used to rapidly expand her role calling plebiscites on all issues opposed to her interests and freezing the Lancel’s plans.

In the days since the Grand Master spoke on forging the Sunset Empire Medina had found itself in agreement on all but one issue. Who should be Emperor. Gideon’s bloc had spoken passionately at the need for experienced and able leadership from the only family that had ever held the mantel of power over all the kingdoms. They spoke of the wisdom with which the Lancel’s had ruled them and the considerable mercy, for a vampire, which had been shown. This had failed to convince a majority in the chamber particularly as the Martello’s had garnered great support for an expansion of the Viscount system with candidates chosen by the Aristozia and then elected by the people but with 10 year terms. This of course would lead to Madeline being named Empress though many other blocs supported her out of support for the old ways, fear of tyranny or belief they themselves could win. While the chamber had reached deadlock behind the scenes much had been occurring.

In the wake of this deadlock Madeline had turned to the people clearly preparing for a new plebiscite to decide the answer as her role allowed to end stalemates. She had conjured up growing crowds every day since the Grand Master spoke and given increasingly fiery speeches denouncing the Lancel position. From his city villa Gideon had a prime view with many balconies overlooking the Bleeding Square. This particular day he watched from the balcony on the top floor as the mob roared in applaud for this upstart that had become a thorn in his side. He reminisced on his first meeting with Javier Martello and how much he had misjudged the upstart family. He would never have imagined that the unshaven, unclean and practically uncivilised ‘merchants’ from Morthin could ever become an obstacle to him. As he peered he saw Madeline’s brother Rufus take to the stand. While Madeline ran the political aspect and her older brother Javier ran the business side Rufus had taken lead on their military side. He regularly trained the common people to fight and armed them in effect transforming the very people into a guerrilla force. When this was first exposed it was considered scandalous in the Aristozia as they believed a coup was oncoming but what was more disturbing was when they discovered they were powerless to prevent it.

“It’s easy to forget why they call this the bleeding square”

Rufus gestured to the delicate mosaics on the floor depicting Vlad’s victories in the Vampyric wars.

“Our ancestors were killed here. Sometimes for rebellion…Sometimes for Crime…and sometimes because they were HUNGRY”

He pointed to the Lancel villa and the crowd roared with support

“The council is moving to form the Sunset Empire based on the foundation of our faith. Are we going to let so corrupt and vile a family as the Lancel’s rule over us? Are we going to peacefully bow to a family so twisted they willingly became vampires? Are we going to stay quiet?”

“NO, NO, NO” the crowd shouted.

“After two weeks of deadlock my sister will call a plebiscite to empower you but we have to wait two weeks. Don’t allow the Lancel’s to play their games make the statement loud and clear if anyone does a deal with the cretin in this house and votes to make him our ‘ruler’ he will face not only our scorn but our might!”

Rufus stepped away from the podium and further applaud filled the square. Unlike his sister who knew exactly how to speak to the upper echelons Rufus spent his time working in the bars and markets across Medina. He spoke more acutely to how the people like to hear and wasn’t afraid to be vulgar in his comments. Even this speech was inflammatory though and the thought crossed the minds of many on what Lancel would do in response to what was by all means flirting with accusations of continued Vampirism.

[Greater Latica]

Donastierre 4E-150

Brigadier Weismann’s heart pounded in his chest as he ran down the water logged tunnel that led from the castle to the docks. The tunnel had been constructed when the castle became the official residence of the Arch Duke of Donastierre, so that commodities like fresh fish and ice could be transported from the docks to the castle without interference from the traffic above.

In the distance behind them Weismann could hear the snarls and splashes of the undead horde following him and what remained of his men. When he saw the doors come crashing down, he’d decided to abandon the Duke’s heirs to their fate, there was nothing he could do to save them. He felt awful having to leave them, it was a dereliction of his duty. He put those thoughts to the back of his head, he had to mobilise the rest of the brigade, and drive back the undead.

Colonel Heintze led the way, as an engineering officer, and a veteran of the Dwarven Wars, no one in the Golgothan army knew a tunnel better than him. Behind them cracked the occasional rifle shot, and burst of Lewis gun fire in vain attempts to thin their pursuers.

The emerged from the tunnel into complete disarray and chaos, buildings had collapsed cluttering the densely packed streets. In the water the large mast sailing ships sat stranded by the unfavourable winds unable to escape. Stranded in amongst them lay the SMS Indomitable, a Golgothan Navy Cruiser. The Indomitable had been sent as part of Weismann’s forces, to try and intimidate any potential threat. Clearly she hadn’t worked. Around the warship, her crew, and marines worked feverishly to free her from the sail trade ships blocking her in, whilst being besieged by the undead, clambering along warped rigging and broken wood, tirelessly in their urge to kill.

Knowing time was short, Weismann had to think fast. He rallied his men and headed towards the Cruiser, formulating the details of his plan as he went. He had to get to the Indomitable. It would be the only thing for miles with the ability to get any form of signal to his men, and the heavy firepower to change the tide before reinforcements could arrive.

Haberhoff, Prestierre - 4E-150

The ash had settled and the fires had gone out by the time the Golgothan army soldiers of the Royal Prestierre Dragoon guards had arrived to investigate the charred remnants of the village. They dismounted, cautiously scanning the area, with their Mondragon Carbines at the ready.

“Keep your carbines trained on those bodies, there are too many things in this world that don’t die when they should,” cautioned the Lieutenant, as his men moved forwards to inspect the bodies in the square.

As the bodies were checked, one by one, it was becoming clearer that they were dead, killed by someone with some skill with a weapon, not the brutal ripping and tearing associated with the undead, or the refined pinpoint subtlety of a Vampire.

“Fan out,” the Lieutenant ordered, “See if there are any survivors, be on the lookout for whatever caused this, they might still be a threat.”

[Cheye]

Villa Lancel, Princely State of Medina – 4E-150

As the mortals of Medina scurried around riling themselves up about the demise of Morthin and the petty politics of the Sunset Empire, Gideon Lancel found himself pondering other peculiarities. The rumours from Donastierre were far more significant for his kind. His spies had confirmed it; Jacques de la Grey had been right about Von Richter. Golgotha would soon retaliate and the pure-bloods were now beholden to de la Grey if they wanted to survive. Convenient that, Lancel mused. He knew there was more to that story than met the eye.

Gideon pondered that development and more as he sat at his desk in his large study, staring at his clasped fingertips as his unliving brain trailed off in thought. There was a certain irony in the fact that he and his bloodline were being played. The Lancel’s were the cream of the crop in Medina; their family had held power and wealth, rising to prominence by submitting and surrendering the city to Vlad Van Drak during the reign of the Vampyric Ascendancy.

Many of the Lancels had been rewarded for doing that, their family largely turned into a pure-blood dynasty and given the rule of the Eastern Kingdoms for the tail end of the 3rd Era as Vlad’s blood-fuelled empire turned its attentions elsewhere. Their power over the cattle was telling though; when the fall came and the mortals rose up to take their reprisals out on their Vampiric overlords, the Lancels had once again gained power through surrender, throwing their own family members who had been tainted with Vamprism to the mob. That had been a ploy of course, orchestrated by Gideon so that control of the bloodline and indeed of Medina, fell to him.

Now those populist rats were trying to take it from him. The Martellos weren’t the first to try and oust the Lancels, and they almost certainly wouldn’t be the last. But what could he do about it? Every day more of the common folk rallied to the Martellos and even if his bid to become Emperor narrowly succeeded there would be unrest… Unrest that would weaken Medina. Weaken Medina to who? That was the question, Golgotha or Garniem?

Golgotha was the logical choice; an Empire hell-bent on expansion was never going to leave the Eastern Kingdoms alone for long. But, Gideon Lancel was smart enough and old enough to know that the people of Garniem were almost certainly not Vampires, not Vampires of the old Ascendancy anyway. Which meant they were a threat, a threat growing ever closer.

Stirring, Gideon ran a finger through his long blond hair and rose to his feet, before slipping out of the study. Descending the stairs, he heard the sobbing and smelled blood in the air as he approached the dining room.

“Ah Denton.” He smiled, entering. In front of him, the heir to the Lancel bloodline, Denton Lancel, was leaning over the dining table, almost straddling a scrawny young man who lay dying on the table, a large part of his throat ripped out and blood pouring from the wound.

Like Gideon, Denton was also blond, but the aesthetic similarities stopped there, where Gideon was short and long haired, Denton was large with his hair only grown out on top. In the flickering candle light that lit the dining room, the blood that dripped from Denton’s mouth looked black and shimmering, contrasting with his pale skin and blond hair.

“Come to quench your hunger Gideon?” Denton smirked, biting down on the boy’s throat once more. Gideon remained silent and austere as the boy looked to him, half in horror and half in hope. “Fine, don’t talk, just watch.” Denton said before he twisted his head viciously and snapped the lad’s neck, killing him. After lapping up the blood for a few long seconds, Denton began delicately wiping his mouth and rising from the table to stretch out his arms at his full height. Gesturing to a servant nearby, Denton barked; “Bring the next one in, I’d like some dessert.”

“Belay that, I’d like a word.” Gideon finally interjected coolly.

Denton sighed and looked back to him. “Well what is it?”

“I know how we can resolve our political woes.” Gideon let out, stepping closer. “How would you like to pay a visit to Madeline Martello, I think it’s time we part with the rhetoric and find out what this is really all about.”

“And when we have?” Denton eyed him curiously, scratching his head.

“We bring the Martello’s back into the fold, of course.” He smiled wickedly. “No matter what it takes…”

Donastierre, Golgotha – 4E-150

The castle halls were full of corpses. The Arch Duke, his brothers, his men, the army garrison, the servants, the guests, the functionaries, the horses, the hounds, all dead. The only living people who remained were the Duchess and her two young sons, who had gathered on the rooftop of the gatehouse which looked out over the city below as the undead horde now descended upon it.

Hans Von Richter was there as well of course, but he didn’t count. Nor soon would his lover. The death of the Arch Duke guaranteed that soon Duchess Helena would become Helena Von Richter and perhaps the boys would too, if the situation warranted.

Hans raised his arms to the heavens as the cold night wind that struck the city roared and wailed over the screaming and the fighting below. The clouds seemed to sense his undead magic and began to swirl overhead and a loud clap of thunder reverberated around the castle. As Hans twisted his hands, lightning forked, striking at buildings in the city. Duchess Helena turned to hold her children close, comforting them. Not that it mattered, the two boys, Michael who was nine, and Wilhelm who was seven, stood silent and resolute, having quickly grown accustomed to the depraved sights they had witnessed inside the castle.

Eventually the clouds broke and a torrential downpour of hailstones fell from the sky. Hans flicked his wrist and a magical barrier sprung up over the tower, shielding the mortals he harboured from the storm. The rest of the city would not be so lucky.

Having finished tormenting the cattle below, Hans turned to his bride, who still wore the dress soaked with the Arch Duke’s blood. She stepped towards him, smiling wickedly, he had freed her from an unsatisfactory and ultimately abusive marriage. He had enabled her to put the young Michael on the throne of Donastierre and to have power beyond her wildest dreams. She was his now, entirely. She stepped closer again and gently kissed his lips.

There would be work to do of course. For Hans and Helena both, after the slaughter, Hans would raise the newly-dead to bolster his army and Helena would appear with the new Arch Duke Michael to reassure the survivors that the political heart of Donastierre remained intact. There was the Indomitable to deal with as well, but the sheer numbers Hans would throw against them through the night ought to deal with that minor complication. Then the pair could marry and Hans could depart, for a time, and take his army further into Golgotha, leaving Helena to rule in Donastierre. Both were agreed on this plan, and as they kissed atop the gatehouse, shielded from the rain, the sky lit only by hazy fires from the city below and the occasional flash of lightning, they recognised that they had placed their fortunes almost entirely upon one another.

As Duchess Helena broke off the kiss, Hans raised a hand to her neck and gently tilted it back, before plunging his teeth into her neck to administer the blood kiss…

[Sarrin]

The Mount, Morthin – 4E-150, Mid Winter

Days had passed since the liberation of Morthin and the Garnian army had acted in an unsettlingly respectful way for the Morthinians. Following the purge of Templar forces the bulk of the army was sent back to Garniem so as that they could rest over winter and not drain the cities food stockpiles. Those remaining stayed on battlements defensively watching out against any potential threat and occasionally hunting which often led to surplus meat given to the citizens for free. Indeed the only forces within the city were King Brannon, Jarl Greymane and Jarl Tordrig all of whom had taken residence inside the King’s Hall with a small force of Royal Housecarl as guards. They would occasionally send for notable figures in Morthin to speak to them and tell them of the occupation’s crimes and desires for the city showing an acute interest in even the most basic affairs of the republic. This had left some unease among the Morthinians who found themselves unexpectedly able to continue their days as if the occupation had never occurred. Today however this was to change as word had spread that the Garnian King would speak at the Mount on the future of Garnian-Morthinian relations.

The Mount itself was a simple place at the intersection of the paths that go to the King’s Hall, Council’s Hall and Judges’ Hall. At its center an enormous white oak tree grew known as the Heart Tree. It was the second in its place after the Lancel’s had its predecessor cut down following the First Morthinian Revolt to demonstrate their total authority over the city. Standing before the Heart Tree was a worn wooden platform used for public executions and political speeches.

King Brannon stood on the platform, to his side were two pillars about a meter part with rope tied to the top and bottom of each. Between them was the Templar Commander bruised, battered and tied in place clearly having been broken by the invaders. Either side of the pillars were two old Druids and a tall shirtless bearded man sitting on a log and sharpening his already keen knife. Noticing the crowd had grown past his eyesight Brannon began to speak.

“We were once proud to call you our child and you proud to call Garniem father. We gave you autonomy but protection and in exchange you acted as our intermediary to the world enjoying rights granted to no other peoples. Morthinians were never foreigners. To us you were and always will be Garnian.”

A tense silence stayed across the crowd interrupted only by brief murmurs. While the feelings of resentment to Garniem had disappeared when the liberating army approached many had returned to such emotions in the following days not fully forgiving them for closing the gate. Brannon saw this uncertainty and continued speaking.

“I know how you must feel. We failed you when you needed us most by sealing our gates and with time I hope we can earn your forgiveness… especially as you learn the reality of what else faced us. We sealed the gate not only to protect ourselves but also to protect the world from what we believed was a curse. A curse we now know to be a blessing and which in time we hope to share with you…our children…no…not children, brothers.”

The crowd continued to watch with growing curiosity. Brannon paused for a moment before gesturing to the Templar Commander. The broken and bruised man was no older than 40 and had short white hair exposing him as a member of the Royal Family of Itrusk though not a major enough one to be recognised.

“This man confessed all that happened to my kinsman Jarl Clew thinking it would spare him punishment for his involvement. Morgath does not spare prey for revealing the trail to his kin, it removes the thrill of the hunt. More than this however we began to speak to you all and learned of the atrocities committed against you. This man committed Murder, Desecration of the Dead, Floggings and far more. We see no need for a trial so what say you? Is he guilty?”

The Morthinian silence broke as the crimes were listed swiftly ensued by supportive cries. When at last a verdict was called for the people’s civility collapsed and they cried out in near unison of his guilt. King Brannon smiled and nodded.

“The punishment for these crimes is the second worst for he has offended only man. He will be flayed.”

Flaying as a punishment had been outlawed in Morthin for over 700 years not even being introduced again during the Lancel Occupation. This seemed a remote notion now however as the vengeful populace chanted in favour as if any negative feelings to Garniem had been wiped from the city. Brannon nodded to the tanner who stood from his chair and moved to kneel before the commander. The frail man had been lifeless yet suddenly surged with life as he realised the reality of his situation. His bindings however kept him in place and as the knife pierced the skin on his chest he released a fearsome screech. The gathered citizens watched horrified yet enthralled by the site, all signs of ‘civilising progress’ seemingly thrown out of their cultural society as minds flocked back to their Garnian primality. When at last the noble began to feel the release of sweet, and much desired, death approach him the Shaman beside him grabbed his hands and began channelling life energy through him not only keeping him alive but further engulfing him with adrenaline to keep him awake. This continued for hours as the Shaman’s rejuvenated their stock of life energy from Templar prisoners brought before them and publically sentenced by the King for various crimes the citizens held them guilty for. When at last the tanner had flayed the skin from his body so as that only his face remained intact and his muscles and organs lay exposed for all to see the commander was fixed in a state of eternal pain, fear and desperation. The Shaman had finished the last life-force of the hostages and he at last was allowed to die his body being completely unable to deal with the shock and blood loss. The King turned back to the Morthinians who were now like a pack of feral beasts enticed by the gruesome spectacle they had witnessed.

“I vow on my place as a predator in The Great Wilds that Garniem will forever protect Morthin like our child so long as a Brannon sits on the throne. After meeting with your most powerful and influential we have chosen an interim Governor to lead you until elections can be held for a new leader so as that the reconstruction of this city can begin. Not so you may return to the levels before the Templars but the greatness from before the Plague itself!”

The crowd roared with approval clearly forgetting all the resentment they once felt, if only for the moment.

“This will be funded by 20,000 Talons from my own House’s wealth as a show of my commitment to this great city. Now I am proud to introduce your new interim Governor and chairman of the Garnian Trade Company, Jarrick Crow.”

Talons were an old currency in Morthin not having been used since Garniem last traded but their value had not been forgotten and their return more than anything guaranteed in the mind of Morthinians that Garniem was here to stay. As Brannon spoke Jarrick’s name he stepped up to the stand to a resounding applause. He then began speaking at length giving no shortage of praise to Garniem and the King who after some time left the stage to allow Jarrick speak “Morthinian to Morthinian”. As Godfrey left he approached his residence where he saw a familiar looking crow nesting on a post.

“It has been sometime my friend; I must confess I am surprised you didn’t come sooner.”

Cormac took flight and landed beside the king seamlessly transitioning to his human form as he walked alongside him and lacking the usual lustre of his transformations.

“I knew I was not needed, besides you would gave me a task.”

“So the meeting is arranged?”

“Yes my King, a months time, five hundred of your housecarl and within their border territory of Ostierre. I believe we shall be attending their equivalent of the Winter Festival.”

The King nodded as the two entered his Lodge and spoke more on the finer details of what would no doubt be a meeting that determined the future of the Eastern, if not all, Kingdoms.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elk’s Rest, Princely State of Medina – 4E-150

Elk’s Rest was a small Estate only an hour’s ride outside of Medina, which with the cities constant expansion meant it, would likely be considered a villa within a matter of years. The old Lancel property has been given to the Martellos shortly before they first rose to the Aristozia but had been entirely changed since then especially after it was knocked down by Javier upon the death of his father to create a new stronger building reflecting, and more importantly protecting, the independent family. In the main hall Rufus sat tearing at a leg of lamb with several notable members of the common folk of Medina.

“The plans are in order?” Rufus asked as he gulped his flagon of mead.

“Nearly, we want as many of them inside as possible when it happens.”

Rufus nodded uncharacteristically careful to lack any specifies to whom or where he spoke but clearly excited. Before he spoke any further Madeline walked in with an elegance his brothers had never come close to achieving. Rufus’ companions eyed up the Elector Princess with lust as she strolled in making her chuckle, she was use to such gazes and felt little threat or offence from them.

“Do you think I can get some time with my brother boys? I’m sure the girls I brought downstairs would hate to be left alone…”

His compatriots smiled and eagerly finished their drinks before racing each other downstairs to see the prostitutes his sister had brought with her.

“Whores? This must be good if you’ve brought whores.”

“My spy have told me exactly what I wanted. The Lancel’s have taken the bait.”

“When should we expect them?”

“Any moment I imagine.”

“Are the Guild here?”

“They arrived yesterday, more than we expected too, I think you’ll like them after all they did quite enjoy the ale we gave them.”

Rufus smiled, when his sister told him she was bringing in Witch Hunters from Golgotha he expected uptight rules types interfering in his business. He knew the rumours about the Lancel’s were probably true or at least he knew his sister believed them but he hadn’t believed they’d need the protection. Now however he was starting to believe they might be more fun, and necessary, than the stereotypes suggested.

“Well if that’s in order I’m going to go see these guests of yours…I’m sure they’d appreciate more sophisticated company.”

Madeline laughed

“Go ahead, I’m going to wait for our guest, make sure our men are ready to act against the guildies if needed, if the Lancel’s are already willing to agree to our terms we may not need them.”

[Greater Latica]

Donastierre 4E-150

The weather changed drastically as Weismann reached the SMS Indomitable, the rain had soaked his officer coat and had begun to wash the blood from the city into the docks, turning the water a pale red. The great steel warship loomed out of the rain, an imposing symbol of Golgothan might. The Golgothan Marines fought on, but Weismann was unsure whether this was out of duty and determination, or fear and survival, but their motivations didn’t matter, as long as they kept going.

“Who is in charge here?” he asked, approaching the nearest marines.

“Major Horst Sir,” the Marine replied, pointing to an officer standing in the centre of the marine lines, “that’s excluding the Ship’s Captain, we haven’t heard anything from him.”

“Very well.” Weismann replied, he turned to Colonel Heintze, “Colonel, you are to inform the Major, that you are taking overall command of the defence. Take what is left of our men, and protect the Indomitable at all costs. I’m going to have a word with the Captain.” Weismann reached into one of the pouches on his leather webbing, and pulled out a box of pistol ammunition and presented it to Heintze, “Colonel, I feel you might need these more than I will. Don’t forget to save one.” Heintze nodded solemnly, understanding the implicit meaning, before saluting sharply.

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.” He replied, “Golgotha protects her faithful.”

“Golgotha Protects.”

Weismann returned Heintze’s salute, and made his way to the gang plank, barking for it to be lowered. He grabbed one of the sailors by the shoulder, “Sailor, I need you to take me up to see the Captain.” His voice was flat and stern, and the Sailor did as he was asked, without question. He led the Brigadier into the heart of the ship and up the winding steel staircases to the bridge. The ship was a hive of activity. The sounds of fighting from outside could be clearly heard, as could the footsteps of sailors and marines frantically moving about the ship, and the Sailors working to try and free the Indomitable from the masted sailing ship and its rigging.

When they reached the bridge the Sailor accompanying the Brigadier pounded on the door, to no response. He banged again, still no reply.

“Just open the damn door.” Weismann demanded

The Sailor grasped the door wheel, and forced it round, and pushed the door open. Wiesmann stepped through and onto the bridge.

The Ship’s Captain turned, “What is the meaning of this intrusion?!”

“I am Brigadier Weissman, acting Arch Duke of Donastierre, I need to borrow your ship.”

“I’m afraid that cannot happen, Brigadier. My duty is to my crew and my ship, Donastierre is lost, we’re leaving.”

Weismann crossed the bridge, drawing his service revolver and placed the muzzle against the underside of the Captain’s jaw, “Captain, you are wrong. Your first duty is to the Emperor and the Empire. So now you have two options. Either you do as I command, or I shoot you and find someone else who will. Am I understood Captain?”
“I could have you on a charge for this, assaulting a fellow officer.”

“Captain, somehow, I feel that is trumped by your charge of Cowardice and dereliction of duty. And I have little time for cowards. You’ve used all of yours”

Weismann pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed around the bridge, barely masking the gasps of the other crewmen. The Captain’s body slumped on the floor in a jumbled heap.

“So who is second in command here?” Weismann demanded, brandishing his pistol.

A younger officer sheepishly raised his hand, his eyes filled with fear, like a deer in the headlamps of a steam wagon, “I am, Sir.”

“Do you know how to command this ship.”

“I’ve had some experience, I…”

Weismann cut him off, “that’s good enough for me, and I assume everyone else?” They required no further persuasion; their eyes were all transfixed on Weismann’s revolver, “Good,” he continued. “Take your place Captain.” Weismann removed the Captain’s cap from his body, and handed it to the other officer.

He took it, trying to avoid looking at the specks of his predecessor’s blood, “What do you want me to do?”

“Turn the guns, aim them over the right side.”

“But that’s towards the city!”

“There are four other officers on this bridge, don’t make the same mistakes as the last man to wear that hat.”

The officer remembered his place, and called down one of the speaking tubes in front of him, “Gunnery, XO has command, turn all guns to 240 degrees, Starboard.”

“Aye Sir, turn 240, Starboard.”

The massive turrets shuddered and turned, as the steam motors began to slew the guns to the right. The officer looked back at Weismann.

“Load and target the Duke’s Castle. If we bring it down it can’t be used against us. Your predecessor was right Donastierre is lost, but that will only ever be a temporary situation.”

Shaking, the officer called down the speaking tube again, “Gunnery, train all of the guns on the Castle. Load high explosive. Fire when ready.”

“Uh,” the voice from the speaker tube paused.

“Load high explosive, fire when ready.” The officer repeated trembling.

“Aye,” the voice responded hesitantly, “Loading high explosive. Firing when ready.”
The ship shuddered as the great eight inch guns roared, jets of fire and smoke erupted from each of the four muzzles. The pressure wave knocked the undead standing on the deck to the floor and pulverising their bodies.

“Test and adjust, Load and fire again.” The officer shouted down the speaker tube without prompt, “Keep firing until I order a stop.”

The first volley of shells shrieked as they soared towards the city. They missed, landing short of the castle. The explosive payload obliterated the buildings they hit, reducing them to more than splinters.

The guns reloaded and fired again, landing just at the base of the castle. The third volley struck home, the force of the shells shattered one of the towers, rocks falling on the streets below. The secondary five inch guns fired too, striking the top of the castle, carving great gouges out of the battlements. The guns kept firing, each new salvo inflicting further damage.

Weismann knew that the Vampire would have long since moved on, but the castle’s destruction was a symbolic gesture, one to prevent them using the Castle as a symbol of authority and continuation of the old order. He put his hand on the new Captain’s shoulder, “An attitude like that will carry you far in the military. Cease fire, and full steam, I need to contact the rest of my brigade. Hopefully we can take the fight back to them.”

[Sarrin]

Elk’s Rest, Medina - 4E-150

The dining room was quiet as Madeline sat calmly waiting for a Lancel to arrive. In her hand was a block of wood which over the previous hours she had whittled into a small figurine of a warrior. The rectangular room itself was less grand than other estates, the Martellos deliberately choosing to keep their estate more humble in appearance to solidify their support among the masses.

A huge oak table and chairs adorned the room, Madeline sat at the centre of the room in front of a set of carefully chosen stained glass windows illustrating myths and tales from the old faith, each of the major deities had a window dedicated to them. Gorgeously carved doors were at the center of the north and south walls which allowed passage in and out though with a Medinian home there were secret entrances known to the inhabitants. The sun had begun to set however and most light came from torches lit through the hall and the fireplace that sat on the floor between the tables.

Madeline glanced at the windows and sighed, she hated waiting and knew the Lancel’s were coming so her mind began to wonder if she should look less expecting. Perhaps she should pretend to be studying the murals? She had poured out two glasses of expensive Franchean wine dating from the Ascendency some hours ago and had begun to wonder if it was worth pouring them back in the bottle.

Suddenly a section of the wall across the room from Madeline swung out and Denton Lancel stormed in, his black travelling cloak fanning out behind him, a look of sheer contempt spread across his pale face.

Madeline continued whittling her figurine barely looking up as Denton entered when he got close. “You’re late.” She stated bluntly.

“Obviously.” Denton sneered, turning to pace the length of the room across from Madeline, glancing under the table and inspecting the walls for any forms of traps with his vampiric senses.

“The room is clear if I wanted you dead we wouldn’t be having this meeting.” As she spoke she seemed almost like a mother disappointed at a child's actions.

He smirked, “I know…” He ceased his pacing to look down at her, “But one can never be too cautious when rumours begin to swirl of Golgothan agents crossing the border?!” Denton growled, as if to accuse her of having some role in it.

“Do you think I’m so stupid as to leave myself undefended? You and your kin are hardly subtle about your vampiric nature.”

Denton smiled, in the torch-lit room it was a wicked sight, the tall, muscular Vampire standing in front of her, with his wicked grin and short-cropped blond hair. Finally he spoke; “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He let out a long breath and finally took the seat across from Madeline.

Madeline smiled politely as a silence briefly filled the room both side entirely understanding the game in play but neither bringing it to surface.

“So why don’t you tell me why you’re here? After all I assume Gideon didn’t just send his family dog to kill me, it’d be a waste of a good asset.”

Denton snorted dismissively and downed the wine from the glass on the table in front of him. “I wouldn’t flatter yourself, you’re not that important… Not yet.” A smile flashed across his face once again. “No, I’m here to talk.”

“Then talk.” Madeline looked at him firmly finally placing the wooden figurine on the table which upon closer inspection appeared to be a half-wolf half-human creature.

“We want to end the deadlock in the Aristozia. Gideon asks that you consider the enemies circling Medina before you decide whether an old family grudge is worth riling the people over?” Denton said, as if the mere subject of Medinian politics bored him.

“Enemies circling Medina?” Madeline said feigning ignorance. She paused and took a sip of her wine speaking before Denton could retort. “Oh do you mean the Garnians? From what i’ve heard an old friend’s recently been made Governor of Morthin so I suspect you might be looking at Medina’s best line of defence...unless you think your 500 or so vampires can hold out against them?”

“If you think every member of the Lancel bloc is a Vampire you are going to be very disappointed when the Golgothans arrive.”

“I don’t assume all of you are, but I suspect a fair few of you. Are you speaking about the Witch Hunters or the Brigade that was deployed only a week ago?”

“I’m talking about the enemies of Medina that are circling and just waiting for a reason to wipe us off the map.” He chuckled. “Now please, Madeline, don’t force our hand into giving them one, because if this infighting does not end soon, we will.”

“I think you underestimate Medina my friend, every major family has ties to Golgotha and the Emperor is no fool, he knows that if Medina falls so too does his currency and exports. Besides My family can flee to Morthin, I doubt there are many crevices you can hide in.”

Denton watched her closely as she spoke, her initial calm almost throwing him before he spotted the flicker of concern in her eye as she mentioned fleeing. “I don’t expect there will be, but you need to negotiate with us.” He raised his voice. “Do you understand?”

“Negotiate with you! My dear sweet pup, does your brother not let you read? I only have to wait a week and the people decide and...well...they’re hardly going to chose the Butchers of the Bleeding Square now are they?”

“The people will decide what we want them to decide. As they always have.” Denton growled.

Madeline smiled placing the wine glass she had been fiddling with back on the table “That’s not worked well for you recently has it pup? Maybe you need to go back to your master and get some new ideas because threats just won’t do it.” She taunted confidently.

Denton rose from the table dramatically and raised a pointed finger towards her, “I knew negotiating with an upstart pagan was a mistake. If I leave here now, know that Gideon will be uncompromising, Golgotha will come. MEDINA WILL BURN!” He yelled across at her.

Madeline did not even flinch as she picked up her figurine and continued to whittle “To think that the Lancels have survived for 150 years just to throw themselves into the fire, certainly no Van Draks that’s for sure.”

“How wrong you are…” Denton growled quietly. Stepping up onto the table with a sudden dramatic grace. “Let me show you what an heir to Vlad Van Drak can do.” He grimaced, stepping across the table, his face suddenly distorting. His mouth elongated and snarled, exposing his twin fangs as the beast-within struggled inside him and his vampiric nature was laid bare.

As Denton loomed over Madeline, who for the first time that evening had a genuine look of terror on her face, the doors bolted open. Rufus bolted in with a motley crew of mercenaries that had been waiting quietly behind the thick wooden doors, but who had only been there since after Denton had sat down. Seeing the beast before them he fired a shot from his pistol before signalling for the soldiers to charge from both ends of the room knowing the gunfire would alert the witch hunters below.

Denton took the gunshot to the collar with little reaction and reached down to grab at the hem of Madeline’s dress, he hoisted her into the air and threw her with an unnatural strength towards the mercanaries at one end of the room, before leaping from the table onto one of the men alongside Rufus, whose throat was ripped out before he knew what was happening.

Madeline stood and ran out the room screaming for the Witch Hunters who could already be heard charging up the stairs.. “Keep on him boys!” Rufus shouted at the mercenaries who though trembling continued their meagre assault, their cheap swords slicing him as quickly as he was regenerating. Indeed the only thing faster than his regeneration was the collapse in the men’s morale as Denton’s entire body morphed as though an inner-beast were trying to escape it as he mercilessly jumped from one mercenary to the next, slaughtering them with his bare hands.

Denton shot a kick square at Rufus’ chest, sending him sprawling to the floor before Denton turned to snap the neck of the first man to charge him from the other end of the room. He twirled the body straight back around and hurled it into the second, before firing a bolt of lightning from his fingertips that killed the third before he’d even crossed the room.

With only Rufus left, Denton turned and snarled from within his ugly undead guise; “I will break your bones and then I’ll break your entire house.”

Rufus felt a wave of relief wash over him however, as the witch hunters poured into the room from behind Denton. The vampire had sensed them approaching during the fight, but the thrill of the killing had slowed him down as he turned to them and charged.

The witch hunters knew what they were doing. Madeline had payed for the best and she’d got it. As the first two hunters stepped forward to block his charge, the second two assembled a large cumbersome rifle between them, and by the time Denton had killed the first and wounded the second, fired a harpoon from it, square into the Vampire’s chest.

The harpoon sent Denton flying back, forcibly crashing through the dining table into a heap, the giant silver weapon protruding from his chest. Flicking a switch, one of the hunters detached the cord that connected the harpoon to the gun and the magnets attached at both ends did the rest, wrapping the Vampire in an unbreakable web of thick silverite cord.

As Denton struggled, flopping about on the floor the Hunters surrounded him and looked to Rufus; “We must burn him!.” Rufus nodded and called for more men as new mercenaries entered the room more heavily armed than their predecessors and carrying rifles from the Koci gunsmiths.

“You know what to do” Rufus said to the first two who then carried Denton away. Denton snarled and hissed as the mercenaries hoisted him up, the silverite cord digging into his body so that he was effectively immobilized from the neck down. His arms bulged through the cord as they pushed him out, but it would not break. Turning back to Rufus he hissed; “You will rue this day Martello filth!”

Rufus turned to the remaining three witch hunters; “I truly owe you a great debt gentleman, is there a service I can do to your guild to thank you for this?”

The witch hunters looked among themselves before their leader stepped forward to speak.

“No thanks is needed, any vampire is a threat to Golgotha and Golgotha protects her faithful.”

Rufus smiled fiendishly. “I’m glad someone does.” as the words left his lips he gestured to his men who quickly rose their rifles and let off a volley at the unsuspecting agents. As they collapsed to the floor the soldiers slit each hunter’s throat in turn to guarantee their silence, and Rufus left the room where he found Madeline waiting in the hall.

“It’s a shame the Witch Hunters never arrived, after all the roads are so dangerous these days...” she said innocently.

“You should really inform the Guild, I’m sure they’ll want to know they can rely on us to investigate thoroughly.”

The pair paused for a moment before bursting into laughter the night having gone even better than they hoped.

[Cheye]

Donastierre, Golgotha – 4E-150

As the funeral procession marched through the centre of the city, there was silence. Only the whistle of the harsh winter winds interrupted the city’s mourning. The faces of the citizens who lined the streets were painted with sadness, anger and remorse. They were completely broken.

The undead horde that had descended on the city that fateful night had disappeared just as quickly as they had arrived, so too had the bodies of the thousands of Golgothans killed in the attack. Their corpses no doubt raised by whatever dark being had led the horde to Donastierre, to replace the undead lost in the fighting. For many that was the saddest part, not being able to say goodbye to their loved ones. Almost everyone left in the city had known or loved somebody who died in the attack and the enormous sense of loss that connected every citizen of Donastierre reached fever-pitch here at the funeral of the Arch Duke and his two young sons.

There’s were the only bodies left after the attack, as if somehow their noble blood had spared them from rising to serve the beast that had killed them. As the their three coffins were carried through the streets towards the city’s grand mausoleum, it became clear that their funeral symbolised something greater to Donastierre’s citizens; their funeral was a chance for the common people to mourn their own losses as well, and more than one onlooker burst into tears as the procession marched by.

If the citizenry looked overcome by grief that was one thing, but Arch Duchess Helena looked even worse, her long black mourning dress shimmered like death itself in the sunlight and a vale covered her pale and haggard face. To lose her entire family in one night, and if the rumours were true; to lose her sons to cannon-fire from the SMS Indomitable rather than the undead horde, was a horrendous fate in the minds of Donastierre’s citizens.

Alongside her walked the new High Commissioner of Donastierre, Hans Alptraum, he was dressed in black formalwear and carrying the city sceptre and orb as a mark of respect. He had been appointed by the Arch Duchess the day after the attack to restore the city to full strength and make sure the undead could not simply return. Rumours were already beginning to swirl about how somebody previously unknown in Golgothan society could just achieve such a rank but as repairs to the castle had begun and a new militia was raised to defend the city, the people of Donastierre were already beginning to show him a begrudging respect.

With winter settling in over the northern city, many were worried about the damage the attack had caused. Damage to the railway lines from the storms that ravaged Donastierre during and after the attack had been extensive and yesterday, when the people of Donastierre woke to see that the Dona had almost entirely frozen over outside the city, a panic set in that would have possibly culminated in riots were it not for the presence of Alptraum’s militia and the underlying sense of unity the people still felt in the wake of their losses.

As the funeral procession reached the mausoleum and one by one the dignitaries made their way inside, the people of Donastierre remained gathered outside in the cold, as Arch Duchess Helena turned to wave to them, the first snowflakes began to fall.

The masses looked to each other for comfort as the snow began to intensify and then many of those gathered darted off to seek warmth elsewhere. With dwindling food and no real government, no defensible castle, no railways and a frozen river, not to mention the undead army that was still out there somewhere, the people of Donastierre were slowly coming to realise that they were completely cut off from civilisation.

The Borag Mountains, East of Carvania – 4E-150

Josef Van Der Barr had had one sleepless night too many. His mission; tracking and hunting a coven of Lesser Vampires that had been raising the dead in the Drak Wood had already gone on for too long and he missed the comforts of Syliv and the company of Carvania’s aristocracy. The witch hunters; Gerhardt and Schultze were an interesting pair of characters, but having lost track of the days and nights he'd spent in the field with them, his patience for their sibling-like sense of humour was wearing thin.

After securing Drakwold and defending it for five nights straight against the dead, Gerhardt had suggested leaving the main bulk of their troops to defend the town while a hunting party go into the foothills of the Borag Mountains to flush out the Vampires. It had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time and even though Gerhardt had suggested Josef remain in Drakwold, he had been keen to prove his abilities to them in the field so had insisted on tacking along. What a mistake that had been…

“Fuck the Vampires, why don’t we go back to Syliv and get your Prince Marius to get some artillery down here and blow these mountains off the face of the map.” Josef cursed as he threw his hastily-packed travel bag over his shoulders as the group prepared for their next day’s hunt.

“Patience Josef. We’re getting close.” Gerhardt muttered in response, his curt tone had long stopped bothering Josef, who had given up insisting the witch hunters refer to him as Lord Josef after the first day of their travels. Since then, Josef had stopped even looking like a lord, so it hardly mattered, his face had come to sport a thick stubbly beard and his military cuirass had long faded from the ardours of the road.

“You always think we’re getting close.” Schultze sighed in response, hoisting his own pack onto his back.

“We’re not even in fucking Carvania any more, we’ve probably long passed the Vampires.” Josef let out restlessly.

“They have led us here for a reason.” Gerhardt replied calmly. “I intend to find out why…” Suddenly he paused and drew his sword; quietly barking to the others; “Someone’s coming from the west!”

The three of them drew their swords and lowered themselves, ready to strike, the two other quieter members of Gerhardt’s retinue drew their own weapons and took cover behind a nearby boulder.

As a man emerged from the rocks to the west of them, Gerhardt shouted; “Who goes there!?”

“Messenger from Syliv!” Came the response.

Josef rose to his feet. “Get up here then, double time.” And the party grew more at ease.

As the messenger approached, Josef patted him on the shoulder. “How the hell did you find us out here?”

“Got directions from Drakwold and picked up your tracks about three days ago.” The messenger answered, taking a bottle of water from his belt and allowing himself a long drink.

“You were lucky then, what news?” Josef asked, the witch hunters moved in close around him, sheathing their weapons.

“Court’s going to Ostierre for year’s end, some meeting between the Emperor and the King of Garniem.”

“What?!” Josef asked, utterly perplexed, the messenger drew a scroll of paper from his pocket, complete with the Princely seal that marked it as official.

Josef snatched it and unfurled it, turning away as he read it:

My son,

I have facilitated a meeting between Emperor Karl Franz and King Godfrey of Garniem. I have done this to remind the Empire of Carvania’s usefulness and with the help of Prince Marius we have finalised a plan that will bring the two rulers together at year’s end.

I had so hoped you would be able to join the court in Ostierre for this momentous moment, but I understand your mission is still underway. Know that I pray to the Holy Flame to return you to Syliv safely before I depart. Wilhelm has offered to remain behind to ensure Carvania is run smoothly in my absence, should you return while we are abroad he will celebrate your arrival and see to your needs.

Your sister is well and seems to be falling for Prince Marius.

Know that I am eternally proud of you.

Francis

Josef shook his head sadly before giving a handful of marks from his pouch to the messenger. He missed his family greatly, and the thoughts of his father fulfilling his political ambitions and his sister falling in love without him being there to see it, made his eyes start to water.

Seeing his discomfort Gerhardt approached and slapped his shoulder comfortingly. “Hey, no use filling your head with sad thoughts Josef, we’ve got a job to do and Vampires can sense your worries. We’re close too, let’s move on.” With that, he began walking at a brisk pace away from their former-campsite, trekking down a crevice further into the mountains.

There was a long silence as Josef mulled over the letter and Gerhardt’s words. “Is he always like this?” He eventually asked, turning to Schultze, irritably.

“Most of the time.” Schultze nodded, adding as he stepped after Gerhardt; “The thing is, he’s often right.”

Josef smirked and rushed after them, the two other quieter members of Gerhardt’s retinue falling in behind, leaving the messenger to rest as the group pressed on, further still, into the mountains.

[Charlemagna]

The Kingdom of Teustengrund – 4E-150

It happened almost instantaneously; in every city, every town, every village. The crowds assembled at the allotted time, as they’d been instructed to do, eyes set upon the wooden stages that decorated every square. Predictably, the Mayoral spokesmen made their way onto the platforms puffed out their chests with practised self-importance and raised their arms to gain the crowd’s attention.

“Citizens of Teustengrund!” Across the nation, the same words rang out. “I bring news, in the name of our beloved sovereign, King Starkalt IV! Since his coronation last year, King Starkalt has sought to follow in his father’s footsteps; his priorities lying with the continued security of the Teusten nation – and of every Teusten who relies on his loving protection.

“But we live in dangerous times; and the purest of evils haunts our borders. Our enemies think us weak – still grieving over the loss of King Starkalt III, now led by a young, fresh-faced King.

“But, dear citizens, do not fear! For King Starkalt IV is even stronger than his father. He will not bow down, he will fight for the good of every single Teusten – man, woman and child. Even beyond the borders of Teustengrund, Teusten dysphoria communities survive, remnants of historic expansion; these brave individuals are not forgotten.

“The vast majority of these live in Mieera. Here, they are oppressed, persecuted, by our enemies of old. We all know the stories of the Mieeran people – people is too strong a word! These are not people, but demons, agents of the Dark Prince himself in human form. Only this could explain the unnatural abilities that the Mieerans flaunt and taunt with. They have sat on our southern border, threatening us for centuries.

“Now, with Vampires rising once more in the heart of our trusted neighbour and ally, Golgotha, we as a nation once again face the threat of a Magical conspiracy! Believe us, citizens, when we say that the Mieerans are waiting for the first opportunity to stick a knife in our backs, and to use their dark, twisted magic against us pious, natural Teustens.

“Well, King Starkalt IV says no more! We shall not bend to their evil ways, and we shall not be conquered!

“This morning, Teusten soldiers crossed the border into Mieera. They were met with little to no resistance by that cowardly race, and have already succeeded in occupying vast swathes of Northern Mieera – in the process, liberating many grateful ethnic Teustens. Our soldiers are already closing around the Mieeran capital, Miewrozek, where the majority of Mieeran forces have regrouped. Other places have also developed Mieeran strongholds. But fear not, citizens! For the Mieeran Mischlings are no match for us, and this is only the first day. Soon, Teusten troops shall occupy the whole of Mieera; the threat of magic upon our borders shall be nullified. Teustengrund will be safe.

“Dear citizens, victory is close at hand! Now, can we have some cheers; Glory to the King! Glory to Teustengrund! And may our Lord above grant us victory!”

Across Teustengrund, crowds broke out into spontaneous applause; their overjoyed voices shouting patriotic sentiments, wishing the King well, praying for victory. Despite the winter chill, the sky was clear and bright, and sunlight glinted off the windows. It shone down upon an elated population, alive with anticipation.

What a lovely day to go to war.


Katowek, Mieera – 4E-150

Mid-afternoon, and the cobbled streets of Katowek – a small, rather insignificant town in northern Mieera – were abnormally quiet. Shutters were drawn; those that were out and about kept their heads down, and hurried onwards with a practiced sense of purpose. No one wanted to look idle. The Teusten soldiers perched at every other corner watched their new subjects with a hawkish suspicion, as if anyone would be stupid enough to cross them.

A couple of streets from the old town square, half a dozen children played without a care in the world. What was it to them if foreign soldiers now guarded familiar streets? Strange looking men speaking a strange tongue, but no one had stopped the children playing.

They chased each other down the road, their yelping and joyful cheers echoing starkly in the silence. None of them can have been more than ten – nothing but harmless fun. At least one soldier recognised it as such; he was young, out of his depth. Noticed the kids racing past and – as one turned towards him with a momentarily startled look – his lips parted into a smile. He winked. The kid laughed gleefully and ran to catch up with her friends.

As they moved towards the square, the game changed to another firm favourite; catch. No ball to play with, of course. A boy clenched then opened his fist to summon a small, orange fireball and threw it across the road to his friend. A few sparks rained down on the road before the warm, swirling sphere fell safely into the other boy’s hands. A thin layer of air protected his skin from being burnt as he bounced the fireball in his palms. Higher, then higher again, then down, and finally with a flick of his heel brought back to his hands.

“Show off! Pass it!” The call reverberated around the street, accompanied by the ringing of childish laughter.

Above them, a shutter shuddered then slid open… a middle aged woman peered out, face pinched with concern. “What are you playing at?!” She hissed at the children, eyes darting around… but there weren’t any soldiers quite within sight.

“It’s called Catch,” replied a girl, with all the innocence – or indeed, ignorance – of youth.

“Don’t you understand? You mustn’t use that now. You mustn’t use magic – they hate it, they’ll punish you for it. The soldiers,” she added for clarity, upon seeing the bemused faces. “Don’t you have a home to go to? You should be with your parents, all of you.”

And with that she slammed the shutters shut.

If only the children had listened.

Instead, they continued their game, dancing with the flames that passed harmlessly between them. Fireballs grew bigger, as large as footballs, then grew smaller again. And the children laughed and giggled, and it was all good fun.

Until the soldiers noticed.

The first one to notice was stood still at the corner the children were walking towards, where the street intersected with the town square. At first, he didn’t believe his eyes, then he tensed, seized with fear, with horror…but these were children… children! Playing with black magic?! But then, of course, to him, all magic was black magic. That was what they were all taught, back home in Teustengrund.

He gripped his rifle a little tighter, teeth clenched, eyes focused, unblinking, upon those dangerous, unnatural children. But he didn’t do anything.

So, the children passed into the square, and spread out, their fireball reaching football-size again, as if they were trying to put on a display. But they weren’t, they were just innocent. Ignorant.

The second soldier to notice was an officer; he too felt close to panic, felt out of his depth against such banal abnormality. But he also carried enough authority to do something about it.

He clicked his fingers, and barked orders to those nearest to him.

And in barely a minute, the children became aware of a change in atmosphere, they looked around, bewildered, as they found themselves surrounded by ten heavily armed soldiers. Rifles pointed directly at them. The fireball disappeared with a whiff of smoke almost as pale as its young creator. Lips trembled, tears lined eyes…

“Hands in the air!” The officer screamed at the children, with not an ounce of pity. “Now, you Mischling scum!”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Not far away, a woman hurried through the streets. Unlike the others, her head was held high, and she pestered almost everyone she came across –

“My children, have you seen my children?! A boy and girl – 9 and 7, have you seen them?”

But no one wanted to know. They were too wrapped up in their own lives.

Eventually, in a blur of panic, she arrived in the square. Swallowed up by the traumatised crowd that sobbed and lamented the sorry sight before the town hall. The woman – the mother – gasped, and clutched at her heart.

The howl that escaped her mouth was as animalistic as they claimed her people were. It pierced the air, twisted, contorted like the sharp lines of her harrowed, tortured face. For, simultaneously, she had both lost and found her children.

They and their four friends hung from the gallows, their limp bodies swaying sickeningly in the breeze. They looked so small up there, a sight made all the more grotesque by rolling tongues and blue-tinged faces.

The soldiers that guarded them were taut, scowling… but the mother's eyes were drawn towards the hastily scribbled sign that hung alongside the children. And made everything as clear as such an atrocity could be:

This is what happens to those who use magic.

[Greater Latica]

Ancelstierre 4E-150
Council Chambers of the Electors

“How dare that wretch of a woman defy us, the Elector Council! How dare she defy the Emperor! The Emperor that her husband voted for! How dare she show such distain for our laws!”

“Who does she think she is?! The Emperor’s thoroughbreds have a greater claim to Donastierre than she does!”

“We cannot her allow to continue! What sort of precedent does this set? It might encourage revolution, what if this new militia becomes a revolutionary army?”

“Agreed, something must be done!”

The assembled electors murmured in agreement, even the Emperor nodded from the end of the room.

“She must be deposed, and the militia disbanded.” The Emperor stated, “We must liberate Donastierre and bring them back into the fold, before a dangerous precedent can be set, or it makes us look weak. Too many people are looking to us for guidance to let us slide.”

Once again the electors murmured their agreement. The room fell silent as Prince Eugen of Hassenstierrre stood up, “My Liege, I volunteer my services to oversee the events in Donastierre.”

Northern Kislevstierre 4E-150

The train screeched to a halt in the late evening light, the oil lamps swayed with the motion. Prince Eugen climbed down from the carriage into the cold dark mist, pulling his long coat tight around himself.

Brigadier Weismann approached him from the darkness, and shook his hand, “Good Evening your Royal Highness, I’m glad that someone high up has responded to my call.”

“Very high Brigadier, this went to the Emperor himself. We need preparation, tomorrow I head into Donastierre to talk to the Rogue Duchess, and inform her of the Emperor’s decree.”

“What decree would that be Sir?”

“This one.”

Prince Eugen drew from his coat a parchment envelope and handed it to Weismann, identical to the one that Weismann had given to the Duke of Donastierre not too long ago.

“Now if you don’t mind, I would like to head to my residence for the night, we have a lot to do tomorrow.”

Weismann shook his hand again, “Here, one of my soldiers will lead you to it, I apologise that it may not be up to the standards that you are used to.”

“Hopefully I don’t have to,” Prince Eugen turned and followed the soldier into the mist.

Weismann gently popped the seal on the envelope, and removed the letter , stepping closer to the train to use the light from the oil lamps to read it.

Imperial Decree CCVII (IV-E- CL)

This decree, by order of Emperor Karl Franz, elevates the status of Brigadier Johan Weismann and his family to the position of the Royal Family of Donastierre, as a reward for services to the Empire, and in the absence of any immediate viable heirs to the Arch Duchy of Donastierre.

Imperial Decree CCVIII (IV-E- CL)

The Former Arch Duchess of Helena Donastierre (by Marriage), is to be arrested and indicted for treason, for disobeying an Imperial Decree. If she complies, she will have to opportunity to plead her case before a jury and the electors.

[Sarrin]

Krieg, Kingdom of Itrusk – 4E-150

King Ivan shivered by the fire, looking at him now it was hard to believe he had once been seen as a demigod by his people. His once triumphant physique now skinny and wrinkled with his torn face hiding little of its desperate sadness. The king had once held a large and prestigious family with many believing he could unite the East under the Sunset Empire but after years of Medinian resentment and plotting, alongside misfortune and disease, he had watched his loved ones die till only he remained.

“I’ve thought much about your proposal Argus. You are right of course, founding the Empire was once my dream and indeed to lend my Kingdom to it would be a bold legacy…but I don’t know if I can bare those murderers in Medina to lead it.”

He paused for a moment before continuing though it was unclear if this was intended or because he had forgotten his words.

“But I also know, and have known for some time, that if a successor is not found my Kingdom will collapse into a war that will destroy all the good that has been done. As such I will allow its assimilation and with my death the lords of my realm will be sworn to the Emperor.”

Argus smiled warmly at the King’s comments. In the months that had passed since he became Grand Master much had changed in the Templar Order and indeed with himself. His agents had been hard at work and infiltrated every facet of the Order’s culture and community twisting and manipulating the mostly uneducated members into being fanatical loyalists to Argus who was no longer a mere Grand Master but the saviour of man against a scourge of corruption. Templars no longer swore to the Holy Flame or another deity but to Argus when joining and often worshiped him in Temple as a living saint telling stories of his role in every major Order decision and event for the last 30 years.

Argus himself had furthered this image with newly designed attire. While once he wore dark robes to conceal himself he now wore lush silks and armours that shined like fire itself always surrounded with his elite forces, The Purifiers, whose blades were coated with a substance pioneered by House Von Gothra that kept metal aflame for hours. It was these forces that had accompanied him to the various Kingdoms of the East to rally allegiance to his budding Empire. The monks of Mayfair had easily been swayed especially when he promised to rebuild the great Cathedral for the coronation of the Emperor. The Borderlands of Farvas had proven more difficult with the fairly autonomous rulers widely disagreeing though as he left the Chancellor promised to ensure the debate continued. Next he moved to Itrusk knowing that if he could merge this Kingdom it would not only double the landmass but would also mean the Blackrock would likely follow.

Elven Alienage, Medina – Midnight

“I’m telling you for a father so ugly he’d knock a fly off a dung waggon she is a fine piece of ass.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you, he’s got a face like a mining disaster, how can she be anything better than a wet dog?”

“You think my sister would let us marry into train wrecks? Arn’s right here the girl’s hotter than freshly forged steel.”

The ‘fine piece of ass’ in question was Karolina Koci the recently agreed but not yet announced bride of Javier Martello and the esteemed gentlemen discussing her were Rufus Martello and his company. They had been arguing about her for a few hours waiting for the remaining company to return from their missions though Rufus was becoming increasingly agitated. This mission needed to go as planned and it was only so long before one of the elves noticed their watchmen were missing.

Elves had an uneasy place in Medina and were often viewed as thieves and beggars by the populace with many establishments refusing to serve them let alone hire them, a view that tended to perpetuate their situation. Most of them lived in a large compound called the Alienage with huge brick walls surrounding it built before the Vampire Wars to protect the humans from the elves, though now it did quite the opposite. It was a perfectly square territory with doors in each four gates perfectly symmetrical and impeccably maintained. The grounds themselves however were far more surreal as slums integrated flawlessly with trees and nature exaggerating both the wild and beautiful nature of both; The result of careful planning and exhausting work by the Elven Council that had come to rule the alienage in place of any real official Medinian presence outside of elections.

In the Aristozia the Elves were largely considered an inconvenience. As they were entitled to voting rights none of the houses wanted to risk losing the, often unanimous, elven vote and so never acted against them. Instead they would go out of their way to show themselves as champions of the elves if it cost them no resources though the price of reducing their poverty or improving the slums was never seriously considered. The most contentious issue however had been on the right to arm. Under Viscount Lancel in the Vampyric Wars all citizens were disarmed and weapons were strictly forbidden. This had been reversed following the liberation of the city for all except the elves who, without a representative on the Aristozia, found no one willing to do any more than make empty promises. Indeed the Elves disarmament was widely rejoiced at in the upper echelons who viewed the thousands strong community whose fortress home sat in the center of Medina as a significant security risk.

It was this feeling that Rufus looked to capitalise on both through the Aristozia and the Elves themselves. For the last three weeks ethanol had been seeped through the poorly maintained and often overflowing sewers under the alienage leaving a near all-encompassing flammable trail woven through homes, shops and trees. The Elves, of course, objected but the matter was ignored by the Aristozia who saw it as whiny beggars with leaky pipes.

Rufus’ men were also prepared. Each had been equipped in unmarked armour with a balaclava and helmet to cover their face. They held Wulff guns though the insignia’s had been scratched so as to be clearly removed. Their fake loyalties were not entirely hidden however. On one soldier he had planted a payslip taken from a disgruntled Wulff worker who had accrued a dangerous debt from beers and whores. Another had a Lovers Necklace, a Medinian trinket given to secret lovers bearing a Houses insignia which allowed him easy access into the estate. While these were subtle Rufus knew that any clear sign of allegiance would ring bells of suspicion across the city. He drew the group together in a huddle before speaking quietly.

“Alright boys here we are, the other gates are locked tight and this place is begging to be burned so I recon it’s time we do this city a favour, aye?”

“Aye.”

“Now you know I can’t join you, they’d recognise me, and don’t think for a moment I don’t envy ya. After all a whole arena of flaming knife-ears? That’s like a dream come true, darn it, that is a dream come true, but once this here job’s done you’ll open the door to us dealing with these fairies once and for all. Now any of you got doubts? Speak ‘em now if you do.”

The men looked among each other but none spoke. They all signed up for this without hesitation thinking it was a joke but now it was happening they couldn’t think of a better night. The irony of course was that they were too stupid to realise what was truly happening or that this was a suicide mission but that was hardly Rufus’ concern.

“Now you all go in and I’ll lock the door behind you. Then you go to your positions and light the fires, you’ve all got your flint and steel chip?.. Good, you start the fire then start shooting, remember the rules though, no mention of my family even if they look like they’re gonna kill you, no one pretended this was gonna be safe. Also, and more importantly, 100 ears before sunrise or you don’t get your prize. None of this left-right rubbish either only right ears there are thousands in there don’t try and cheat me. After 100 whoever gets the most ears gets a bonus prize, I won’t tell you what it is but it’s got too legs and a snatch like a dragon’s maw.”

The soldiers smirked at the remark. Every one of them trusted Rufus entirely not doubting his loyalty to them for an instant.

“I’ll be out here the whole night ready to open the door at sunrise but I better not see you lot till then, now get in there and have some fun.”

The mercenaries began creeping in through the gates some more subtly than others but each glowing with excitement. When the last was through Rufus locked the door shut and gestured to two more men who had been hidden to help push wagons in front of the door when it was clearly sealed they departed to their local tavern laughing at the idiots they’d hired.

Elven Alienage, Medina – Mid-Day

The fire had started with a rage few could imagine. First the elves believed there had been a terrible accident but as gunfire emerged and smoke could be seen arising throughout the Alienage any trace of reasonable doubt was eradicated. Some chose to stay in houses trying to hide from the flames wherever they could, others ran outside to the gates or wells to help tame the fire. All met the same fate as the Alienage was engulfed.

The gunmen themselves didn’t last long getting only a few rounds off each before they were mobbed and beaten to death by furious and desperate elves. The fire itself endured far longer being put out shortly before sunrise as if subsiding only to allow new light onto its achievement. The Elves were hardly celebrating though; their dead had paved every street and home with the once lush and beautiful overgrowth now a singed and tattered mess. Not a single house stood unharmed and not a family without reason to mourn. They were a hardy people however and took little time to mourn while there were jobs to be done. As soon as the fire was out of sight they began moving bodies into piles at crossroads where others took them to the town square. The soldiers, still unidentified, were taken there too so they could be checked for anything to identify them. By the time the rest of Medina had begun to truly awaken and the doors at last unsealed corpse piles littered the roads at every turn, a ghastly sight to even the most xenophobic human.

It was mid-day when the citizens at last had time to grieve and weep over their lost ones with only a single figure striding through the streets not with gloom but fury in his eyes. As he approached the bodies of the soldiers who had started the fires he barely looked to the two other surviving councilmen.

“Lucien, thank the stars I was afraid we were the only councilmen left… but you’re alone where is Elune?”

Lucien didn’t hesitate in his answer instead speaking as if without surprise or feeling.

“Dead. Have you searched them?”

The younger councillor, Thoryx, looked to the older who had not made eye contact with Lucien clearly looking for guidance in what to say. Unable to get a response he turned back to Lucien and nodded cautiously before speaking.

“House Wulff… but it hardly makes sense, they’ve never shown us animosity, not more than others at least.”

Lucien scoffed.

“Humans are all the same, they treat us like dirt and expect us to be grateful, this is just them being honest; probably felt we had done to well for ourselves enjoying a meal a day instead of every week.”

Calleus, the older and until now silent one, chose this moment to be heard speaking as if he knew were the conversation would go but not wanting to waste the time getting there.

“Rufus Martello…he will find you guns and won’t ask why. The council was wrong before and now you need to do what you have to. It starts with Rufus.”

“An ape?”

“The Martellos aren’t like the rest though ape is probably an accurate term for this particular one.”

Calleus chuckled for a moment before remembering his place among the dead.

“Tell him I sent you and he’ll do business no questions asked.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow clearly unconvinced but appreciative of Calleus’ advice. Unlike the others on the council Calleus had never strictly opposed his views merely stating it was not yet the time. Now however it was clear to all. Elven idleness was over.

Kings Lodge, Morthin

“So we sit around…for days…eating fancy food…and watching dancing, prancing, singing and something you call ‘ballet’?”

“Actually ballet is also a form of dancing but yes that is largely what they have planned.”

The King groaned at Cormac’s response. When Cormac had suggested he meet the Emperor in the early consultations on ending isolation he had imagined another great warrior king not some fancy talkative twerp. Jarl Greymane who had been listening carefully chose this moment to intercede.

“Perhaps we should offer to hold a tournament for him between the Housecarls. It’ll be at least a week’s journey so we’ll probably have to hold some grudge duels anyhow and it would give us a chance to show off our martial prowess peacefully.”

The King smiled at Greymane who clearly shared his concern over the meeting. The Garnian Winter Festival was filled with combat, hunting and drinking and what they were hearing from Cormac seemed a nightmare in hell. Cormac however was eager to ensure the best behaviour was followed knowing full well the danger a hostile Golgotha could present.

“I shall send a raven on the matter though as I previously stated hunting rights have been organised so we’ll have some break from the monotony. That isn’t to say we’ll be able to avoid it all, you’d do well to remember we have to show them respect if we expect them to show us any.”

The King grumbled in a hesitant agreement before looking to Greymane the pair clearly wishing they could celebrate in Garniem instead.

[Cheye]

Villa Lancel, the Princely State of Medina – 4E-150

Gideon Lancel was growing irritable. Denton had gone missing, the Carsteins were trying to extort him in exchange for votes and now the Wulffs, the family he had spent the better part of seven years turning into allies, had gone and burned down the alienage. That was what the rumours were saying, anyway…

Gideon knew he had to be wary of rumours. There were plenty in Medina who could construct and manipulate situations so as to get the mob stirring. Gideon hated all of them. It was not a base hatred, not the kind that most Vampires felt towards the cattle that ruled by day. His hatred for the plotters and manipulators of Medina was one ultimately borne from the fact he could see right through them. Never had any of them come close to his level of political ingenuity. Until perhaps now…

As he looked out from the window of his study, his hands behind his back, his mind already leaping through the various likely scenarios about what had happened in the Alienage last night, his irritation faded.

“The Martellos.” He muttered, as if responding to a question to which the answer was obvious.

“I’m sorry sir?” Petraeus Rax, the recently-turned Captain of his Villa guard asked, from where he sat by Gideon’s desk, turning to look at the pure-blood in the window.

“The Martellos are behind the attack on the alienage.” He stated flatly.

“How can you tell? The mercenaries had various items linki…” Lancel cut him off.

“Linking them to House Wulff yes, which is what they want us to think. But what does House Wulff gain from such an attack, Captain?” The Captain shrugged, letting out a confused grunt as Gideon continued, “Precisely. They would not do this because it would harm their popularity in the Aristozia, a popularity which has, since I proved myself to Tiberius, become closely associated with our own.” Gideon turned to look into the eyes of his get, as he concluded, “This is an attack on us Captain, make no mistake, and I intend to answer it in kind…”

“How?...” Petraeus asked, his voice unsure, it was clear part of him believed Gideon to be completely insane.

“That is for me to know.” He said, walking past the Captain back to his desk. “Fetch me the Viscount and the Marshall of Arms. I think they will agree that it is time to postpone the upcoming plebiscite in the wake of this atrocity, a full investigation must be allowed to go ahead lest the perpetrator be elected Emperor and impede justice.”

“Is that wise? Suspending the plebiscite could be viewed as an attack on the Martellos?” Captain Rax asked scratching his head.

“It could, but even they would not spread that rumour in the wake of such an atrocity. As well as making them look complicit, it would damage their standing with the elves and those who care for them if they did not honour an investigation.” He smiled, sitting down at his desk. “Besides, I do not want to suspend the plebiscite, only to postpone it.” He clasped his hands as a wicked smile crossed his pale face. “This will buy us time to tear House Martello apart piece by piece…”

Krieg, Kingdom of Itrusk – 4E-150

“Argus!” A refined voice called from the darkness. “Argus!” It echoed. “Argus!” The Templar Grand Master ran towards it. “Don’t fail me Argus… You wouldn’t like it if you failed me.”

“I would never, great Isillion, bringer of chaos, I have only ever done as you instructed!”

“No, no you have failed me Argus. It is time you were punished for your failure...” The voice was all around him, consuming him, like the darkness through which he ran. He came to a stop, out of breath, out of time.

Suddenly he felt a searing pain through his torso as the shadows reached out to him and began to rip through his flesh. He tried to struggle but the darkness that had called to him, now restrained him and then his bones began to twist and rip, his entire body being torn inside out by the deity he had dared to insult.

He awoke suddenly, sweating profusely. He had been sleeping very badly recently, the further south he had travelled, the more the nightmares intensified. As much as he told himself that Carvania brooked no threat to his new grand army, he began to question what effect Van Drak’s old haunts might have on his soul. He knew enough as a Templar to know that such fears were laughable, but as a worshipper of Isillion, deep down he knew there were darker things in the world that he had yet to face.

He would leave Itrusk at dawn, he decided, and would not look back. He closed his eyes once more, and soon sleep found him once again.

“Wake up.” The voice from his nightmares snapped. But this time it was different. It was here, in the room, it was real.

His heart-rate accelerated and he staggered up out of bed, he dropped into a pose of worship, bowing low to the hooded figure that stood by the door. “I have done as you asked, great Isillion. You told me of the Templars and I infiltrated them. You told me to spread chaos; I have spread it, you told me that that threat which spawned the Templars would return to the world, it has returned in Donastierre and throughout Golgotha. Please acknowledge these achievements great Isillion, so that I might bask in the favour of the Haggard Man once more.”

“Fifteen years is a long time disciple, you were skilled to remain undetected and tenacious enough to accomplish all that you have.” The voice mulled, though the uncaring tone irked Argus, could the Haggard Man not see he had done him proud?

“I have done it all, just as you commanded.” Argus croaked.

“No.” The hooded figure sneered.

“No? Great Isillion I beg y…”

“You were instructed to dismantle the order once the chaos was spread sufficiently. Instead you have relished in your newfound power and turned the Templars into a cult of personality. This is… Unfortunate.”

“I am using them… Turning their attention elsewhere!” Argus pleaded.

“To Garniem? That was never your instruction, your actions have made the Eastern Kingdoms weak, liable to be exploited by outsiders, when I only commanded you to make the Templars so.” The figure stepped closer to him. “Never mind this business with the Sunset Empire!”

Argus looked up at that, and was taken aback by the handsome and youthful face he saw looming over him in the darkness, just as he had been shocked to learn the true voice of his dark master all those years ago, he was now just as shocked to see that face. Nothing like the depictions, nothing like a haggard man… Unless Argus had unknowingly been serving someone else’s will for all these years…

The pit of his stomach turned. What if Isillion had never contacted him? Never existed? What if it had all been a lie?

Jacques de la Grey smiled sadistically as he watched Argus slowly come to realise what had happened. “Truth be told Argus, I never thought you’d succeed, but the Templars cannot be around for what comes next. Not as they were, and not as you have made them.” Jacques let out casually as he lowered his hood and ran a smoothing hand through his long brown locks.

Argus jumped up, reaching for the dagger that he hid beneath his pillow, the dagger that Isillion… Or rather this stranger pretending to be Isillion had left him all those years ago.

Before he made it to the bed, Jacques grabbed him from behind and immobilised him with a spell of paralysis. As Argus struggled to move, his entire body going numb and still, Jacques whispered; “Don’t worry Argus, I’m not going to kill you… Not in the traditional sense. No, I have one final dark and anarchic task for you. And if you fulfil it, I’m sure your precious Isillion will forgive you for misplacing your trust in me.”

Argus struggled with every fibre of his being to resist, to fight back, to do anything that didn’t involve surrendering to this creature’s will once more. And in that moment he realised just the kind of creature he was dealing with, from the corner of his eye he saw the man’s jaw drop and the hiss of the beast inside him, and then he felt the intense pain as the Vampire sunk his teeth into his neck…

[Sarrin]

Royal Imperial Residency, Ostierre - 4E-150, Winter

The Golgothans had arrived and settled in by the time the snow fell. They began to relax and enjoy the residency’s winter comforts before the Garnian delegation arrived.

Cormac had arrived the night before informing the Emperor that the Garnians were near and would be here within a day’s march. The Emperor had sent scouts out to help guide the giants, though the few who found the horde found themselves paralysed in fear and wonderment by the monsters that had been invited.

At the head of the expedition was King Godfrey who was joined by Jarl Greymane and Tordrig. Behind them were a group of shaman surrounding a cage suspended on what seemed like tree trunks and carried by four of the Housecarl with two others standing either side as if guarding the treasure. It was the force behind these figures that had truly been frightful; nearly 500 giant beastlike men exploding with muscle and decorated with scars that weaved through their otherwise all-encompassing body hair. The beast-men wielded enormous shields and carried what was assumed to be a hand axe on their waist, in addition to a heavy greataxe. They also all carried bows and arrows, though how they could so easily take the total weight was perplexing. Intermittent through the rabble which seemed to lack any clear formation were wagons containing skins, meat, ale, breads and what appeared to be construction materials.

As they got closer to the estate their monstrous trampede could be heard, eventually being overcome by the loud chatting between the men. Once on the outskirts of the city the King saw to organising the creation of a camp and the Garnians began erecting tents and campfires across the snowy fields. At the center of the camp a large oval had been cleared with poles attached by thick rope along the perimeter. Some Housecarl began hammering together makeshift tiered seating and within hours the arena had become a respectful size with seats for near 600 albeit not with the most safe design. The other Housecarl had also kept themselves busy setting up tents for the kegs, hanging and carving the meat, and counting the bread into stockpiles. Near the gate the mysterious cage had been dropped, though it was still unclear what was inside, and the two soldiers who were sent to inquire were blocked and leered at by three particuarly beastial Housecarl until they left. To the guards it was not so much the 20 Housecarl around the cage that worried them, but the fact all 20 were not looking for threats but at the cage itself.

When the camp had calmed and all seemed to be established it was as if a small town had suddenly appeared from the snow with soldiers sharpening blades, crafting arrows, eating, drinking, fighting and sleeping. The King and Jarls at last emerged from the camp and walked up to the Gates where two sentries stood looking bored and thoroughly uninterested in their foreign guests, two of whom had seemingly been sent to aggressively leer at them.

The King spoke in Garnian to the two Garnians who grumbled and returned to the camp before looking at the unnerved sentries and speaking in what was clearly not his native tongue.

“I apologise for them, they were told to keep watch for your Emperor but I suspect they got carried away. If you could take my Jarls and I to him that would be greatly appreciated.”

The soldier gulped before escorting him to the castle. The Garnian delegation spoke among themselves as they walked through the garden though it was hard to tell if they approved of or despised the scenery, with the language being spoken so fast and in such a variety of tones. The estate itself managed to quiet them however, as they paused to admire the stonework. Once they finally reached the elegantly carved door the guard departed handing over the Garnians to the stately staff who then escorted them towards the expansive throne room where the Emperor was seated at the far end. Standing next to him was Prince Marius of Reikstierre and Prince Gustav of Ostierre, both wearing their full formal regalia, including their Runefang sword symbols of office.

“May I introduce King Godfrey Brannon of Garniem, Jarl Greymane of The Blood Forest and Jarl Tordrig of Canary Basin”

As he spoke the trio entered followed shortly after by Cormac who seemingly appeared from nowhere having been exploring the house as a mouse. Before the Golgothans had a chance to speak the King strode towards the Emperor. Cormac followed swiftly behind him clearly ready to interrupt in the event of a social fopas.

“Emperor Karl, I have heard much about you it is good that we can finally meet.”

The Emperor stood up from his throne and walked down the steps to meet the Garnian representatives before him, “It is good that we can now meet, I only wish it was under better circumstances, as you are no doubt aware.”

The Garnians smiled before Greymane spoke to the King in his native tongue receiving a sharp look before the King spoke again.

“Common Greymane, we mustn't be rude.” He turned back to the Emperor. “I apologise for that, actually speaking your language is still somewhat new to us. We are of course aware of your nations difficulties and I can assure you that if any of these draugr attack while we are here my men will fight alongside yours to the last. Nonetheless I suspect I can restore some joy to your thoughts when you see the gift we’ve brought you.”

“Finally some good news!” the Emperor exclaimed, “I look forward to receiving you gift later.”

“My men should be bringing it over as we speak, it’s not something we want to keep an eye on. As for the formalities of this visit I’m sure Cormac has informed you we will be holding a tournament in our camp, if any of your soldiers wish to take part or watch we would welcome them with open arms though of course we wouldn’t want to impose.” As the King finished Greymane smirked slightly eyeing up the guards who were dwarfed by the Garnians.

“I’m sure that some challengers will be willing to participate, who would we be to shun the customs of our visitors?” The Emperor replied.

“Excellent, tonight we are settling grudge matches accumulated during the march and tomorrow afternoon we formerly begin the tournament. We’ll save you all a seat at the front, view is more visceral that way...might not want to wear your finery though!” He smiled faintly before the sound of marching Housecarl was heard through the hall, barging into the Throne Room carrying a thick cage atop two large poles. While only four carried another sixteen marched alongside them armed and ready to attack whatever was within.

The Emperor’s life guards gripped the hilts of their swords, concerned for the safety of their charge.

“Would I be correct in thinking that this is your ‘gift’?” the Emperor asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

The King issued orders in Garnian and ten of the Housecarl left into the hallway still close enough to intervene but far enough to ease the Golgothan guards.

“May I present to you a ‘pure-blood’ vampire and recent captive of my people. We understand he is involved somehow in the war being raged against you, and that you might appreciate being able to bring him to justice..”

“A very good gift this is indeed.” The Emperor smiled. “I shall have him placed into the care of the Witch hunters immediately. We can’t risk any mistakes here.”

One of the Housecarl went to the front of the cage and took him out. It was clear the Garnians had roughed him up just for the occasion, burns and bruises marred his face, and other deeper scars on his neck and chest were visible, through the scraps of clothing that covered him. They would have cut him deep and often to have the scars still showing despite the regenerative abilities of a pure-blood. The fact he was still entrapped in a silverite net made it easier for them to move him, as they showed the face to the rulers before throwing him back inside the cage and carrying him into another room as instructed by a member of the life guard.

“My men will stay with him until your ‘Witch Hunters’ arrive but as you can see we’ve made sure he won't run anywhere.”

“That is good to hear. I cannot imagine it will take them long. In the meantime, shall we send him away and arrange for some entertainment until the Carvanian delegation arrives?”