Conquests of Fenrir of Transylvania (Attn: Gholgoth)

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]
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Love Dog
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Founded: Apr 24, 2008
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Conquests of Fenrir of Transylvania (Attn: Gholgoth)

Postby Love Dog » Fri Jul 10, 2020 9:41 pm

Please note that this roleplay with have events dealing with mature context. Rated R. Open to those within the region of Gholgoth only. Thanks and enjoy. You have been warned.

Modern times
Galilee, the Gothic Dominion Commonwealth, Gholgoth

The moonlight shone down the landscape below, cutting through the drifting dark gray clouds of a coming storm as the city of Galilee was getting to point of shutting down for the night. It was a few hour after the witching hour, the bars slowing down and calling for last calls. Bouncers getting ready to crack skulls if the people didn't clear out. Lightning flashed across the night sky, the flash reflecting off the stone wall of the city's guardian. Calvary Keep rested at the base of the Fenrir mountain range to the east of the city. The keep was massive as was nearly everything within the twisted entity known as the United Dominion. The current Calvary Keep, the seat of the Royal House of the Gothic Dominion Commonwealth, was built within the early stages of the 17th century by drawf builders. Stone walls reached into the sky over fourteen stories, nearly two hundred feet starting at the base of the keep. The width of the keep was nearly a mile long. The drawf builders built the keep into the mountain into three tiers, each tier climbing the earth getting taller with every feet. Each tier a small town in itself.

The first tier housed the servants and the guardians; barracks, stables, kitchens and housing. The second tier housed the heart of power of the Gothic Dominion Commonwealth, the main elements of the government for this nation of the United Dominion; military, law enforcement, civil, trade and other departments. The Gothic Throne room rested in the center of the second tier. The last and third tier was where the Royal House of Lehnsherr called home. This tier housed a lot of what the first tier held; barracks, stables, kitchens and housing for the servants. But in the third tier rested a castle within a fortress. Fenrir Castle was the private residents of the Royal House. This last tier was the highest on the side of the mountain, giving everybody up there a good view of Galilee and the surrounding area. In the modern days, all tiers have had their defenses updated and upgraded. SAM sites hidden on top of the stone wall. The military minds of the United Dominion turned the 17th century fortress into a modern base. The public, both civilian and government, not knowing what really guarded Calvary Keep. Even some of the civilian side of the government don't know the secrets of the keep.

In the highest tower of Fenrir Castle in an office lined with bookshelves filled and real hardwood furniture dating more than a few centuries, a lone male stood a window covered one wall of the office from floor to ceiling at the Calvary Keep and the city below. This man, pushing a little over forty years old, still had his youth of his late twenties for he was a child of the Bat. A born vampire. This man bore the same dark black hair, nearly the same light gray eyes and the muscular built of his father, the One and Only Caesar Jason Scotus Lupus. He was Reinhold Lehnsherr, full blooded vampire of the Royal House of Wolf. Also the king of this domain of the beast known as the United Dominion, an honor given to him by his father at the founding of the many nations of the United Dominion.

This realm, the Gothic Dominion Commonwealth, was far away from the mainland of the United Dominion, located within landscape of Europe. These lands have history of bloodshed and chaos, as does most of Gholgoth in ancient and modern times. Books detailing the lore of the Gothic Dominion Commonwealth rested in the bookshelves of the king's office. He grabbed one of those books, titled 'The Conquests of Fenrir of Transylvania', and sat behind his desk. Opening the leather book...

Late 12th Century

Twenty years have passed since the last major war that the Dominion was in, but there had been small fights with the neighbors surrounding the lands claimed by the Dominionites. This world was cruel, so at any point there wouldn't be true peace. Dominionites knew that and understood that. In a little over sixties years since the founding of the Dominion, the world have seen what type of warriors lived within the lands claimed; Romania, Moldova, Bulgaria, Serbia and Montenegro. But that wasn't a good thing for there was always something one that wanted to test the power held by the Dominionites. Most of those battles happened on the borders, but there was a few rare times that the threat have come from the shores of the Black Sea. One of those threats came around this time of the 12th century, around the year 1160 anno Domini, that would cause a major change in the world of the Dominion. It would light a fire that would cause more chaos to the world. A fire would burn brightly in a soul who was born in warfare. Blood would be shed and shed freely as the Wicked Ones rejoice!

They came to test the power, to test myths of the Dominion. They came looking for something else. They, a fleet of twenty ships of Danes, pushed through the dark waters of the Black Sea moving towards the shoreline of Romania, the very heart of the Dominion. New of the twenty ships flying colors of the once famed raiding hordes of the Danes traveled down the shorelines of the Black Sea. The Dominion wasn't caught with Her pants down as these famed raiders of England neared the Romanian shoreline. As their ships pushed through the dark waters, they would see an army on horse and foot watching their every move. Waiting for them to foolish land a single foot on Dominion soil. This army, the famed Black Wolves, waited a thousand yards from the water, but there was something just out of the reach of the cold waters of the Black Sea. A lone being sitting in a dark wooden throne, his lifeless gray eyes bore boredom as they stared out at the incoming vessels. His black hair short and his goatee neatly trimmed. His left hand resting near his left eyebrow as he lends towards the left side of the throne. Only his chest was armored by what looked like the chest armor of Roman Centurion, but it was black with two golden howling wolves face each other. His legs were covered by plain black trousers, his feet covered by a mix of leather and dark gray fur boots. A matching fur cloak rested over his shoulders. He was the Count of Transylvania. He was the reason that the Danes had come, but at that time he didn't know.

The first ship made landfall, three large beast of men covered in fur leaped off of the wooden ships to the sand below. Their metal weapons ringing caused the Count to come out of his trace, making him sit up.


“Or foe?”

The Count didn't get an answers from the three men even thought he spoke in their language. He knew what was about to happen, seen it too many times in his long lifetime. He knew what these warriors were for his nose could smell the toxins in their blood. They were berserkers, the elite and they had come for a fight. They surrounded him, weapons drawn. Blood would be shed today. The Count's eyes watched the world slow, the one to his left moved to strike with his axe. The axe head impacted the arm of the throne as the Count went from sitting to attacking in a flash. His right hand landed strong punch into the guts of the berserker in front of him causing him to double over, the Count grabbed the man's head and gave a quick twist before the berserker's own axe was taken from his hands as his body hit the sand. The Count buried the axe head into the berserker whom first attacked him right next to the man's neck nearly halfway down his torso. The Count turned his attention to the other berserker still stand, the one on his far right. The vampire lord leaped, his eyes in bloodlust red as his fangs tore into the flesh of the berserker. He drank deep before letting the body fall

With three bodies resting on the sand surrounding his wooden throne, the Count once again took his seat. With blood still flesh on his lips, his now red eyes watched as the other ships made landfall. More of the Danes touched the soil of the Dominion, but only one warrior moved towards the Count. An older one, his dark long brown hair baring the greyness of old age.

”Friend or foe?” growled the Count.

The warrior stopped ten feet away from the throne, knowing that the vampire lord could end his life without trouble even this far away. His light blue eyes slowly scanned the lifeless bodies of the berserkers, of his test. This warrior bore witnesses to the myth that had traveled from the Dominion and had reached the shores of his own homeland.

“Freind.” said the warrior. “My name is Bjørn Ketilbjörn.”

“What do you want, Bjørn Ketilbjörn?” asked the Count with a smile.

The two, vampire and human warrior, talked for nearly an hour as their warriors stared at each other. These killer of men discuss what was coming. Each man seeing what could come of this new 'alliance' as Bjørn Ketilbjörn called it. The wealth, the legends of what was discussed on the shores of Romania. Together the Danes would raid again with the aid of what power held by the Count. All was well in the soul of the ancient vampire for a burning inferno was growing in his heart. Details and plans were hammered out as the blood of the berserkers soaked into the Dominion soil. Two weeks after the Danes had arrived in the Black Sea, their original twenty ships were joined by twenty Dominion ships. Something was coming to the world, but was it ready...nobody would truly know that answer.
Last edited by Love Dog on Sun Jul 12, 2020 12:54 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Love Dog
Posts: 2351
Founded: Apr 24, 2008
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Postby Love Dog » Sun Jul 12, 2020 7:08 pm

Late 12th Century

Twenty years have passed since the Dominionite-Danes horde sailed out of the Black Sea into the world, the death and destruction followed everywhere they placed their feet on the soil. Following trade routes, they struck the coastline of Africa leaving a trail of bodies as their wealth, both of the flesh and not of the flash, was sent back towards the Dominion or towards wherever the Danes came from. At every place they raided, the Count would leave a few alive to go tell the stories of this horde. The death and chaos left in the ships wake. It didn't take long for the horde to circle the coastlines of Africa, starting from the north to the west coastline to the south and moving up the east. The horde found new routes to sent their wealth back to their home. They moved towards the east after finishing with Africa.

The years ticked by for the horde, which was growing in size and power, as they raided in new territories and water. What was once originally forty ships has grown into two fleets of one hundred ships. More Danes joined following the first vessels of Ketilbjörn arriving to unload the wealth. The legends of the Count and the Horde reignited something in the Danes. But as the horde traveled there was something changing in the Danes. They were becoming more like the Dominionites they fought and bled next to in the chaos of warfare. They have become more than a true Viking raiding party, they have basically turned into a part of the Count's might and power. A naval beast that followed the wishes of the Count or as the Danes called him, Fenrir of Transylvania. This horde even took to calling themselves, 'The Hounds of Fenrir'.

The Hounds of Fenrir that was once was members of Danes and what beings that the Count had gathered, now it had changed into a strange and deadly mix of beings. Humans still held a large place in the ranks of the horde, but the real force was those beings whom weren't of the human race. A full tribe; men, women and children, of were-leopards of Africa served under the horde. They saw what was happening, so bend the knee to the Count for it was life or death by the Horde. But that wasn't the only were-beings in the ranks; were-bears, were-boars, were-lions. A large homo superior sapiens called the Hounds of Fenrir as their home. Warriors of the Dark Elves sailed under the banners of the Hounds of Fenrir, this also gave the horde an aerial presence with the famed dragonriders of House Taenraenos. The skies above the horde were protected by five dragons each. A few clans of dwarf were within the rank along with elements of the demonic races.

A new world arrived for the horde for they had crossed through known trade routes, those the leadership knew and those taken by bloodshed, into strange new waters. But there was something in the air that caused the Count to change the goals of the horde. Something was special about these waters as the horde pushed through the waves. They didn't see a coastline, but the Count was keeping them on a course heading north by some unnaturally even to him. A feeling drove him forwards to the unknown.

The Count had changed through the life of the horde, as the Danes were becoming more like Dominionites, he had picked up the mannerisms of the Danes. Becoming one with their culture, their lore, and their myths. His once short black had grown longer, nearly passed his shoulder when it was braided into a ponytail, his side and back faded to the skin. His goatee a memory of the past, a full beard covered his chin and cheeks that hung for more than eight inches. He even wore a cruel iron pendent of Mjölnir on a chain around his neck.

Days passed by for the Hounds in these strange water before there was any type of hope they were on the right path. Land was starting to appear in the distance of the first fleet of the horde, the morale changed as they knew the blood shedding was coming soon. The ships pushed through the waves as the Count watched from the bow on his ship, which was in the middle of the fleet. A large shadows cast over him heading towards the land, two black dragons broke from the rest to led a scout of the shoreline ahead. The Count smiled turning away, looking at the dark gray sail bearing the symbol adopted by the horde. A white tribal bull with dark red accenting the center of it's forehead. His gray eyes moved from the sail to the base of the mast, where a man in nothing but black trousers stood there watching the Count. The man's long silver hair danced in the breeze that was pushing the sail. He was known as the Madness, a Fallen of the Count.

But he wasn't the only of the Fallen that was within the Hounds of Fenrir. The Count whispered something in a boy of the age of twelve whom took off heading through the stern, to the tent made of silk of the Fallen known as Mistress. As the Madness known for violence, Mistress has other talents that have come in very helpful for the Horde. And she was also a lover of the Count.

On other ships of the first fleet, the Count knew that were that the other Fallen would be ready themselves for the coming storm. The armor beast known as Warmonger and the demonic swordsman known as the Grave Digger. All of the Fallen have the respect and fear of the members of the horde.

As the ships got within hearing distance of the shoreline, drummers started throughout the one hundred fifty ship as large oars entered the waters. The distance between the ships and the sandy shore grew smaller. The dragons circled above, diving through the ships. The Danes chanting entered the air with the booming bass of the drums. The Count, his sword in its stealth at his left side, grabbed his warhammer in his right hand. A were-bear growled somewhere on the left side of the Count's ship as his gray eyes picked up a lone rider rode down on a hill on the shoreline. The bow of the ship rammed into the sandy beach as the Count leap off to the ground below. His eyes studied the rider whom was wearing chain-mail, carrying a sword, but the Count drifted pass the lone rider to a small party at the top of the hill. They only watched as the dragons soared over the small before cutting back towards the ships.

The Count, his left hand resting on the hilt of his sword, moved towards the lone rider as the sound of the horde landing on the ground entered his ears. His eyes slowly going full blood red with each side. The lone rider called out to the Count in a language that even his own ears didn't know. The Count ignored it as he moved towards the lone rider whom drew his sword. A red dragon dove from above the Count and the lone rider causing him to loss focus at his task at hand. That's all that was needed to cause the downfall of the armored man's life.

The Count half kneel drawing his sword, the blade entering the neck of the horse right below the spine. Cutting downwards, blood flowing from the opening to the ground below. The rider cried out in shock as the horse went limp under him. The Count shouldered block the side of the horse, knocking the rider on the ground. His helmet rolling across the sandy beach, the man's green eyes only horror as a shadow cast over him. The Count smiled, his fang showing as he growled down at the rider. His warhammer smashed on the man's head. The life leaving the lone rider's body as the Count stepped over him, his blood red eyes staring up at the small party on the crest of the hill.

Sticking his bloody sword in the soil at his feet, the Count raised his warhammer in the air as the warriors of the horde took to the soil of this strange new land. There was only mayhem in the voices of the Horde as the small party turned to head back to the north. A message was delivered to on these sandy beach. A storm was coming, one that only brings death and destruction.

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