Grey
Dialectical Hermeticist
It is sunset; a blessing to the travellers.
Guenter Prozen smiles at the lengthening shadows. Autumn is a kind season to Vampires, save the rains.
He leads, as is his birthright, atop a Thrallhorse, garbed in armour made from flesh and bone - a relic of his days in the Twilight Guard - his face beautifully sculpted by his own hand.
"Come, you dogs, there is no excuse for your sloth when night falls." he calls over his shoulder.
"Shove it up your arse, Prozen!" retorts Uriel, always quick to anger, "I have no patience for your arrogance."
"Need I remind you, little monster, of my-" The Loxite begins, but Uriel cuts him off with a snarl. "Need I remind you, you little tyrant, that your keeper has already warned you off such talk? A fine leader, Prozen - unable to earn the respect of your men."
Prozen falls silent, nursing his pride.
Uriel surprises his allies more everyday, as his sanity returns. Perhaps Deckard was right to invite this self-proclaimed Angel of Death into his home.
N'Desu quickens his pace in step with Uriel, his crocodilian eyes unblinking and voice soft. His Laman accent, after all these decades, is still strong.
"It is good to see you healing, Uriel."
"Thank you, doctor," Uriel sneers, "It's comforting to know some darkie medicine-man approves my condition."
The slur rolls over N'Desu like wind in the desert. He long ago accepted the prejudices of this land, even before his skin began to grow deep, green scales. He says no more, settling back into his steady pace.
Poor Mykul, as usual, brings up the rear. He admires the falling Autumn leaves, hoping not to catch sight of... her. A year ago, almost to the day, the Vampires had met the ghost of a little girl. She still seemed to follow Mykul, appearing in mirrors and on rooftops, her faceless face staring down at him.
As the sun sinks towards the horizon, Mykul hears something.
"Hold!" he calls, "Do you hear that?"
"Voices again?" mocks Uriel - but then, he too hears it. A hunting horn.
"Mortals." Says Prozen, dismissively.
N'Desu looks in the direction he fancies the sound came from - a ring of trees. A perfect ring of trees. And the hunt that approaches them.
"Mortal hounds do not flame, gentlemen." He notes, calmly.
Prozen reins his horse round, to see, and his jaw drops.
"By Vasnok! The Wild Hunt! Of course! We were fools to be out at this time of year! Run, damn you!"
He immediately flees, and Uriel watches him - the coward. N'Desu runs too, and this surprises him.
When he turns around, Mykul is gone, and great shapes ride past him - save one.
The most gorgeous woman he has ever seen climbs down from her mount - a magnificent horse.
Her hair is long and fiery red, her eyes silver, her body naked and flushed. She smiles like the edge of a sword, and raises her blade, forged from broken hearts.
Uriel is in love.
Their swords clash, time and again. Graceful dodges and parries, brutal blocks and kicks. Her weapons flicks across his chest like the tongue of a lover, his blade slices up her arm. Her blood smells like the finest wine.
Finally, he realises who he is fighting - The Queen in Bloodied Raiments, Slayer of Nations and Eater of Hearts.
Uriel duels with War Herself, and by the gods, how he loves her.
Prozen tries to flee, into the woods - but to no avail. He has fled no more than forty feet when the hounds surround him. He turns, to gamble his life.
"Hold, sirrah!" He cries, as his hunter approaches. A giant of a man, his head crowned with mighty antlers, garbed in a toga of spring leaves and feathers, atop a six-legged horse. His bow is avarice, his arrows envy.
"A duel, Lord! I challenge you!"
The giant stares down his arrow for a moment, then appears to acquiesce. He climbs from his mount, approaching Prozen - his bow has vanished, replaced by a whip made from the suffering of mothers.
Draining arcane power from his blood, Prozen desperately flings a ball of eldritch shadow at the giant, and it hesitates briefly before lashing his face with that terrible whip. Prozen knows this being - The Lord of the Hunt. How does one defeat such a foe?
N'Desu hears the rumble of his pursuer - a glance over his shoulder reveals a figure mounted atop a great spider, about to cast a silken net. N'Desu dodges, just in time, and turns to face his enemy. The hunter seems to sense his intent, and leaps to the ground. He is easily nine feet talls, rail-thin and formed of tightly wound brambles, his eyes blazing orange and teeth made from reaping hooks.
"Hello, little monster..." it says, terrible thorny talons whickering. "Peace upon you, Mighty Autumn" replies N'Desu, eyeing it warily. One does not cross the Jester Resplendant in Fallen Leaves.
"An educated monster! I have a riddle for you - see if you can solve it before I kill you."
"I already have," says N'Desu, and smiles like a crocodile before burying his talons in the earth - suddenly, the surrounding woodland, and road, and banks burst into bloom. Autumn is dethroned, and staggers in confusion "What..."
N'Desu grins, now, as his face extends into a snout. He towers to Autumn's height, covered in armoured scales as lightning crackles over his body. "It's a riddle, Lord Autumn - can you solve it?"
And then, he pounces.
Wrapped in shadows, Poor Mykul hides in the woods. Perhaps they haven't seen him. There were only three, were there not? Mykul suddenly realises that the air feels... musty. Old. Dead.
He signs, and turns, as light and sound become dim and muffled, and lo, he beheld a pale horse.
She is beautiful - like a Winter sunset, like a marble headstone, like a child untouched by time. Her gown is ivory, her cloak raven feathers. The Maiden of Silences has come for him, and standing scant feet away, she shows her bow fashioned from the tears of children, nocks an arrow the colour of a granparent's contentment - and suddenly, she is hundreds of yards distant, ready to fire. Mykul looks at his crossbow, as if seeing it for the first time, then shrugs, and drops it.
"I have died once," he says, "Fire, and let it be so."
The Lover of Mankind favours him with a smile, and looses peace upon him. Mykul knew no more as the arrow lodged in his chest.
Uriel and his lover are bloodied and panting, but the blows do not cease. Parry, thrust, punch, and slash. They dance with passion, and love, and hate. To Uriel, it all becomes clear when she kisses him on the forehead while slitting his throat. His blood surges to heal the wound, and he thrusts with all his might.
She is impaled on his sword, and an ecstatic moan escapes her lips. She pushes further onto his blade, blood running freely from her stomach and over him - and she kisses him, her sword digging into his back as she loops her arms around his neck. He picks her up one handed, his talons scoring her buttocks as she drops his breeches. They fall to the ground, and do as a man and woman will.
Prozen has run the circle enough, leapt over the whip, ducked, been struck. Now is the time to strike, he realises - let the hunter become the hunted. Turning, face implacable, he summons tentacles of darkness from the Huntsman's own shadow. The Lord of the Hunt is stunned at the audacity, the cunning! And is held fast to the ground by his ankles and wrists. Imperious, Prozen holds the tip of his eviscerator to the Fae's throat.
"I have caught the prey. And now, I set you free."
He steps back, and releases the bonds. The Huntsman stands, giving Prozen a sour look, before walking towards his horse.
"Is it not customary to favour the huntsman with a trophy?"
The giant stands stock still, then turns to Prozen. He snaps off a length of antler, gazing at it, before staring into the Vampire's eyes. In a voice like a thousand wolves, he replies:
YES
His hand moves like lightning, and as he mounts his horse, Prozen sinks to the ground - staked by his own reward.
N'Desu throws a punch at Autumn, but those dire talons beat him aside and glide across the scales of his chest. The Vampires tears a vine loose, but the Grand Trickster steals an eye. Finally, the mighty Wahran looses patience, and leaps.
N'Desu bears Autumn to the ground, the thorns scoring across his scales. But he will not flinch, and digs his claws into Autumn. Calling upon the powers of his Clan, he withers Autumn as if struck by a winter frost.
"I... I yield..." coughs Autumn, and N'Desu relents. As the Fae returns to his mount, so too does N'Desu shrink from his warform. He feels... invigorated. And there is a thorn in his palm. He can't remove it. A gift, perhaps. A loud cry echoes through the woods, and N'Desu run to aid his companions - Uriel must still be there.
War lies supine, smiling lazily in the afterglow of her orgasm. Knock-kneed, Uriel withdraws his sword and helps her to her feet. Before she leaves, she kisses him again, smears her blood on his lips, and finally... she kisses his cheek. It burns, with agony and ectasy, and Uriel knows the mark of her lips will always be upon him.
He smiles, as she leaves. She will always be with him.
"Uriel?"
He turns, "N'Desu! You survived."
"As did you, albeit you look the worse for wear. Where are you trousers?"
"Nevermind, where are the Prince and the Pauper?"
"I smell Mykul nearby."
"Perhaps Prozen died, thank the gods."
They find a Vampire in the woods, an obsidian crossbow bolt protruding from his heart. But it can't be Mykul - Mykul was a Stalker, but this is a Shade - still Ithim Clan, but more thickly furred, and now winged.
N'Desu, a kindly soul, pulls the bolt free. The Ithim inhales, stops, and opens it's eyes.
"Ah," he says, "It's you. I was lucky to get away with just a staking."
"Mykul?" asks Uriel, incredulous.
"Yes!" Says Mykul, irritably. "Honestly, I don't see-" he pauses, as he climbs to his feet. "Something feels different. What're - Wings!"
"We did not imagine them, then." notes N'Desu. He is curious, but turns to look for Prozen.
The find Prozen lying in the woods, no mark upon him. N'Desu searches for some time, before finally wrench a perfect stake from his heart. "It's that accursed armour of his. The stake was almost impossible to see."
"My armour is not cursed," gripes Prozen, as he sits up and snatches the stake. "This is my reward? Hmph. Just as well we go to see a Mage, perhaps he can explain."
Under the moon, the Vampires trek on, bearing their gifts, the ghost of a little girl skipping in their wake.
Guenter Prozen smiles at the lengthening shadows. Autumn is a kind season to Vampires, save the rains.
He leads, as is his birthright, atop a Thrallhorse, garbed in armour made from flesh and bone - a relic of his days in the Twilight Guard - his face beautifully sculpted by his own hand.
"Come, you dogs, there is no excuse for your sloth when night falls." he calls over his shoulder.
"Shove it up your arse, Prozen!" retorts Uriel, always quick to anger, "I have no patience for your arrogance."
"Need I remind you, little monster, of my-" The Loxite begins, but Uriel cuts him off with a snarl. "Need I remind you, you little tyrant, that your keeper has already warned you off such talk? A fine leader, Prozen - unable to earn the respect of your men."
Prozen falls silent, nursing his pride.
Uriel surprises his allies more everyday, as his sanity returns. Perhaps Deckard was right to invite this self-proclaimed Angel of Death into his home.
N'Desu quickens his pace in step with Uriel, his crocodilian eyes unblinking and voice soft. His Laman accent, after all these decades, is still strong.
"It is good to see you healing, Uriel."
"Thank you, doctor," Uriel sneers, "It's comforting to know some darkie medicine-man approves my condition."
The slur rolls over N'Desu like wind in the desert. He long ago accepted the prejudices of this land, even before his skin began to grow deep, green scales. He says no more, settling back into his steady pace.
Poor Mykul, as usual, brings up the rear. He admires the falling Autumn leaves, hoping not to catch sight of... her. A year ago, almost to the day, the Vampires had met the ghost of a little girl. She still seemed to follow Mykul, appearing in mirrors and on rooftops, her faceless face staring down at him.
As the sun sinks towards the horizon, Mykul hears something.
"Hold!" he calls, "Do you hear that?"
"Voices again?" mocks Uriel - but then, he too hears it. A hunting horn.
"Mortals." Says Prozen, dismissively.
N'Desu looks in the direction he fancies the sound came from - a ring of trees. A perfect ring of trees. And the hunt that approaches them.
"Mortal hounds do not flame, gentlemen." He notes, calmly.
Prozen reins his horse round, to see, and his jaw drops.
"By Vasnok! The Wild Hunt! Of course! We were fools to be out at this time of year! Run, damn you!"
He immediately flees, and Uriel watches him - the coward. N'Desu runs too, and this surprises him.
When he turns around, Mykul is gone, and great shapes ride past him - save one.
The most gorgeous woman he has ever seen climbs down from her mount - a magnificent horse.
Her hair is long and fiery red, her eyes silver, her body naked and flushed. She smiles like the edge of a sword, and raises her blade, forged from broken hearts.
Uriel is in love.
Their swords clash, time and again. Graceful dodges and parries, brutal blocks and kicks. Her weapons flicks across his chest like the tongue of a lover, his blade slices up her arm. Her blood smells like the finest wine.
Finally, he realises who he is fighting - The Queen in Bloodied Raiments, Slayer of Nations and Eater of Hearts.
Uriel duels with War Herself, and by the gods, how he loves her.
Prozen tries to flee, into the woods - but to no avail. He has fled no more than forty feet when the hounds surround him. He turns, to gamble his life.
"Hold, sirrah!" He cries, as his hunter approaches. A giant of a man, his head crowned with mighty antlers, garbed in a toga of spring leaves and feathers, atop a six-legged horse. His bow is avarice, his arrows envy.
"A duel, Lord! I challenge you!"
The giant stares down his arrow for a moment, then appears to acquiesce. He climbs from his mount, approaching Prozen - his bow has vanished, replaced by a whip made from the suffering of mothers.
Draining arcane power from his blood, Prozen desperately flings a ball of eldritch shadow at the giant, and it hesitates briefly before lashing his face with that terrible whip. Prozen knows this being - The Lord of the Hunt. How does one defeat such a foe?
N'Desu hears the rumble of his pursuer - a glance over his shoulder reveals a figure mounted atop a great spider, about to cast a silken net. N'Desu dodges, just in time, and turns to face his enemy. The hunter seems to sense his intent, and leaps to the ground. He is easily nine feet talls, rail-thin and formed of tightly wound brambles, his eyes blazing orange and teeth made from reaping hooks.
"Hello, little monster..." it says, terrible thorny talons whickering. "Peace upon you, Mighty Autumn" replies N'Desu, eyeing it warily. One does not cross the Jester Resplendant in Fallen Leaves.
"An educated monster! I have a riddle for you - see if you can solve it before I kill you."
"I already have," says N'Desu, and smiles like a crocodile before burying his talons in the earth - suddenly, the surrounding woodland, and road, and banks burst into bloom. Autumn is dethroned, and staggers in confusion "What..."
N'Desu grins, now, as his face extends into a snout. He towers to Autumn's height, covered in armoured scales as lightning crackles over his body. "It's a riddle, Lord Autumn - can you solve it?"
And then, he pounces.
Wrapped in shadows, Poor Mykul hides in the woods. Perhaps they haven't seen him. There were only three, were there not? Mykul suddenly realises that the air feels... musty. Old. Dead.
He signs, and turns, as light and sound become dim and muffled, and lo, he beheld a pale horse.
She is beautiful - like a Winter sunset, like a marble headstone, like a child untouched by time. Her gown is ivory, her cloak raven feathers. The Maiden of Silences has come for him, and standing scant feet away, she shows her bow fashioned from the tears of children, nocks an arrow the colour of a granparent's contentment - and suddenly, she is hundreds of yards distant, ready to fire. Mykul looks at his crossbow, as if seeing it for the first time, then shrugs, and drops it.
"I have died once," he says, "Fire, and let it be so."
The Lover of Mankind favours him with a smile, and looses peace upon him. Mykul knew no more as the arrow lodged in his chest.
Uriel and his lover are bloodied and panting, but the blows do not cease. Parry, thrust, punch, and slash. They dance with passion, and love, and hate. To Uriel, it all becomes clear when she kisses him on the forehead while slitting his throat. His blood surges to heal the wound, and he thrusts with all his might.
She is impaled on his sword, and an ecstatic moan escapes her lips. She pushes further onto his blade, blood running freely from her stomach and over him - and she kisses him, her sword digging into his back as she loops her arms around his neck. He picks her up one handed, his talons scoring her buttocks as she drops his breeches. They fall to the ground, and do as a man and woman will.
Prozen has run the circle enough, leapt over the whip, ducked, been struck. Now is the time to strike, he realises - let the hunter become the hunted. Turning, face implacable, he summons tentacles of darkness from the Huntsman's own shadow. The Lord of the Hunt is stunned at the audacity, the cunning! And is held fast to the ground by his ankles and wrists. Imperious, Prozen holds the tip of his eviscerator to the Fae's throat.
"I have caught the prey. And now, I set you free."
He steps back, and releases the bonds. The Huntsman stands, giving Prozen a sour look, before walking towards his horse.
"Is it not customary to favour the huntsman with a trophy?"
The giant stands stock still, then turns to Prozen. He snaps off a length of antler, gazing at it, before staring into the Vampire's eyes. In a voice like a thousand wolves, he replies:
YES
His hand moves like lightning, and as he mounts his horse, Prozen sinks to the ground - staked by his own reward.
N'Desu throws a punch at Autumn, but those dire talons beat him aside and glide across the scales of his chest. The Vampires tears a vine loose, but the Grand Trickster steals an eye. Finally, the mighty Wahran looses patience, and leaps.
N'Desu bears Autumn to the ground, the thorns scoring across his scales. But he will not flinch, and digs his claws into Autumn. Calling upon the powers of his Clan, he withers Autumn as if struck by a winter frost.
"I... I yield..." coughs Autumn, and N'Desu relents. As the Fae returns to his mount, so too does N'Desu shrink from his warform. He feels... invigorated. And there is a thorn in his palm. He can't remove it. A gift, perhaps. A loud cry echoes through the woods, and N'Desu run to aid his companions - Uriel must still be there.
War lies supine, smiling lazily in the afterglow of her orgasm. Knock-kneed, Uriel withdraws his sword and helps her to her feet. Before she leaves, she kisses him again, smears her blood on his lips, and finally... she kisses his cheek. It burns, with agony and ectasy, and Uriel knows the mark of her lips will always be upon him.
He smiles, as she leaves. She will always be with him.
"Uriel?"
He turns, "N'Desu! You survived."
"As did you, albeit you look the worse for wear. Where are you trousers?"
"Nevermind, where are the Prince and the Pauper?"
"I smell Mykul nearby."
"Perhaps Prozen died, thank the gods."
They find a Vampire in the woods, an obsidian crossbow bolt protruding from his heart. But it can't be Mykul - Mykul was a Stalker, but this is a Shade - still Ithim Clan, but more thickly furred, and now winged.
N'Desu, a kindly soul, pulls the bolt free. The Ithim inhales, stops, and opens it's eyes.
"Ah," he says, "It's you. I was lucky to get away with just a staking."
"Mykul?" asks Uriel, incredulous.
"Yes!" Says Mykul, irritably. "Honestly, I don't see-" he pauses, as he climbs to his feet. "Something feels different. What're - Wings!"
"We did not imagine them, then." notes N'Desu. He is curious, but turns to look for Prozen.
The find Prozen lying in the woods, no mark upon him. N'Desu searches for some time, before finally wrench a perfect stake from his heart. "It's that accursed armour of his. The stake was almost impossible to see."
"My armour is not cursed," gripes Prozen, as he sits up and snatches the stake. "This is my reward? Hmph. Just as well we go to see a Mage, perhaps he can explain."
Under the moon, the Vampires trek on, bearing their gifts, the ghost of a little girl skipping in their wake.
