Verse Zero
Senior Member
Carpathian Mountains, Village of Erwurth
Over Fourteen centuries prior
The village was silent, eerily so, not a soul in sight of the fifty odd riders perched on a nearby hillock. Overlooking the village from their steeds. The woods ringed the set of hills encompassing the snow covered village. A small community. Poor. Unremarkable. Torches still burned in the cold night about the village. Hearths glowed with red embers. A few homes had their thatched roof's caved in like some heavy object had crashed through. A few small, smoldering, dying fires from where thatching had fallen into small hovel fires. Silence but odd caw of a passing crow on this dark night. The moon hung low and full. It's translucent, pale, white glow casting baleful light on the scene. At the head of the riders was a trio that sat apart on their black steeds. Two male and one female. From right to left facing the village was one sporting reddish-blonde hair, and bright blue-grey eyes striated like a bursting star. Their armor like the riders was polished silver, immaculate, and well crafted. Only difference was theirs held some more ornamentation though the coloring remained the same. The middle rider, the tallest, and eldest for the first looked only middle aged. His expression was the most fierce and dour. His eyes shown deep brilliant blue, like a bright ocean, piercing and unrelenting. His hair was grey-white under his helm though it appears to have once been brown. Finally, the female rider. Tall but not as tall as the males. Lithe and feminine. Her eyes were of brilliant green. Like the most beautiful of emeralds. Bright and possessing such focus as to look into a man's soul like lifting up a shroud. Her hair was pure black under her helm. They where all pale, much like the rest of the riders.
"Once more we arrive to the scene of this mad man's aftermath." spoke the middle rider with unfiltered venom. The female rider glanced about, idly speaking, "We should clear the village...." The rider to the far right interjected, "You feel it too. He is still close by."
"No doubt seeking to flee now that his home has been levelled." Indeed, the riders were but a small part of a host that had laid siege too and ruined an old castle perched on the cliffs of the very same mountain range fourteen leagues to the North. The middle rider turned his head to the side and spoke louder, "Clear the village!"
The fifty riders behind the trio nickered their steeds into slow trots. Moving into the village warily. Most dismounted, brandishing torches, and drawing cold steel. Those still mounted hefted crossbows of a complex mechanical design. They moved cautiously through the wooden buildings, there was only a dozen or so, held in a loose oval about a communal well and pavilion. There was no sign of the villagers, and none of the doors in the village where locked save for one. The communal hall/food store seemed to have been barred from the inside. A pair of riders tried pulling on the door. A third rider, though this one curiously unarmored save for a light mail coat, his only arm being a small shortsword strapped to his saddle. He held pen and paper. Seemingly recording all he saw. He stopped curiously to watch. "Locked...could be survivors?" asked the scholarly rider meekly.
"No shit its locked scribe." shot back the rider on the left side of the door. He nodded to his compatriot, "Beaufort, get your axe." The rider to the right let out a sigh as he walked several paces to his idling black horse and pulled a large single headed axe from the saddle straps. Moving to one side of the doors he swung in a great stroke. It crashed into the wood with a thud. The doors where not terribly thick. This was no castle gate. A second swing and splinters flew out. A small hole was forming. Beaufort suddenly stopped as he peered into the blackness of the interior. No torches were lit inside. Perhaps to try and fool whatever had befallen this village?
"Reinhardt." The rider known as Reinhardt stepped closer to his companion. "I thought I saw movement." How they could see into the total blackness would seemingly be beyond all comprehension. Of course then if anyone noticed all the riders seemingly had bright eyes, porcelain skin, and pearly white teeth bearing elongated canines. Homo Sapiens Noctis. Vampires. Only the scribe was different. He was the only human present and in stark contrast. His eyes were a dull brown, his hair cut and shaved into a bowl cut befitting a page boy. It too was a dark brown. He was shorter, less muscled, and described as lanky. His face was thin and bookish. The scribe tried to squint through the hole but could see nothing.
"Enjoying yourself?"
The feminine voice was sultry, strangely seductive to the scribes ears, and his head whipped around in the direction of hooves crunching snow. It was the female rider who paused alongside him. Raising both her hands she removed her helm, and flicked her head in a smooth motion to make sure her hair was out of her face. It was long and immaculate despite the travel, despite wearing a helmet, she was perfect. Her skin, face, and body like some goddess. She raised an eyebrow at him. He frantically spoke, realizing his silence, "Yes, Triarch. I am. How may I be of service?"
Before she could speak the voice of Beaufort struck their ears, his low utterance just loud enough to be audible to the scribes ears. "You hear that?" The female Triarch reached over and pulled something out of the scribes saddle. Handing him a small, heavy, glass globe. Just as she did Reinhardt looked back, "Hey! Scribe! Good, you still have your glow globes. Throw one in here." The scribe dismounted. Hopping down onto the fresh virgin snow. His brown leather boots crunched as he stood next to the two pair of black ones belonging to Reinhardt and Beaufort. He looked at them. "Come on now." said Reinhardt. The scribe gave the orb a little shake followed by an underhand toss. The heavy glass object burst into a ball of soft light. Landing square into the darkness. Rolling to a stop amid piles of hay. The hay was disturbed with plenty of foot falls. Perhaps a struggle had occurred in here. Reinhardt reached through the hole, and hefted the wooden beam barring the door, it thudded to the wooden floor. Pulling his hand out Beaufort pulled open the door. Reinhardt entered sword in hand. Followed by his compatriot hefting his axe. They looked about the place. "There it is again." Whispered Beaufort. The scribe couldn't hear, he was frozen with apprehension at the threshold of the entrance, as he watched the two vampires enter the granary.
Beaufort could hear it. The sound of something gnawing. Munching on something hard, fleshy, it gave a feeling of disgust in his stomach. He and his comrade checked the granary stalls, peering into the small compartments off to the side where bags of foodstuffs would have been stored, when they flicked their heads up quickly. Pitter-Padder Pitter-Patter Pitter-Padder. The rapid footfalls of small feet. The scribe couldn't see. The glow globe's light caste deep shadows as it's light only spread to illuminate most of the central first floor. But as he saw the two vampires look up he himself couldn't help it. Though unlike the vampires his own eyes could not penetrate the encompassing blackness of the second story. Something fell from the second story. It landed amidst the vampires. A human bone, large, a femur. Picked clean with bits of gruel along the ends. The vampires looked up to a ghastly sight. That of a little girl with a half devoured piece of a flesh in her mouth. Her eyes shown sickly green, blood shot, and her irises were bleached to a sickly pink-red. The girl screamed and leapt down. Beaufort side stepped and swung his axe. Catching the girl before she touched down on the wooden floor, striking her in the neck, decapitating her as the weight of the impact flung her into a wooden beam. Screams and moans erupted from the second story as bodies began falling. Living bodies. Beaufort swung once more catching a man with bite marks around his face and neck right in the skull. Splitting it with a crunch. Reinhardt stabbed another in the face before whipping around to decapitate a shambling housewife. A young stable boy screamed as he ran for the scribe.
The scribe screamed and back pedaled. Slipping on the snow and falling on his back. The young stable boy rocketed out of the granary, bypassing the scribe, running into the street. The female Triarch's eyes widened momentarily as she whipped her steed around, pulling a crossbow from her saddle, and took aim. Twang. A bolt thudded into the back of the stable boy's skull. Piercing it and pulping his brain. He stumbled and fell. Reinhardt emerged, disheveled and blood spattered, "ZICCARA!" He yelled.
As if on cue from basements and attics the shambling zombies erupted. For that was what the Ziccara virus did. It was extremely contagious and spread by saliva and blood. But only becoming active when the host died, reanimating them, so that they may infect others. But the most insidious aspect of the virus was that the larger the outbreak. The more organized the zombies became. Adopting a predatory pack mentality. Soon the village was full of yells from the riders, neighing horses, and the shrieks of Ziccaran zombies. Heads rolled, limbs became dismembered, and skulls crushed as the riders took the zombies head on. The female Triarch drew her own sword. A longsword that swam with reddish-gold amid silver metal. Like it possessed an inner fire of its own. She swung, taking a shrieking man in tattered overalls in the neck. Smashing his neck vertebrae and snapping his brain stem. Slumping to the ground for a second death. That was when the flutter of leather wings was heard. Followed by a yell from another rider else ware in the village.
"VARGHEIST!"
One of the monsters created by the man they where after. A horrid mixture of vampire and beast. It had ashen grey skin, leather wings attached to its arms, claws several inches long. Rows of sharp, jagged, teeth like that of a Western Sea shark. Grey-black fur covered its hulking neck like a mane. It was huge. Standing on average seven to eight feet tall and basically from head to claw made up of corded muscle. Could lift up a horse and fly away with it being a testament to its strength. A pair of them dove into the center of the village. The female Triarch gracefully, in one motion, placed the butt of her crossbow in her saddle. Pulled the strings back as the mechanisms in the weapon lifted another bolt from the magazine attached below its main resting shaft. Fitting the bolt into place. Raising the weapon again she fired. Its sharp twang shot the bolt up. Embedding it's head into the chest of one of the descending Vargheist. It roared in anger as several other bolts struck it. Piercing its arms and legs. The riders not engaged actively with the zombies turning their attentions to the two hulking creatures in the center of the village.
The two other Triarchs watched as a lone rider rode up to them. "We found him. He's fleeing North!"
"Find Amelia!" ordered the older looking Triarch. The rider replied quickly, "She's fighting Vargheists, my lord!" The Triarch scoffed while the one with reddish-blonde hair pulled away heading North. "Very well." added the elderly looking Triarch as he and the messenger rider rode towards the village. The Triarch drew his blade and charged one of the Vargheists. Passing it with a swing of his own sword he opened its side up from belly to left breast. It shrieked in pain and rage. While the other leapt at Amelia. She jumped from her steed and rolled. The horse wheeling away as the Vargheist landed in the empty space she once occupied. She rolled up and swung her blade skywards in a wide arc with all her strength. The Vargheists paused for a moment as if confused. Then its head fell one way while the body sunk to the ground. Further volleys of bolts finished off the other.
"Gilzen is fleeing North, Amelia. Aurelian is following him. I will finish this here." spoke the elder Triarch. Amelia nodded and remounted her horse. Riding off to the North with a dozen riders in tow. Including the scribe, Beaufort, and Reinhardt. As they left the elder Triarch turned to a rider nearby, "Bring me the weapon!"
The scribe followed just behind Amelia and the dozen warriors accompanying her as they sped out of the village to the North. Aiming for the tree line. There they could see two figures on horses speeding away. One hooded, the red-blonde haired Triarch known as Aurelian in pursuit. They where headed down a decline with the woods in this direction being farther away. But there was a small river which Gilzen could use too escape across if he could get far enough away. A loud noise like thunder broke the chase. Gilzen was about to pass the tree line when he cartwheeled off as if being struck by something. His horse floundered in the snow with a red pool spreading around it. The hooded figure known as Gilzen looked back, clutching his side, and broke off into a sprint. Entering the woods as Aurelian passed the dying horse. Amelia and her escort hot on their heels. Entering the woods the scribe riders spread out. They found Aurelian in a small clearing. Looking about him. Amelia rode up next to him.
"I lost him!" snarled Aurelian. Amelia looked about herself. "Spread out and find him!" The riders broke off in all directions too look for Gilzen. Dismounting to help with their search as they fanned out to form a rough search net. Amelia dismounted herself. Scanning the ground. "He is covering his wounds..."
"I saw Kingsmane plants a few yards back. They are good for clotting wounds." The scribe spoke confidently. Aurelian looked at him and smiled, as if admiring a friend, "Indeed Virgil. Gilzen is clever." Amelia looked up at the scribe, Virgil declined his gaze, "Do we know why his horse fell so sudden?" Her eyes were not taken off of his face. He could not match hers without being lost in her beauty. "I saw nothing, Triarch."
"Neither did I." confirmed Aurelian. Aurelian watched as Amelia got up and began to walk away. Joining the hunt it seemed. Vanishing between the shadows of the tree boughs. Aurelian looked back at Virgil. "Stare long enough, and you may never see anything else again." he chuckled. Some dark humor there that escaped Virgil who blushed anyways.
Amelia walked through the trees. She could see to her left and right the other riders fanned out. Looking in every nook and cranny for signs of Gilzen. She continued moved along. Something scraped her boot. She looked down and saw something tattered on the ground. A piece of Gilzen's hood. No doubt snagged in one of the low hanging tree branches. She picked it up and held it to her face. Breathing in she smelled his scent. She moved forward with renewed speed. Looking about herself she spotted a blood stain on a tree in the shape of a hand print. He was bleeding bad. She continued onwards. Sword rasping as she drew it once more from its scabbard. She moved more cautiously as she saw a trail of blood stretch across several paces. Still wet and warm. He was close. The sound of rushing water crept closer to her ears. Eventually she came to a part of the river embankment with a gentle slope for several meters before giving way to rushing water. Movement to her left. She turned on her heel. Gilzen, came out of the shadows. Clutching his side as blood seeped between his fingers.
"At least...ugh...it's not Vlad that will end me." spat Gilzen. Amelia remained silent. Gilzen continued in a more mocking tone, "Slaves you all are. The wonders I created. What I can do. There....ugg *blood drips to the dirt* was a chance for us both you kn--."
"Save your breath traitor. Murderer." shot back Amelia. Venom in her voice like a poisoned dart. He made to come closer, "Please. I still---"
twang
A bolt with a trailing steel chain burst through Gilzen's left calf. He fell with a horrendous scream. A rider had crept up with his crossbow. Soon the shout went up and more riders descended upon Gilzen. Three more chained bolts struck Gilzen. Immobilizing him. Pinning him to the ground. Aurelian came crashing through the foliage with Virgil arriving a moment later panting uncontrollably. "Stop! He must stand trial!"
"He will. Here and now." came another voice. Vlad hefting a strange looking device. It was like a long tube with a hole on one end. A bulking butt like that of a crossbow but shaped different on the other side. A magazine like that of Amelia's crossbow was underneath. Vlad handed it to a rider who put it in an ornate case with a complex locking mechanism.
"Imprisonment. For eternity." declared Vlad.
Nocturne
It all ended, abruptly, as far as my research can show. Hours pouring over the scant few manuscripts available. What I can best describe for you, dear reader, is that the sky was filled with hell fire. The world burned, white ash filling the sky, the ground burnt. The sky driven asunder. Them the Beasts came, and savage aberrations in the mockery of human flesh, but the worst of all was the Wolves. Werewolves is the name humanity gave them, fueled by a need to consume humans, they spread like a plague. All of these demons. Destroying the last vestiges of hope. Save one, Vampires, led by the Elders of their race. Together they, and the surviving humans, took the war of survival to the horrors of the night head on. Blood baths extending years with countless lives lost. But in the end, Nocturne was forged from the fire, a beacon in the night. Nocturne, the moonlight glow of our two kindred's intertwined together, for it is all that stands between oblivion and us.
Now the Elders, and the original three or Triarchs you ask, the enigmatic progenitors of all Vampires, the source of their very existence made manifest? They where the first of their kind. There might have been more of them, but only three is there recorded definitively, but that is just conjecture. There is Vlad, the general and stalwart as stone; Marcusz Aurelian, the philosopher and patron of the arts; Amelia the warrior and deliverer of justice. All three of them alternating in their duties as rulers. Though they do not proscribe themselves as monarchs. One ruling while the other two slumber. Only more than one being awake in times of need. It is through their wise hands we have endured.
But credit must be given where it is due. Nocturne's strength flows from its people. The Nine Provinces that make up our great realm. A land constantly beset by threats within and without.-Excerpt from the Personal Memoirs of former Court Historian Vergil.
April 27th, 1274
In the one thousandth two hundredth and seventy-fourth year since the founding of our glorious realm, the province of Morhemia was stricken with rebellion, The Cult of the Savior Christ, a radical religious group that had festered in the Province has taken up arms in secession. At a time when the Lords of Morhemia are constantly beset by the Winter raids of the Lycans and Germanic raiders. Count Vaclav VIII of Praha and several barons converted to the Cult gathered their levies around the ruins of Prague. Around the fortress that stands in the middle of the ruined city. The stone rubble being the only reminders of a civilization long since reduced to dust. I traveled with the main army led by all three Triarchs personally. Arriving on the 27th of February well before the snows had melted away. Before the rebels deemed they where under immediate threat. They where wrong. I must go for now. -Letter to Anja, Vergil's wife.
The Siege of Prague, the most recent siege of large magnitude, over 25,000 soldiers took part on the side of Nocturne alone. The Rebels it was estimated to number over 30,000 for they had taken their wives and children into the vast fortress occupying the central portion of the ruined city. The snow crunching under foot by the countless boots and armored shoes of the besiegers as they stormed the outer ruins. The fighting was fierce and bloody as the Provincial levies and Guard fought their way from ruin to ruin. Across galleries, half sunken bridges, room to room, even staircases half worn away were fought over savagely.
"AAAAAAAHHHHH." Vergil snapped out of his literary sermon as a roar came from his rear. Stylus in hand he whipped around, the shortsword on his waist not drawn, his armor heavy on his under developed frame. Vergil's eyes widened as a mail festooned man with a great brown beard swung an axe. Thunk. His left eye erupted into red mist as an arrow lanced into his skull. The man died grasping the shaft as Vergil whirled around once more. A Guard archer had saved his life, but had already moved on, as the din and cries of battle carried on. The battle had divulged into groups of rebels and loyalists fighting a moving war through the bewildering streets and ruined neighborhoods. Vergil could see Guard archers firing at rebels running in the streets at ranges no more than twenty meters distant. Both groups could even be in the same structure, but on different floors, fighting in demolished buildings whose original purpose was long since lost. A crackling whipped over head, Vergil look up, in time to see a barrage of flaming shot fired from the trebuchets and catapults sitting just outside the ruins. Some of them where solid shot that burst through walls and collapsed towers. Others had caskets and jars filled with Hellfire. A substance originating from Konstantia. A substance that burned hotter when water was poured onto it. It was known as Grecian Fire by the Konstantian's. Showering flame across courtyards and into buildings. The cries of men as their flesh bubbled and sloughed off caused Vergil to blink in terror.
"You. Boy. Stay out of the way."
Vergil felt an armored hand grasp him firmly on the shoulder, spinning him around, it was General Nieman. Nieman was a human and with him was a company of Guardsmen who fanned out to clear the remaining rebels in the area. "But I--."
"Get out of here. Go back to the command tent!" shouted Nieman as he shoved Vergil out of the way. Beginning to bark orders to his soldiers. The Siege had gone on since late February. Fighting was still heavy and the rebels had ample food stocks to last a year. Vergil hurried to the rear. Using his briefly gained knowledge of the streets to find a plaza. The cobblestones decayed and almost governed fully with grass. A tent had been pitched and surrounded by Nightguard. The vampire soldiers loyal solely to the Triarchs. They eyed Vergil as he entered the tent. It was large, able to comfortably house over fifty individuals, tables and chairs had been set up, some covered with maps or other dispatches. But it was the voices in the tent that gave Vergil pause. He froze.
"Your Historian returns Marcusz. With his head still attached." The voice of Vlad held the slightest sign of contempt. Contempt for his peer's bookish pets. Perhaps not pet, but pupil perhaps, either way Vlad held a disdain for the notion. But didn't bear any ill will to Vergil personally. Marcusz stood across from Vlad, his helmet off, crimson hair down to his shoulders. His green eyes held a friendly semblance to Vlads cold indifference. "Come. Take your notes." said Marcusz as the Triarch turned away. Vergil scurried up to the table awkwardly and began scribbling.
"We have begun to reach the river in several more locations My Lords and secured the last stone bridge standing. Nieman expects the ruins to be completely cleared within a day or two." said a Guardsman in the livery of a Captain.
"Tell Nieman to consolidate and prepare for the final assault on the fortress itself. Is the siege equipment ready?" replied Vlad. The captain nodded but spoke once more. "There is something else My Lords. The raid by the Nightguard last night on the rebel outpost in the southern district, well, we found something."
"Such as." said Marcusz now curious. The soldier looked at both Triarchs for a moment, "Sewers."
"We need more than shit to end this nuisance Captain." sneered Vlad.
"I beg your pardon My Lord. But we think we found an entrance into the inner courtyard of the castle through them."
"I will go." Spoke a female voice, sultry, came from behind Vergil. Causing the historian to jump, dropping his stylus on the table, and drawing a chuckle from Marcusz while Vlad looked annoyed. Vergil took a step to the side. Bringing into his vision the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Amelia. The female Triarch. She was armored, blades at her hips, crossbow slung over her back. Vlad nodded, as did Marcusz, but Vergil made to speak. "Yes you may go." Marcusz answer was all Vergil needed. The historian chased after the rapidly receding back of Amelia.
The Sun had sunk beneath the clouds when Amelia, with Vergil in tow, arrived at the sight of a raid carried out last night on a rebel outpost within site of the castle's Southern walls. The bodies smeared with dried gore and coagulated blood still occupied the positions they had been when life left them. A gathering of at least twenty Nightguard, a company of Guardsmen, and a gaggle of knights and accompanying men-at-arms from the provinces were there. Amelia was led down to where the water of the river coursed by. A slick stone staircase led down to an entrance. The gloom was impenetrable. Amelia walked in with the soldiers following. Vergil clutching his journal as he desperately tried to use the nearest torch held by a soldier to write. For while Amelia and the Nightguard did not require light to see in the dark, the human soldiery and Vergil did, so the vampires led the way. Moving through the labyrinthine underground. Vergil had heard stories from soldiers about the underground places in Prague. For fighting had drifted down into the sewers located else ware in the city, as well in other locations across the ruined landscape. Mockingly called the 'Underworld War' by the soldiers of Nocturne. Vergil didn't exactly want to get stuck in a close range melee fight.
The group kept walking, the slimy walls, the stench causing soldiers to cough. Eventually they arrived in a circular damp chamber. Dim light came down in a straight shaft. Water dripped from the ceiling. Amelia squinted upwards. Making hand signals to nearby soldiers, gestures to Vergil that seemed random, a series of crossbows where produced. Amelia made ready as if to pounce when a Nightguard spoke up. "Please my lady let us go first." Vergil had learned a few of the soldiers names during the two month siege. The Nightguard in question was named Reinhardt and his closest compatriot to his left was Beaufort. Amelia straightened and stepped back. Both dealers moved near the shaft in the ceiling just large enough for a few people to crawl through at the same time. Both leapt into the air and grasped the stone with their hands. Their vampiric grip and strength allowing them to climb unaided. But it was still exhausting work as they tried to keep quiet. That much Vergil could tell. Amelia leapt up into the shaft right after followed by other Nightguard. Vergil peered trying to get a better look. Seeing Beaufort take off his helm to peer over the edge of the stone lip. Before putting it back on and rolling over the edge into the unknown. Reinhardt and Amelia followed a second later. That was when the human soldiers bearing crossbows moved to the lip and fired. The bolts replaced with grappling hooks that hooked over the lip and allowed them to clamber up while the Nightguard one by one leapt up.
Vergil grunted with the effort, his journal held between his teeth, his stylus tucked within his belt. Grunting as he pulled himself up, sounds above erupting, he felt claustrophobic. Using this to propel himself with renewed vigor he reached the edge of the lip. Crack a bolt skittered as it struck the stone next to him. They had climbed up through an empty well, Vergil could only assume what the ancients had built it for, but the walls of the castle reared up in all directions. Cries from all directions growing louder at the surprise of the Nocturne forces erupting into the center of the castle became known to the rebel garrison. Vergil tumbled over the lip onto the grass of the courtyard. Looking about himself he saw humans versus human, vampire versus human, and corpses littering the courtyard in increasing frequency.
Vergil saw Beaufort swing his axe, a rebel soldiers head rolling from his shoulders; Reinhardt stabbed another man through the neck with his sword. Others fired crossbows at point blank range followed by drawing their main weapons. Amelia was in the thick of it all. Her sword slicing through limbs, necks, and puncturing torsos. The sky illuminated by a thousand flaming arrows as the assault began by Vlad and Marcusz outside the castle. Vergil moved, crouching, moving from cover to cover taking it all in. The horrific cries, the gush of blood, and the beautiful fury of Amelia as she tore through rebel after rebel. Vergil was captivated. A grunt to his left, Vergil fell backwards, a sword buried itself in the dirt. A sword came over his head, catching the foe in the fore arm, causing the man to scream. A second blow opened up the enemy's jugular. Vergil looked up to see Reinhardt, "Watch yourself." The vampire dashed off as the fury of battle spread from the courtyard up to the ramparts and the walls. Nocturne soldiers still streamed up out of the shaft while it seemed others clambered over ladders carried over by raft from across the river. The rebel archers and crossbowmen delivering withering fire, but caught off guard by the fight in the courtyard, were pressed in two directions.
"WATCH OUT." Vergil heard someone shout as a flaming projectile the size of his torso struck a nearby tower. Causing chunks of masonry to plummet into the courtyard. Squashing those caught in this deadly shower to bloody pulp. Vergil drew his shortsword, clutching it close, as he ran to the nearest group of soldiers. Seeking to surround himself by comrades. He was no fighter. But he felt the urge to be closer to Amelia. So he ran in her direction. Weaving through battling soldiers. As he was about to reach her, a whirlwind of death, a howl pierced his heart. Vergil looked up towards the gate of the main keep. Flung open he saw figures dressed in the livery of the priesthood of the Cult. Except they where hunched over, jerking about, their bodies changing right before his very eyes. It was a hideous display as their faces elongated, fingers into claws, fur sprouting from their skin. Savage eyes and maws.
"To me! Take them head on!" bellowed Amelia as the soldiers of Nocturne closest to her followed her into a furious charge. Lycan, Vampire, and Human met in a clash of steel and claw. Fang and tooth. Vergil watched as Amelia grabbed a Lycan by the throat, heaved, and smashed it maw first into the ground. Her blade stabbing it through the heart. Vergil watched as Reinhardt opened a Lycan from neck to groin with his sword. Watched a Lycan tear a man's arms off while another swiped is claws to decapitate another soldier. It was something Vergil never wished to see again. Something that would haunt him to the end of his days.
That's when he saw it, a Lycan prowled the upper battlements of the gatehouse leading into the main keep, Vergil watched in horror as it leapt from its place of hiding. Smashing a Nightguard aside as it charge bodily into Amelia. Amelia flew ten yards back to crash next to Vergil. The historian held out his sword timidly as the beast roared in. Galloping with its front claws and back paws. Its jaw able to hold a human head easily. That's when he felt a pain in his side, followed by a feeling of weightlessness, he crashed onto his stomach. Looking back he saw Amelia standing, fangs bare, roaring in challenge. She was disarmed! The beast would surely rend her from head to toe! It widened its jaw as it leapt with such speed that you'd miss it if you blinked. Amelia rolled, coming up behind the creature, and with a savage scream leapt onto its back. Grasping it's upper and lower jaw she snarled. Vergil watched as this angel of death shattered the beasts maw, ripped off its lower jaw, and struck it over the head with it. She looked at the historian, and Vergil swore he saw the trace of a smile.
Horns blew along the walls. Marcusz and Vlad had taken the outer defenses and Vergil could see Marcusz among the upper battlements fighting his way along the upper ramparts.
The Siege, and the encounter with the Lycans, sealed the fate of the situation. While Marcusz sought clemency for the children and women, urging them to be examined, and if proven to be not Lycans be able to leave. Vlad and Amelia would hear none of it. Vergil was forbidden by Marcusz to write of what followed. Only that the siege ended in a great victory. No mention would be of the Nightguard slaughtering all the thousands of innocents cowering in the keep and cellars. Not one of the rebels escaped the Siege.
Vergil would go on to release a history of the 13th Century ending with the Siege of Prague. Followed by self-imposed exile to the Ionian Confederacy. For in the culmination of the Siege Vergil realized one thing.
Nocturne, the vampires, they are not so different from the Lycans in their savagery. The only difference is that the Vampires believe Humans to be their allies. The reality is that they would not hesitate to sacrifice a thousand humans to keep Nocturne stable.-Last Letter to Anja, for Vergil died of natural causes in the Winter of 1325.
Valeria, 1354
In the Fifty-Fourth Year of Amelia's Rule
Valeria, the greatest city in the known world. Stretching up a spur of the Northern-Carpathian Mountains, with plains and woodland stretching south, was a site to behold. Stretching from the level of the plains at the bottom, up the spur to the Nocturnis Mons, The Mountain of Night, the citadel of the Council and Elders over two thousand feet from the plain. The top of the towers reaching 6,300 feet above the plains below, the obsidian black fortifications of the citadel contrasted with the white stone of the city. The golden and silver domes of the Inner Districts, and the Red, blue, and purple domes of the Lower districts. Each district had a slight variation in color and locale. The Artists District which holds the Alchemists Corner was renowned for producing a variety of aromas and devices; the Builder's Guild with its carpenters and engineers worked feverishly; the bankers of Gold-Notch-Alley arrayed with their family crests emblazoned above their doors.
The city was prosperous as the Sun rose to noon. Its bustling activity blocked by the closed windows and doors of the Council chambers. The Council Hall was a grand gallery arrayed in a semi-circle. On the flat wall, facing South, sat the reigning Triarch on a simple stone throne, the Court scribe to their left; arrayed before them where the simple benches of the Council and attending Provincial representatives. For the Provinces could have a representative present to voice concerns, but could not cast a vote.
Amelia sat, wearing fine blue silks, her hair braided. She sat with her back straight as the clamor of politicians filled the air. It was an open session. No organized list of items to discuss. Anyone could have the floor and make proposals, civilians could bring petitions, and lobbyists could line pockets. Amelia despised the politicking aspect of her duties. But while Marcusz and Vlad slept it was her turn to act as the chief executive force in Nocturne.
Over Fourteen centuries prior
The village was silent, eerily so, not a soul in sight of the fifty odd riders perched on a nearby hillock. Overlooking the village from their steeds. The woods ringed the set of hills encompassing the snow covered village. A small community. Poor. Unremarkable. Torches still burned in the cold night about the village. Hearths glowed with red embers. A few homes had their thatched roof's caved in like some heavy object had crashed through. A few small, smoldering, dying fires from where thatching had fallen into small hovel fires. Silence but odd caw of a passing crow on this dark night. The moon hung low and full. It's translucent, pale, white glow casting baleful light on the scene. At the head of the riders was a trio that sat apart on their black steeds. Two male and one female. From right to left facing the village was one sporting reddish-blonde hair, and bright blue-grey eyes striated like a bursting star. Their armor like the riders was polished silver, immaculate, and well crafted. Only difference was theirs held some more ornamentation though the coloring remained the same. The middle rider, the tallest, and eldest for the first looked only middle aged. His expression was the most fierce and dour. His eyes shown deep brilliant blue, like a bright ocean, piercing and unrelenting. His hair was grey-white under his helm though it appears to have once been brown. Finally, the female rider. Tall but not as tall as the males. Lithe and feminine. Her eyes were of brilliant green. Like the most beautiful of emeralds. Bright and possessing such focus as to look into a man's soul like lifting up a shroud. Her hair was pure black under her helm. They where all pale, much like the rest of the riders.
"Once more we arrive to the scene of this mad man's aftermath." spoke the middle rider with unfiltered venom. The female rider glanced about, idly speaking, "We should clear the village...." The rider to the far right interjected, "You feel it too. He is still close by."
"No doubt seeking to flee now that his home has been levelled." Indeed, the riders were but a small part of a host that had laid siege too and ruined an old castle perched on the cliffs of the very same mountain range fourteen leagues to the North. The middle rider turned his head to the side and spoke louder, "Clear the village!"
The fifty riders behind the trio nickered their steeds into slow trots. Moving into the village warily. Most dismounted, brandishing torches, and drawing cold steel. Those still mounted hefted crossbows of a complex mechanical design. They moved cautiously through the wooden buildings, there was only a dozen or so, held in a loose oval about a communal well and pavilion. There was no sign of the villagers, and none of the doors in the village where locked save for one. The communal hall/food store seemed to have been barred from the inside. A pair of riders tried pulling on the door. A third rider, though this one curiously unarmored save for a light mail coat, his only arm being a small shortsword strapped to his saddle. He held pen and paper. Seemingly recording all he saw. He stopped curiously to watch. "Locked...could be survivors?" asked the scholarly rider meekly.
"No shit its locked scribe." shot back the rider on the left side of the door. He nodded to his compatriot, "Beaufort, get your axe." The rider to the right let out a sigh as he walked several paces to his idling black horse and pulled a large single headed axe from the saddle straps. Moving to one side of the doors he swung in a great stroke. It crashed into the wood with a thud. The doors where not terribly thick. This was no castle gate. A second swing and splinters flew out. A small hole was forming. Beaufort suddenly stopped as he peered into the blackness of the interior. No torches were lit inside. Perhaps to try and fool whatever had befallen this village?
"Reinhardt." The rider known as Reinhardt stepped closer to his companion. "I thought I saw movement." How they could see into the total blackness would seemingly be beyond all comprehension. Of course then if anyone noticed all the riders seemingly had bright eyes, porcelain skin, and pearly white teeth bearing elongated canines. Homo Sapiens Noctis. Vampires. Only the scribe was different. He was the only human present and in stark contrast. His eyes were a dull brown, his hair cut and shaved into a bowl cut befitting a page boy. It too was a dark brown. He was shorter, less muscled, and described as lanky. His face was thin and bookish. The scribe tried to squint through the hole but could see nothing.
"Enjoying yourself?"
The feminine voice was sultry, strangely seductive to the scribes ears, and his head whipped around in the direction of hooves crunching snow. It was the female rider who paused alongside him. Raising both her hands she removed her helm, and flicked her head in a smooth motion to make sure her hair was out of her face. It was long and immaculate despite the travel, despite wearing a helmet, she was perfect. Her skin, face, and body like some goddess. She raised an eyebrow at him. He frantically spoke, realizing his silence, "Yes, Triarch. I am. How may I be of service?"
Before she could speak the voice of Beaufort struck their ears, his low utterance just loud enough to be audible to the scribes ears. "You hear that?" The female Triarch reached over and pulled something out of the scribes saddle. Handing him a small, heavy, glass globe. Just as she did Reinhardt looked back, "Hey! Scribe! Good, you still have your glow globes. Throw one in here." The scribe dismounted. Hopping down onto the fresh virgin snow. His brown leather boots crunched as he stood next to the two pair of black ones belonging to Reinhardt and Beaufort. He looked at them. "Come on now." said Reinhardt. The scribe gave the orb a little shake followed by an underhand toss. The heavy glass object burst into a ball of soft light. Landing square into the darkness. Rolling to a stop amid piles of hay. The hay was disturbed with plenty of foot falls. Perhaps a struggle had occurred in here. Reinhardt reached through the hole, and hefted the wooden beam barring the door, it thudded to the wooden floor. Pulling his hand out Beaufort pulled open the door. Reinhardt entered sword in hand. Followed by his compatriot hefting his axe. They looked about the place. "There it is again." Whispered Beaufort. The scribe couldn't hear, he was frozen with apprehension at the threshold of the entrance, as he watched the two vampires enter the granary.
Beaufort could hear it. The sound of something gnawing. Munching on something hard, fleshy, it gave a feeling of disgust in his stomach. He and his comrade checked the granary stalls, peering into the small compartments off to the side where bags of foodstuffs would have been stored, when they flicked their heads up quickly. Pitter-Padder Pitter-Patter Pitter-Padder. The rapid footfalls of small feet. The scribe couldn't see. The glow globe's light caste deep shadows as it's light only spread to illuminate most of the central first floor. But as he saw the two vampires look up he himself couldn't help it. Though unlike the vampires his own eyes could not penetrate the encompassing blackness of the second story. Something fell from the second story. It landed amidst the vampires. A human bone, large, a femur. Picked clean with bits of gruel along the ends. The vampires looked up to a ghastly sight. That of a little girl with a half devoured piece of a flesh in her mouth. Her eyes shown sickly green, blood shot, and her irises were bleached to a sickly pink-red. The girl screamed and leapt down. Beaufort side stepped and swung his axe. Catching the girl before she touched down on the wooden floor, striking her in the neck, decapitating her as the weight of the impact flung her into a wooden beam. Screams and moans erupted from the second story as bodies began falling. Living bodies. Beaufort swung once more catching a man with bite marks around his face and neck right in the skull. Splitting it with a crunch. Reinhardt stabbed another in the face before whipping around to decapitate a shambling housewife. A young stable boy screamed as he ran for the scribe.
The scribe screamed and back pedaled. Slipping on the snow and falling on his back. The young stable boy rocketed out of the granary, bypassing the scribe, running into the street. The female Triarch's eyes widened momentarily as she whipped her steed around, pulling a crossbow from her saddle, and took aim. Twang. A bolt thudded into the back of the stable boy's skull. Piercing it and pulping his brain. He stumbled and fell. Reinhardt emerged, disheveled and blood spattered, "ZICCARA!" He yelled.
As if on cue from basements and attics the shambling zombies erupted. For that was what the Ziccara virus did. It was extremely contagious and spread by saliva and blood. But only becoming active when the host died, reanimating them, so that they may infect others. But the most insidious aspect of the virus was that the larger the outbreak. The more organized the zombies became. Adopting a predatory pack mentality. Soon the village was full of yells from the riders, neighing horses, and the shrieks of Ziccaran zombies. Heads rolled, limbs became dismembered, and skulls crushed as the riders took the zombies head on. The female Triarch drew her own sword. A longsword that swam with reddish-gold amid silver metal. Like it possessed an inner fire of its own. She swung, taking a shrieking man in tattered overalls in the neck. Smashing his neck vertebrae and snapping his brain stem. Slumping to the ground for a second death. That was when the flutter of leather wings was heard. Followed by a yell from another rider else ware in the village.
"VARGHEIST!"
One of the monsters created by the man they where after. A horrid mixture of vampire and beast. It had ashen grey skin, leather wings attached to its arms, claws several inches long. Rows of sharp, jagged, teeth like that of a Western Sea shark. Grey-black fur covered its hulking neck like a mane. It was huge. Standing on average seven to eight feet tall and basically from head to claw made up of corded muscle. Could lift up a horse and fly away with it being a testament to its strength. A pair of them dove into the center of the village. The female Triarch gracefully, in one motion, placed the butt of her crossbow in her saddle. Pulled the strings back as the mechanisms in the weapon lifted another bolt from the magazine attached below its main resting shaft. Fitting the bolt into place. Raising the weapon again she fired. Its sharp twang shot the bolt up. Embedding it's head into the chest of one of the descending Vargheist. It roared in anger as several other bolts struck it. Piercing its arms and legs. The riders not engaged actively with the zombies turning their attentions to the two hulking creatures in the center of the village.
The two other Triarchs watched as a lone rider rode up to them. "We found him. He's fleeing North!"
"Find Amelia!" ordered the older looking Triarch. The rider replied quickly, "She's fighting Vargheists, my lord!" The Triarch scoffed while the one with reddish-blonde hair pulled away heading North. "Very well." added the elderly looking Triarch as he and the messenger rider rode towards the village. The Triarch drew his blade and charged one of the Vargheists. Passing it with a swing of his own sword he opened its side up from belly to left breast. It shrieked in pain and rage. While the other leapt at Amelia. She jumped from her steed and rolled. The horse wheeling away as the Vargheist landed in the empty space she once occupied. She rolled up and swung her blade skywards in a wide arc with all her strength. The Vargheists paused for a moment as if confused. Then its head fell one way while the body sunk to the ground. Further volleys of bolts finished off the other.
"Gilzen is fleeing North, Amelia. Aurelian is following him. I will finish this here." spoke the elder Triarch. Amelia nodded and remounted her horse. Riding off to the North with a dozen riders in tow. Including the scribe, Beaufort, and Reinhardt. As they left the elder Triarch turned to a rider nearby, "Bring me the weapon!"
The scribe followed just behind Amelia and the dozen warriors accompanying her as they sped out of the village to the North. Aiming for the tree line. There they could see two figures on horses speeding away. One hooded, the red-blonde haired Triarch known as Aurelian in pursuit. They where headed down a decline with the woods in this direction being farther away. But there was a small river which Gilzen could use too escape across if he could get far enough away. A loud noise like thunder broke the chase. Gilzen was about to pass the tree line when he cartwheeled off as if being struck by something. His horse floundered in the snow with a red pool spreading around it. The hooded figure known as Gilzen looked back, clutching his side, and broke off into a sprint. Entering the woods as Aurelian passed the dying horse. Amelia and her escort hot on their heels. Entering the woods the scribe riders spread out. They found Aurelian in a small clearing. Looking about him. Amelia rode up next to him.
"I lost him!" snarled Aurelian. Amelia looked about herself. "Spread out and find him!" The riders broke off in all directions too look for Gilzen. Dismounting to help with their search as they fanned out to form a rough search net. Amelia dismounted herself. Scanning the ground. "He is covering his wounds..."
"I saw Kingsmane plants a few yards back. They are good for clotting wounds." The scribe spoke confidently. Aurelian looked at him and smiled, as if admiring a friend, "Indeed Virgil. Gilzen is clever." Amelia looked up at the scribe, Virgil declined his gaze, "Do we know why his horse fell so sudden?" Her eyes were not taken off of his face. He could not match hers without being lost in her beauty. "I saw nothing, Triarch."
"Neither did I." confirmed Aurelian. Aurelian watched as Amelia got up and began to walk away. Joining the hunt it seemed. Vanishing between the shadows of the tree boughs. Aurelian looked back at Virgil. "Stare long enough, and you may never see anything else again." he chuckled. Some dark humor there that escaped Virgil who blushed anyways.
Amelia walked through the trees. She could see to her left and right the other riders fanned out. Looking in every nook and cranny for signs of Gilzen. She continued moved along. Something scraped her boot. She looked down and saw something tattered on the ground. A piece of Gilzen's hood. No doubt snagged in one of the low hanging tree branches. She picked it up and held it to her face. Breathing in she smelled his scent. She moved forward with renewed speed. Looking about herself she spotted a blood stain on a tree in the shape of a hand print. He was bleeding bad. She continued onwards. Sword rasping as she drew it once more from its scabbard. She moved more cautiously as she saw a trail of blood stretch across several paces. Still wet and warm. He was close. The sound of rushing water crept closer to her ears. Eventually she came to a part of the river embankment with a gentle slope for several meters before giving way to rushing water. Movement to her left. She turned on her heel. Gilzen, came out of the shadows. Clutching his side as blood seeped between his fingers.
"At least...ugh...it's not Vlad that will end me." spat Gilzen. Amelia remained silent. Gilzen continued in a more mocking tone, "Slaves you all are. The wonders I created. What I can do. There....ugg *blood drips to the dirt* was a chance for us both you kn--."
"Save your breath traitor. Murderer." shot back Amelia. Venom in her voice like a poisoned dart. He made to come closer, "Please. I still---"
twang
A bolt with a trailing steel chain burst through Gilzen's left calf. He fell with a horrendous scream. A rider had crept up with his crossbow. Soon the shout went up and more riders descended upon Gilzen. Three more chained bolts struck Gilzen. Immobilizing him. Pinning him to the ground. Aurelian came crashing through the foliage with Virgil arriving a moment later panting uncontrollably. "Stop! He must stand trial!"
"He will. Here and now." came another voice. Vlad hefting a strange looking device. It was like a long tube with a hole on one end. A bulking butt like that of a crossbow but shaped different on the other side. A magazine like that of Amelia's crossbow was underneath. Vlad handed it to a rider who put it in an ornate case with a complex locking mechanism.
"Imprisonment. For eternity." declared Vlad.
Nocturne
It all ended, abruptly, as far as my research can show. Hours pouring over the scant few manuscripts available. What I can best describe for you, dear reader, is that the sky was filled with hell fire. The world burned, white ash filling the sky, the ground burnt. The sky driven asunder. Them the Beasts came, and savage aberrations in the mockery of human flesh, but the worst of all was the Wolves. Werewolves is the name humanity gave them, fueled by a need to consume humans, they spread like a plague. All of these demons. Destroying the last vestiges of hope. Save one, Vampires, led by the Elders of their race. Together they, and the surviving humans, took the war of survival to the horrors of the night head on. Blood baths extending years with countless lives lost. But in the end, Nocturne was forged from the fire, a beacon in the night. Nocturne, the moonlight glow of our two kindred's intertwined together, for it is all that stands between oblivion and us.
Now the Elders, and the original three or Triarchs you ask, the enigmatic progenitors of all Vampires, the source of their very existence made manifest? They where the first of their kind. There might have been more of them, but only three is there recorded definitively, but that is just conjecture. There is Vlad, the general and stalwart as stone; Marcusz Aurelian, the philosopher and patron of the arts; Amelia the warrior and deliverer of justice. All three of them alternating in their duties as rulers. Though they do not proscribe themselves as monarchs. One ruling while the other two slumber. Only more than one being awake in times of need. It is through their wise hands we have endured.
But credit must be given where it is due. Nocturne's strength flows from its people. The Nine Provinces that make up our great realm. A land constantly beset by threats within and without.-Excerpt from the Personal Memoirs of former Court Historian Vergil.
April 27th, 1274
In the one thousandth two hundredth and seventy-fourth year since the founding of our glorious realm, the province of Morhemia was stricken with rebellion, The Cult of the Savior Christ, a radical religious group that had festered in the Province has taken up arms in secession. At a time when the Lords of Morhemia are constantly beset by the Winter raids of the Lycans and Germanic raiders. Count Vaclav VIII of Praha and several barons converted to the Cult gathered their levies around the ruins of Prague. Around the fortress that stands in the middle of the ruined city. The stone rubble being the only reminders of a civilization long since reduced to dust. I traveled with the main army led by all three Triarchs personally. Arriving on the 27th of February well before the snows had melted away. Before the rebels deemed they where under immediate threat. They where wrong. I must go for now. -Letter to Anja, Vergil's wife.
The Siege of Prague, the most recent siege of large magnitude, over 25,000 soldiers took part on the side of Nocturne alone. The Rebels it was estimated to number over 30,000 for they had taken their wives and children into the vast fortress occupying the central portion of the ruined city. The snow crunching under foot by the countless boots and armored shoes of the besiegers as they stormed the outer ruins. The fighting was fierce and bloody as the Provincial levies and Guard fought their way from ruin to ruin. Across galleries, half sunken bridges, room to room, even staircases half worn away were fought over savagely.
"AAAAAAAHHHHH." Vergil snapped out of his literary sermon as a roar came from his rear. Stylus in hand he whipped around, the shortsword on his waist not drawn, his armor heavy on his under developed frame. Vergil's eyes widened as a mail festooned man with a great brown beard swung an axe. Thunk. His left eye erupted into red mist as an arrow lanced into his skull. The man died grasping the shaft as Vergil whirled around once more. A Guard archer had saved his life, but had already moved on, as the din and cries of battle carried on. The battle had divulged into groups of rebels and loyalists fighting a moving war through the bewildering streets and ruined neighborhoods. Vergil could see Guard archers firing at rebels running in the streets at ranges no more than twenty meters distant. Both groups could even be in the same structure, but on different floors, fighting in demolished buildings whose original purpose was long since lost. A crackling whipped over head, Vergil look up, in time to see a barrage of flaming shot fired from the trebuchets and catapults sitting just outside the ruins. Some of them where solid shot that burst through walls and collapsed towers. Others had caskets and jars filled with Hellfire. A substance originating from Konstantia. A substance that burned hotter when water was poured onto it. It was known as Grecian Fire by the Konstantian's. Showering flame across courtyards and into buildings. The cries of men as their flesh bubbled and sloughed off caused Vergil to blink in terror.
"You. Boy. Stay out of the way."
Vergil felt an armored hand grasp him firmly on the shoulder, spinning him around, it was General Nieman. Nieman was a human and with him was a company of Guardsmen who fanned out to clear the remaining rebels in the area. "But I--."
"Get out of here. Go back to the command tent!" shouted Nieman as he shoved Vergil out of the way. Beginning to bark orders to his soldiers. The Siege had gone on since late February. Fighting was still heavy and the rebels had ample food stocks to last a year. Vergil hurried to the rear. Using his briefly gained knowledge of the streets to find a plaza. The cobblestones decayed and almost governed fully with grass. A tent had been pitched and surrounded by Nightguard. The vampire soldiers loyal solely to the Triarchs. They eyed Vergil as he entered the tent. It was large, able to comfortably house over fifty individuals, tables and chairs had been set up, some covered with maps or other dispatches. But it was the voices in the tent that gave Vergil pause. He froze.
"Your Historian returns Marcusz. With his head still attached." The voice of Vlad held the slightest sign of contempt. Contempt for his peer's bookish pets. Perhaps not pet, but pupil perhaps, either way Vlad held a disdain for the notion. But didn't bear any ill will to Vergil personally. Marcusz stood across from Vlad, his helmet off, crimson hair down to his shoulders. His green eyes held a friendly semblance to Vlads cold indifference. "Come. Take your notes." said Marcusz as the Triarch turned away. Vergil scurried up to the table awkwardly and began scribbling.
"We have begun to reach the river in several more locations My Lords and secured the last stone bridge standing. Nieman expects the ruins to be completely cleared within a day or two." said a Guardsman in the livery of a Captain.
"Tell Nieman to consolidate and prepare for the final assault on the fortress itself. Is the siege equipment ready?" replied Vlad. The captain nodded but spoke once more. "There is something else My Lords. The raid by the Nightguard last night on the rebel outpost in the southern district, well, we found something."
"Such as." said Marcusz now curious. The soldier looked at both Triarchs for a moment, "Sewers."
"We need more than shit to end this nuisance Captain." sneered Vlad.
"I beg your pardon My Lord. But we think we found an entrance into the inner courtyard of the castle through them."
"I will go." Spoke a female voice, sultry, came from behind Vergil. Causing the historian to jump, dropping his stylus on the table, and drawing a chuckle from Marcusz while Vlad looked annoyed. Vergil took a step to the side. Bringing into his vision the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Amelia. The female Triarch. She was armored, blades at her hips, crossbow slung over her back. Vlad nodded, as did Marcusz, but Vergil made to speak. "Yes you may go." Marcusz answer was all Vergil needed. The historian chased after the rapidly receding back of Amelia.
The Sun had sunk beneath the clouds when Amelia, with Vergil in tow, arrived at the sight of a raid carried out last night on a rebel outpost within site of the castle's Southern walls. The bodies smeared with dried gore and coagulated blood still occupied the positions they had been when life left them. A gathering of at least twenty Nightguard, a company of Guardsmen, and a gaggle of knights and accompanying men-at-arms from the provinces were there. Amelia was led down to where the water of the river coursed by. A slick stone staircase led down to an entrance. The gloom was impenetrable. Amelia walked in with the soldiers following. Vergil clutching his journal as he desperately tried to use the nearest torch held by a soldier to write. For while Amelia and the Nightguard did not require light to see in the dark, the human soldiery and Vergil did, so the vampires led the way. Moving through the labyrinthine underground. Vergil had heard stories from soldiers about the underground places in Prague. For fighting had drifted down into the sewers located else ware in the city, as well in other locations across the ruined landscape. Mockingly called the 'Underworld War' by the soldiers of Nocturne. Vergil didn't exactly want to get stuck in a close range melee fight.
The group kept walking, the slimy walls, the stench causing soldiers to cough. Eventually they arrived in a circular damp chamber. Dim light came down in a straight shaft. Water dripped from the ceiling. Amelia squinted upwards. Making hand signals to nearby soldiers, gestures to Vergil that seemed random, a series of crossbows where produced. Amelia made ready as if to pounce when a Nightguard spoke up. "Please my lady let us go first." Vergil had learned a few of the soldiers names during the two month siege. The Nightguard in question was named Reinhardt and his closest compatriot to his left was Beaufort. Amelia straightened and stepped back. Both dealers moved near the shaft in the ceiling just large enough for a few people to crawl through at the same time. Both leapt into the air and grasped the stone with their hands. Their vampiric grip and strength allowing them to climb unaided. But it was still exhausting work as they tried to keep quiet. That much Vergil could tell. Amelia leapt up into the shaft right after followed by other Nightguard. Vergil peered trying to get a better look. Seeing Beaufort take off his helm to peer over the edge of the stone lip. Before putting it back on and rolling over the edge into the unknown. Reinhardt and Amelia followed a second later. That was when the human soldiers bearing crossbows moved to the lip and fired. The bolts replaced with grappling hooks that hooked over the lip and allowed them to clamber up while the Nightguard one by one leapt up.
Vergil grunted with the effort, his journal held between his teeth, his stylus tucked within his belt. Grunting as he pulled himself up, sounds above erupting, he felt claustrophobic. Using this to propel himself with renewed vigor he reached the edge of the lip. Crack a bolt skittered as it struck the stone next to him. They had climbed up through an empty well, Vergil could only assume what the ancients had built it for, but the walls of the castle reared up in all directions. Cries from all directions growing louder at the surprise of the Nocturne forces erupting into the center of the castle became known to the rebel garrison. Vergil tumbled over the lip onto the grass of the courtyard. Looking about himself he saw humans versus human, vampire versus human, and corpses littering the courtyard in increasing frequency.
Vergil saw Beaufort swing his axe, a rebel soldiers head rolling from his shoulders; Reinhardt stabbed another man through the neck with his sword. Others fired crossbows at point blank range followed by drawing their main weapons. Amelia was in the thick of it all. Her sword slicing through limbs, necks, and puncturing torsos. The sky illuminated by a thousand flaming arrows as the assault began by Vlad and Marcusz outside the castle. Vergil moved, crouching, moving from cover to cover taking it all in. The horrific cries, the gush of blood, and the beautiful fury of Amelia as she tore through rebel after rebel. Vergil was captivated. A grunt to his left, Vergil fell backwards, a sword buried itself in the dirt. A sword came over his head, catching the foe in the fore arm, causing the man to scream. A second blow opened up the enemy's jugular. Vergil looked up to see Reinhardt, "Watch yourself." The vampire dashed off as the fury of battle spread from the courtyard up to the ramparts and the walls. Nocturne soldiers still streamed up out of the shaft while it seemed others clambered over ladders carried over by raft from across the river. The rebel archers and crossbowmen delivering withering fire, but caught off guard by the fight in the courtyard, were pressed in two directions.
"WATCH OUT." Vergil heard someone shout as a flaming projectile the size of his torso struck a nearby tower. Causing chunks of masonry to plummet into the courtyard. Squashing those caught in this deadly shower to bloody pulp. Vergil drew his shortsword, clutching it close, as he ran to the nearest group of soldiers. Seeking to surround himself by comrades. He was no fighter. But he felt the urge to be closer to Amelia. So he ran in her direction. Weaving through battling soldiers. As he was about to reach her, a whirlwind of death, a howl pierced his heart. Vergil looked up towards the gate of the main keep. Flung open he saw figures dressed in the livery of the priesthood of the Cult. Except they where hunched over, jerking about, their bodies changing right before his very eyes. It was a hideous display as their faces elongated, fingers into claws, fur sprouting from their skin. Savage eyes and maws.
"To me! Take them head on!" bellowed Amelia as the soldiers of Nocturne closest to her followed her into a furious charge. Lycan, Vampire, and Human met in a clash of steel and claw. Fang and tooth. Vergil watched as Amelia grabbed a Lycan by the throat, heaved, and smashed it maw first into the ground. Her blade stabbing it through the heart. Vergil watched as Reinhardt opened a Lycan from neck to groin with his sword. Watched a Lycan tear a man's arms off while another swiped is claws to decapitate another soldier. It was something Vergil never wished to see again. Something that would haunt him to the end of his days.
That's when he saw it, a Lycan prowled the upper battlements of the gatehouse leading into the main keep, Vergil watched in horror as it leapt from its place of hiding. Smashing a Nightguard aside as it charge bodily into Amelia. Amelia flew ten yards back to crash next to Vergil. The historian held out his sword timidly as the beast roared in. Galloping with its front claws and back paws. Its jaw able to hold a human head easily. That's when he felt a pain in his side, followed by a feeling of weightlessness, he crashed onto his stomach. Looking back he saw Amelia standing, fangs bare, roaring in challenge. She was disarmed! The beast would surely rend her from head to toe! It widened its jaw as it leapt with such speed that you'd miss it if you blinked. Amelia rolled, coming up behind the creature, and with a savage scream leapt onto its back. Grasping it's upper and lower jaw she snarled. Vergil watched as this angel of death shattered the beasts maw, ripped off its lower jaw, and struck it over the head with it. She looked at the historian, and Vergil swore he saw the trace of a smile.
Horns blew along the walls. Marcusz and Vlad had taken the outer defenses and Vergil could see Marcusz among the upper battlements fighting his way along the upper ramparts.
The Siege, and the encounter with the Lycans, sealed the fate of the situation. While Marcusz sought clemency for the children and women, urging them to be examined, and if proven to be not Lycans be able to leave. Vlad and Amelia would hear none of it. Vergil was forbidden by Marcusz to write of what followed. Only that the siege ended in a great victory. No mention would be of the Nightguard slaughtering all the thousands of innocents cowering in the keep and cellars. Not one of the rebels escaped the Siege.
Vergil would go on to release a history of the 13th Century ending with the Siege of Prague. Followed by self-imposed exile to the Ionian Confederacy. For in the culmination of the Siege Vergil realized one thing.
Nocturne, the vampires, they are not so different from the Lycans in their savagery. The only difference is that the Vampires believe Humans to be their allies. The reality is that they would not hesitate to sacrifice a thousand humans to keep Nocturne stable.-Last Letter to Anja, for Vergil died of natural causes in the Winter of 1325.
Valeria, 1354
In the Fifty-Fourth Year of Amelia's Rule
Valeria, the greatest city in the known world. Stretching up a spur of the Northern-Carpathian Mountains, with plains and woodland stretching south, was a site to behold. Stretching from the level of the plains at the bottom, up the spur to the Nocturnis Mons, The Mountain of Night, the citadel of the Council and Elders over two thousand feet from the plain. The top of the towers reaching 6,300 feet above the plains below, the obsidian black fortifications of the citadel contrasted with the white stone of the city. The golden and silver domes of the Inner Districts, and the Red, blue, and purple domes of the Lower districts. Each district had a slight variation in color and locale. The Artists District which holds the Alchemists Corner was renowned for producing a variety of aromas and devices; the Builder's Guild with its carpenters and engineers worked feverishly; the bankers of Gold-Notch-Alley arrayed with their family crests emblazoned above their doors.
The city was prosperous as the Sun rose to noon. Its bustling activity blocked by the closed windows and doors of the Council chambers. The Council Hall was a grand gallery arrayed in a semi-circle. On the flat wall, facing South, sat the reigning Triarch on a simple stone throne, the Court scribe to their left; arrayed before them where the simple benches of the Council and attending Provincial representatives. For the Provinces could have a representative present to voice concerns, but could not cast a vote.
Amelia sat, wearing fine blue silks, her hair braided. She sat with her back straight as the clamor of politicians filled the air. It was an open session. No organized list of items to discuss. Anyone could have the floor and make proposals, civilians could bring petitions, and lobbyists could line pockets. Amelia despised the politicking aspect of her duties. But while Marcusz and Vlad slept it was her turn to act as the chief executive force in Nocturne.
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