Maverick Six
This party stinks
The Dark Ages
Dacia
476 AD
Somewhere in the Carpathian Mountains....
"Did you hear, Ephialtes? They said the last emperor of Rome was a little boy." The creature could not help but laugh. He could not help but harken back to his days as a human, serving among the ranks of the Praetorian Guard. Meetings were held in which they would decide to sell the throne to the highest bitter. A laughable affair for something considered an empire, yet even that appeared to pale before the thought of a boy who couldn't have been much more than ten years old, tossed from the throne.
It echoed over the sound of a sturdy set of claws, sloshing through soil until it reached the inside until it reached stone. Rock cracked and gave way before the creature's mighty claws, yet in the next moment, he would begin to carve into it patterns as he went. His hulking frame and hunchback belied a precision as yet unseen, for Jagged and untamed walls would be made suitable to be a hallway. The hunchback creature was but one of many so called "Nosferatu" who each eagerly served their Vampire Lord Bashanipal, for whom this vast temple would be built. A fortress sturdier than most any the men of these lands could foreseeably devise. And a place of pilgrimage for their Lord's Followers.
"So that is how an empire falls. Not with a roar. But a whimper." Was the reply. Though, Ephialtes seemed to lack the same joy as the man who'd come down to where he was digging. But at this point, the fairly old creature could not bring himself to care. The Empire had lost relevance to him a hundred years ago, when had decided to remain here and complete his master. More relevant was the immediate question that popped into his mind, concerning the one who had come here before. "Why have you come, Vulcan?" The digging stopped. And the pale creature turned as it squatted to look assess his ally.
"We must clear the lands in preparation for arrival of our lord. Hunters close in from afar. They come from many directions. They camp close to this land. Too close for our liking, so we are to deal with them. Along with Hereditus."
Ephialtes offers a quiet nod as he stands up. His thick talons had been covered completely with dirt that he had not even yet bothered to clean -- dark brown up to his forearms that contrasted his deathly pale flesh. Once he rose, he followed his companion through the dark caves, seeing perfectly through it in spite of the utter lack of light. Soon, the pair found themselves walking outside of a cave and walking onto a cliffside. From it, they could see a vast, forested landscape which covered hills and surrounded rocky mountains. The night sky dotted itself with stars and the moon had shone down upon the pair as they looked out towards the landscape.
Ephialtes was a short and yet stocky, with an abnormally bent spine that lent him the appearance of what some might have called a "hunch back." He wore little save for for taters around his waist which might yet give him some semblance of dignity many of his kind did not bother. Like his brother in arms, he had a face one could describe as like that of a ghoul or goblin -- a warped version of his human form which had no hair. Long, elf like ears yet twitched. Scars from whips dotted all along the man's body, a reminder of his past a slave which his body had all but enshrined unto his person. He'd the body of a worker however -- surprisingly stocky given his background in manual labor.
Vulcan was comparatively taller and leaner. In one hand, he held sword. Specifically, a Spatha. He other hand was a phantom which he sometimes still felt, gone from a silver sword -- something he would not allow himself to be struck with ever again. Unlike many of his more ancient brethren, he had chosen the flesh of the bat. And thus his wings resembled such. His wing furled around his arm stump instinctively -- and hardened to be like a shield. His feet were like talons with which he might grab, snatch or tear.
The people of these lands called them Nosferatu. Undead who fed upon the blood of man -- almost as if to spite it.
Vulcan raised his sword and pointed. "There is one camp to the east. I shall take that one." The sword moves. "One to the North, this one shall be yours." One final swivel of the sword. "And one to the west. Hereditus is already on his way." The blade was lowered.
"Any questions before you make your journey? An owl shall lead your way."
"Vivat Nox." (Long Live the Night) To Said Ephialtes simply. Not as a question -- but an answer.
"Vivat Nox." (Long Live the Night) Vulcan repeated back.
With that -- Vulcan spread his wings. The bound his legs and the flap of his wings combined, propelling him into the air with a gust of wind left in his wake. Soon, his body would orient itself and turn as he flew east. Ephialtes stepped off the mountain and bounded, jumping down the craggy cliffs as he made his way down with ape-like agility, landing on flat surface and swinging from ledges without before he'd disappear into the shadows of the brush.
To the West
Though mankind was full of surprises. Even here, in these harsh and snowy mountains meant to be untraceable by man, there were those who appeared to be clearly searching for them. Through the eyes of beasts, they could be seen. Wolves perched on the hill. Crows who circled above in the sky. The bears who would lurk in the underbrush. Their camp had been found soon after they had begun to encroach on the creature's currently expanding territory.
The Soil had been stained with blood of both man and beast.
The Hunters had been beset by many manner of foe over the course of days. The vicious frequency of said attacks had all but confirmed that they neared something of great importance to the Nosferatu. What it was, had yet to be seen. But they knew this. They simply did not have enough to stave them off. The expedition had rapidly turned into retreat.
The first night, they had beset upon by packs. Wolves worked with bears in an affront to nature itself, attacking the troupe with ferocious. None however could breach the fort which they had created for themselves. The methods of addressing them were fairly conventional -- using spears, arrows, swords and whatever else might yet pierce their thick hides. Preferably at a distance. They were funneled into the entrances of a fort, and the beasts could not claim one life among the hunters who had been trained to intercept nimble and inhuman opponents at a close range.
The second night incurred casualties. Ghouls came in great number as they retreated to a wooden fort that had been built in a matter of hours in the style of the Roman legion. The creatures were tricky. Blades punched through their flesh as any man, but it was to impale the heart or sever the head that caused death. For blades to stab or merely sink in was not enough. Steel was still sufficient to hack through limbs, take the head and punch through the heart all the same. The Ghouls felt no pain nor much desire for self-preservation -- meaning that only the most grievous of wounds merited much acknowledgement. Fire brought their destruction assuredly, and few hunters would be without torch made preferably a sturdy wood, with which they might bash their foes. Yet the creatures were more nimble than natural animals. A few climbed over the wooden walls of the fort and would maul those whom they could get close to. A few of the archers fell in particular -- before being slain and ultimately burned.
Something was obviously commanding them.
Flame was lit for the next night. Yet there was nothing for them but silence. Activity within the distant brush could be clearly seen. But they made no attempt to attack. Fire was lit, but their supplies were dwindling. They knew that would have to move. And they would do so during the day towards their planned point.
They hunkered down in a cave when the night came. It did not go far, and there was one way in and one way out. Stone was solid -- too solid for them to tunnel through. Thus they pointed spears down the cave's narrow entrance to halt the creatures and kept axes and swords at the ready to take heads and hearts. A wall of fire had been made inside the cave, but it didn't last long until the creatures simply kicked up dirt onto the fairly ordinary bonfires and rushed in. Many were lost but ultimately, they would be repelled once the day came. A few were met with the sun. And they burned up entirely into gore -- which soon became ash like any other.
Time went on, however. And more and more would be lost. Their numbers unending. The scouts left on horseback as the rest would be left to march.
And then he came. Not a Ghoul. But a vampire, tried and true, sent to dispose of hunters closing in from the West.
Squelch.
A swing impacted a skull. The vampire moved faster than any of the ghouls. And he had a mind to actually dodge. A casual backhand towards a spearmen sent blood flying, as the vampire's hand sunk into the man's skull and sent pieces of it flying. The body falls limp to the ground, as blood and brain leak out into the dirt. "What a waste." Hereditus the Vampire spoke for but a single moment. He was the only creature among the inhuman creatures who bothered to wear clothes -- a simple red toga, strained with blood that matched it's color. There was little time to feed. Already he was being struck.
The true vampire had turned into a blur before the human eye. His strikes shattering skulls, rending limbs and shattering dozens of bones as people were sent flying back from the force of his blows. Weapons failed to find purchase in the creature. So he tore through them, one by one. And he'd only feed, when their numbers had thinned. Through his combined efforts and that of his army, soon there were few left.
A spears thrust had been caught. And with a firm yank, the wielder was pulled forward. Hereditus' jaw opened wide and clamped down onto the men's neck. The bite crushed his flesh as though it were a succulent fruit, and he squeezed the blood from the man's arteries with the force of his jaw. The heart could not help but pump the blood from the man body at high pressures. But only a little was allowed to leak onto the ground, as the Nosferatu sucked away the man's blood in moments.
Woosh
There was an unusual silence, as he felt many of his own creatures disappear.
A two-handed Dane Axe was swung in a great arc. One. Two. Three Ghoul heads fly into the air, their bodies dropping to the ground. Yet the axe does not stop. It carries in an almost graceful circle, momentum conserved as it tilts and comes down. Like a meteor, it crashes down into a fourth -- splitting him vertically in half from the crown of his skull to his waist. The creature crumples to the ground, blood and innards falling to the ground and rendering the the Ghoul all but inert. A swivel and the warrior clad in little more than a thick bear skin cap and tunic throws a javelin -- nailing another Ghoul in the heart from several yards away and causing it to stop in place for moment before collapsing.
Hereditus becomes a blur -- as he lunges towards their strongest warrior. The distance between the two is devoured in less than a second.
CCCCCRRRRRRRRRR
The sound of dirt tearing. The axe had been used like a spear -- the top of its blade featuring a point which stabbed into the creature's chest. The back end stabbed into the ground as a makeshift brace. The vampire pushed through the stab with indifference, yet he drew no closer to the man. He only pushed him back as he held firm to his axe, the dirt tearing as he did. The creature claw sought to reach into the man's face. Yet it fell woefully short.
"Huh." Said Hereditus, more inconvenienced by an axe blade stabbing into his lung than anything else. The vampire immediately he decided to target the weapon. He brought his hand down in one swift, hammer like motion onto the shaft the axe impaling him. The wooden shaft shattered...yet the warrior still used it as a weapon. The moment the shaft broke, it was brought up and stabbed into the creature's eye -- embing it with wooden splinters. Then swiped across his face.
SHLCK. The sound of a man being gutted by like a fish.
"Olgierd!" One of the hunters called out. That was the warrior's name. The only one who had landed a hit on the vampire, had been impaled by the creature's bare hand. His fingers poked into his belly. And the vampire did not need to see in order to know he had struck true.
Still impaled on the creature's claws, Olgierd was lifted up and raised over the creature's head for all to see. The creature noticed as moral...all but collapsed. His allies had made mistakes. Some were distracted for one moment and then mauled by Ghouls the next.
A swing with a one handed, bearded axe. Hereditus' reflexes mattered little, as he was blindsided by an unexpected strike thrown by the impaled Olgierd. The axe burrowed into the creature's brain and it caused him to instinctively hurl the fully grown man as though he were a small child. Olgierd flew across several corpses before crashing into a tree with force that ought to have shattered all his bones. Yet Olgierd stirred on the ground and moved.
The man's wild, raven colored hair and beard gave way to blood shot -- raged filled eyes. He looked at himself and some himself bleeding heavily. A jagged gash across his belly had all but revealed his intestines. A hand reached out...and began digging into the mud. And he stuffed it into his wounds as a makeshift, malleable plug. Infection be damned, the bleeding had to stop. This much he knew, even in this state. When he could no longer peer into his own innards, he began to rise in an affront to common sense. Slowly but assuredly.
His comrades filled the Night with yells fit for war.
It had been too late for his friends it seemed. The rest of the Ghouls had been killed. He raised his head just in time to watch as the Vampire twisted one the hunter's heads. The neck broke, but kept twisting and twisting and twisting. A foot would be pressed onto the body, and the vampire pulled until the head came off -- kicking the body away in the process. Yet as his comrades fell, Olgierd approached, the vampire thinking him long dead or too battered to continue. "Gods, if ye real, grant me strength." Muttered Olgierd, as almost quiet prayer. He grips his dislocated shoulder and hear a pop as he yanks it back into place.
War cries had been overwhelmed by Hereditus' thunderous laughter and silenced with the ripping of human flesh.
