The Lords of the Night.

[Christoph]

Closed to Elijah and Chiroptera.


The sun set peacefully in the quiet sky, casting a golden glow over the rolling, pine covered mountains, illuminating the rocky bald spots of the landscape. The only sounds save the gentle rustling of the dark late summer grass were from the steady creaking of a trio of wagons, accented by the staccato of clopping horse hooves. Even in the wane of dusk, the rocky, winding road was visible for miles in the distance, stretching out into the horizon like a stray mark from a scribe’s pen.

Chris was stretched out on a pile of wheat sacks, his white chef coat clean and intact; of course, there were several stains of various colors as well as stitch marks from old holes and tears. He breathed in the crisp air with a genuinely happy expression. Traces of the arctic Salvic chill, as well as the distinct soil of the land, fresh pine, and farm animals floated about. It smelled like home. After nearly a year of travel to all sorts of exotic places in Scara Brae, Corone, and gods-knew where else, it was good to be breathing familiar air again.

Finally, he could put his whole extraordinary ordeal behind him. Indeed, he’d seem more of the world in those months than he had in his entire life leading up to it. He’d met fascinating people and done some amazing things. However, the facts that many of those people he’d met were trying to kill him and much of what he did also almost resulted in his death certainly put him off a little. Really, it was almost as though some bored gods had taken it upon themselves to toy with him for their own amusement. Because of this, none of the pleasant points in his long journey were enough to make him want to do it again. Ever. Even a peaceful, and for the most part, boring life of working in his hometown’s tavern was preferable to running about, risking one’s life, and living out an existence of self-inflicted misery and discomfort.

Amusingly enough, his unwanted harrowing adventure was supposed to be nothing more than a four-month business trip. His mother was opening up a second tavern in a nearby town, and with two establishments to run, the need for a larger quantity of cheaper imports became necessary for success. Chris had been sent off to work out a number of contracts with foreign shipping agents and warehouse owners. He’d been successful in this, of course, but there was just something about zombies, wars, pickpockets, being arrested that made business ventures take longer than they are supposed to. He sighed, but pushed it all from his mind. It didn’t matter anymore; it was over now. In another week, he would be back in his hometown, working in the tavern’s kitchen, and telling stories to curious patrons.

Casually, Chris turned his head to face the other man in the back of the wagon. He seemed about the same age as he was. He was much lighter in frame, though, almost to the point of being scrawny. His hair was about as long and shaggy as Chris’s own, but it lacked the curly, “poofy”, quality. It was also much darker, possessing an odd shade of black that looked as though he’d dipped his head into a bucket of ink. They’d been traveling together since their arrival in the same port. During the several weeks of travel since then, they’d talked a little bit from time to time. The chef knew that his name was Elijah and that he was returning home to spend some time with an “old master.” Of what the man was a master of, Chris never bothered to ask.

A small town gradually became more visible in the distance. The glow of fireplaces escaped the windows of most every house, making it look like a bunch of burning embers tossed over the dark hilltop. Then, oddly, the metaphorical embers died, one by one, as the lights went out, leaving a cold emptiness in their place. Odd.

“I know that town,” said the chef, breaking the long silence between himself and Elijah. “I visited there once with my old friend, Heather. I’m not sure why they’re putting out their lights so early, though.” Whatever it was, Chris’s track record with luck and fate tempted him to believe that it wasn’t good.

[Elijah_Morendale]

Bunny approved.

Salvar. I'm home again. A shiver to pass through me; first of all because I had gotten used to the warmer climates of Corone and Scara Brae, second because I was unsure of the wrath that good old Gilliam Ornoft would bring unto me for abandoning my icecrafting apprenticeship to go on what he called my "silly little escapades".

It was a long ride back to the settlement where I spend the better part of my childhood, so I wasted most of today's wagon ride across the countryside crafting ice daggers. With every one, I tried to make the serrated edges just a bit sharper, the weight distribution between the frozen blade and its hilt just a bit more even, and the small dragon insignia on the grip--my favorite part--just a bit less embarrassing to look at. At this point, it still closely resembled an inbred dragon with stumpy legs that suffered from Down Syndrome, but at the very least it was one crafted with as much care as I could muster.

Nadia, my slightly psychotic imaginary friend and part-time split personality, was using my shoulder as a make-shift pillow as she tried to find ways to pass the long days of travel. She lazily turned her head to glance at my latest ice dagger, furiously twirling her messy, tangled, crimson-hued hair with an index finger. "Watching you try to perfect that dragon thing is like watching puppies getting kicked with steel-toed boots," she remarked, her comment spiked with pure disdain.

I spoke softly, hoping that the noise of the wagons riding on the rocky road prevented my white-coated wagonmate from hearing me. "I thought you liked that sort of thing."

"You're right, I do, but that doesn't detract from the fact that your thing still sucks."

I could feel a hole being burned in the side of my head. I happened a glance over, my eyes meeting with Christoph's. The chef's brown globes were locked on me in a puzzled manner, as if this denim-clad adventurer had eaten half of his lunch on him while he was asleep. His voice piqued with hesitant curiosity, the chef asked, "Were you just talking to yourself?"

Busted. I couldn't really do much but use another one of my patented innocent smiles as I answered, "Yeah, I was. You'll have to forgive me, I think I'm going mad."

Christoph wasted no time shrugging his shoulders, returning to his comfortable, inert position on the wheat sacks. "Who isn't?"

I couldn't help but chuckle as I returned my attention to the emblem on the ice dagger. Nadia groaned loudly, a noise that oozed of boredom more than anything else. "Come on, play a game with me!"

"Like what?"

Nadia shrugged, her gaze fixed on the mountainous Salvarian horizon through the opening in the back of the wagon. "Fuck if I know. You still got that pack of cards with you?"

"You threatened give me nightmares the night that you tried to argue that Solitaire wasn't a one player game, so I threw out the cards, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. I forgot. Silly me." The grin of a lunatic crossed her face as I mentioned the nightmare threat, a hint of amusement in her emerald-green eyes.

Several uninteresting hours had passed as the wagons drew closer to their destination--A small town out in the middle of the slightly chilled, pristine Salvarian countryside. Night drew closer and the temperature dropped to the point where I could see his breath in front of him. Christoph pointed out, with a touch of uneasiness in his voice, mind you, that the town's population had begun putting their lights outs, even at this early hour.

"Well, nothing bad better happen while we're here. Trouble has a knack of following me lately, especially during the nighttime." I reached into my jacket, gripping my dagger for no reason other than reassurance that this was going to be one town that I'd be able to escape the clutches of trouble.

As the sun continued to set over the ivory mountaintops, the wagons pushed on down the road towards the village.

[Chiroptera]

The sun was disappearing behind the huge trunks of trees, and Eltarri let out a groan of dismay at the sunset that sent bolts of color cascading across the sky. She stopped walking and glared at the smoldering orb of the sun, muttering a few of her favorite curse words. She couldn’t see the sky clearly through the dense trees that surrounded her, but she could see enough red and pink to know that it was definitely sunset. With a sigh the girl turned her attention earthward and resumed her slow walk, making her stumbling way through the thick underbrush of the forest.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like sunset; on the contrary, she’d always been raptly enthralled by the glorious display whenever her mother had warily let her leave the caves of Windlancer Mountain to see them. The trouble with sunsets was that they were the beautiful herald of the darkness of night that was promised to follow. She hated traveling, and she hated traveling at night even more. Sleeping out under the stars was not nearly as romantic as the novels of her childhood had made it seem, and every night that she had spent huddled under her cloak, jumping at every noise with the fear of seeing a monster had been torturous. She hadn’t really thought about how big Salvar was when she’d embarked on her journey to Knife’s Edge in search of a powerful-enough magician to help her mother, but she was quickly being educated on how different this land was from Scara Brae, the island that she had called home for the vast majority of her seventeen-year life.

Eltarri yelped as her foot caught in a tangle of vines and sent her lurching forward, arms outstretched to balance the heavy backpack and sword that rode on her back. It was odd, that her lightly-packed backpack weighed more than the four foot sword, but the magic of her bracers made the enchantedly heavy black blade almost effortlessly light. She was wearing a thick black cloak that did little to improve her limited nimbleness in the brush, but with cold winds sporadically sweeping across the land, she didn’t even consider taking it off. She caught her balance on a tree and pushed herself upright, glancing around to make sure there were no witnesses.

At least I don’t have any companions to laugh at my clumsiness, she thought bitterly, fighting the loneliness that the solitude of her journey had embedded in her mind. She fixed her gaze on the flicker of lights that could be seen through the trees in the dimming light, bolstering her spirits with the promise of warm food and a real bed at an inn. She’d been traveling along a dirt road for the past few hours, nervously wondering why she wasn’t passing any fellow travelers, when she’d caught sight of golden lights through the trees that bordered the trail. Unable to resist the call of civilization, she’d turned off the road and begun her pathetic bumbling through the woods, looking up often to use the small glowing lights as a landmark to guide her travel.

Just a little ways to go. The lights were larger and brighter, and now she could see the outline of buildings about a fourth of a mile away.

And then, suddenly, as she was still staring hopefully at her goal, the lights went out, depressingly flicking off as if someone had only lit them to taunt her.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Her murmured exclamation was answered only by silence. Did that mean that she had only imagined them? Desperation didn’t allow her to consider it. Maybe all the lanterns had just run out of oil . . . at the same time. Or maybe there was a hill that was in the way. Or a really ferociously cold wind had snuffed out all the fires . . .

She gloomily considered her options. Turning back to the road would probably just result in her getting hopelessly lost. She was used to being lost, but with night swiftly approaching the girl was loath to sleep in the middle of a forest, which really only left her one option.

With a sigh she kept walking, doggedly pushing her way through the bushes. She may have imagined the lights, but she still needed a place to stay, and it made her feel better to be pursuing a hopeful mirage than to curl up at the roots of one of the trees around her.

What's the worse that could happen? The lights might turn out to be the lures of an evil witch who eats whichever stupid travelers come near enough to catch. On the other hand, I've heard that elves aren't nearly as tasty as humans, so maybe she'd just let me go.

The facetious thought did little to comfort her.

[Christoph]

“It seems that I’m not the only one who attracts trouble like a lamp attracts moths, then,” sighed the chef, glancing over at his odd acquaintance. “Maybe our odd curses will cancel each other out, then.” He chuckled. More likely, they would compound and create something far, far worse.

Chris sat up and gazed off at the town. It was very odd that an entire town would put out their lights so early. It gave him a bad feeling, and not just because of the town itself. As the caravan grew closer, there seemed to be something unsettling about the landscape. There was nothing overtly wrong about it, and it was hard to fully identify in the dark. The land itself simply seemed less healthy than one would expect. The dark, lush carpet of grass gradually faded to a yellow, patchy rag of vegetation. The soil itself seemed dry and cracked.

Even the massive forest beyond the settlement didn’t look quite right. It was at the peak of summer, yet the forest looked as though it could have very well been the very eve of winter. The leafless skeletons of the deciduous trees stretched upward like demonic claws reaching for the heavens. Even the mighty pines had an ominous look to them as they towered above their sickly cousins like vicious taskmasters. This was definitely not the cheerful little hamlet that he’d remembered from his youth.

***

The wagons continued to creak along the road, heading for the darkened town. By the time the last of the sun’s light faded from the dreary sky, they had reached the edge of the settlement. Even the horses were uneasy. It wasn’t surprising, of course; animals always seemed to be more sensitive to such things. Chris had suggested to the two owners of the caravan that they skip the town, instead of stopping. The two men had dismissed his request, naturally, saying that they needed to stop here because they wouldn’t have enough supplies to make it to the next town.

These claims struck the chef as rather odd. He knew these parts reasonably well. There should be another town coming up within another day, two at most. Aside from that, he was all but certain that the caravan had more than enough supplies to make the entire trip to the Northern frontier, let alone just another day. Chris knew better than to press the issue, though. Those two men were not the types that he ever wanted to cross.

He’d never seen merchants like that pair before. They dressed and acted like merchants, both wearing faded blue robes common for their class and often speaking to each other in financial terms, but there was something different about them. The larger of the two was a man in his mid thirties. His head was shaved completely bald, his shoulders were half again as broad as Christopher’s, and his massive hands looked like they could crush a man’s skull like a grape. The man’s face was covered in several small scars, including a single long one running up his head. His eyes were the color of amber and had the distant look of a veteran soldier, rather than that of a merchant. The other man appeared to be a few years younger. His face was youthful and mostly free of scars and thick black hair fell down past his ears. His dark green eyes were so piercing that Chris was certain that they could penetrate a man’s soul.

It was their forceful and compelling presence that kept the caravan on its course into gloomy town. If anything, the settlement was even more depressing and off-putting from the inside. Every window was shuttered. Some were even barred. The doors were locked and every light was out. The trio of wagons made their way for the town’s Inn, which was as dark as the rest of the town. Having given up on his efforts to persuade the merchants against stopping, Chris returned to his spot on the wheat sacks. He turned to Elijah.

“If those windows are any indication, I’m thinking that we’ll be sleeping out here tonight.”

[Elijah_Morendale]

The last hour or so had been quite unnerving. My heart was slowly sinking as we approached the small village. Between the ominous-looking, leafless forest that formed a wall of naked bark along the outskirts of the village and the lifelessness contained inside the old wood and stone buildings themselves, the setting reminded me of the nightmares I would have once in a while, usually when I did something to piss Nadia off.

Some crazy shit is going to go down here, I'm calling it right now.

I closed my eyes as the caravan entered the town, silently wishing that whatever was waiting in the darkness would come out and get the wanton death and destruction over with so I could continue on with my journey back to the settlement where I was raised without another hitch.

I still had my right hand securely wrapped around the hilt of my dagger. My mind was too occupied to hear what Christoph had to say, although I did pick up the words sleeping and out here, which were more than enough to get the general idea.

I whipped my head to the side to look at Christoph. By the faint light that the oil lamp gave off, I could see that my culinary traveling companion was dead serious. My face twisted in fear and frustration, and I nearly flipped out on the chef. "What the--sleep out here? No sir, that ain't happening. I'm sure there's someone still awake around here that'll let us in!"

Without giving Christoph a chance to talk me out of it, I picked myself off the wooden floor of the wagon and leaped over the three foot high wall that kept its cargo from falling out. My feet touched down with a crunch, kicking up a small cloud of dirt. As the wagon pulled into a small road alongside the inn, I looked around, relying on the pale moonlight to pick out any building that remotely resembled an inn. After a few seconds of searching, my eyes fell upon a three-storied stone building and made the quick decision of walking towards it. Squinting his eyes to make a further inspection, I could barely make out a sign near the door telling me that I was correct, that I was indeed standing in front of an inn.

Casually, as if all of the fear had seeped out through my pores, I knocked heavily on the door. The sound of fist on wood echoed through the barren streets like cannon fire. After going a minute without an answer, I knocked again, although significantly harder. "Hey! Anyone here?"

I heard a quiet voice from behind the door, one that was aged and overflowing with fear. "G-go away!"

I cocked an eyebrow at the thought of being turned away. Surely this man would not turn down a well meaning customer who would pay gold for his services so the old man could sustain his livelihood! "What do you mean go away?"

"What are you, stupid or something? Go away means go away!"

I put my hands on my hips in defiance. "Look, dude, I need a place to stay for the night. Let me in, I got gold!" The sound of deadbolt locking behind the door was the only response the old man had. Turning away from the door, I let out a heavy sigh, throwing my hands up in the air in frustration.

[Chiroptera]

Eltarri’s nervousness abated as she pursued the lights’ source, her steps quickening as the dark hilltop mass congealed before her eyes into a thatch-roofed village. It was unnervingly still, but even without lights the town was more welcoming than a cluster of spooky trees. The inn, at least, had to be open.

She crossed the open space that separated the houses from the forest, and then weaved through backyards and gardens until she reached a semi-respectable road. The girl unconsciously reached back with her right hand to touch the hilt of her sword, assuring herself of its presence. It wasn’t that she was scared . . . but the town was definitely creepy. There weren’t even stray dogs to break the ominous solitude. The anxiety that had left her at the verification of the town’s existence began to creep its way back into her mind.

Don’t be such a coward, she told herself firmly, but she didn’t have the courage to threaten the silence by saying it out loud.

Other voices broke the silence for her, ones that seemed conspicuously loud in the unnatural silence. They came from behind a large building a hundred feet away, and when she crept closer and peered around the edge of the building, Eltarri saw a wagon in the road and a man at the door, and she realized that it was probably the inn. Far from the money-loving welcome that she would have expected, however, the muffled voice that issued from behind the heavy door was fearful and strained in its emphatic refusal before the slamming of a heavy deadbolt ended the discussion. She was disappointed to hear that the innkeeper was refusing guests, but her thoughts were distracted by a far more uplifting find.

Fellow travelers! Eltarri grinned in the dark, resisting the urge to run out and hug the frustrated man just for being alive and in her vicinity. The town already seemed less oppressive now that she knew she wasn’t the only one there. A squinty-eyed scan told her that the man wasn't heavily armed, but from the look of his burly companions in the front of the wagon, the group seemed a much safer bet than trying to stay out in the woods by herself. It was a gamble to hope that they would put up with her presence for the night, but the half-elf was loath to the ideas of staying alone or venturing back into the forest in the dark. If they weren’t going to be allowed to stay, they would have to head out anyway, and they might at least let her travel with them until she was a safe distance away from the forbidding forest.

Quickly dusting off her clothes, Eltarri pulled the hood of her dark cloak over her head to hide her uncombed ponytail and tightened the black gloves on her hands. Just because she was a bedraggled vagabond didn’t mean she had to look like one.

Without a second thought Eltarri walked quickly across the grass in front of the inn, making no attempt to hide her presence, and stopped a few feet away from the rejected man, a small smile on her face. She opened her mouth, then went red as she realized that she didn't have any idea of how to greet him. Hi, you don't know me, but would you mind if I latch myself onto your wagon until I'm far enough away from this place that I can open my eyes without squealing in groundless terror?

She gave a nervous laugh instead and gestured vaguely at the inn. "Not much in the way of customer service, are they?"

[Christoph]

Chris craned his neck to watch Elijah over the side of the wagons. In all honesty, he was surprised that anyone had answered his acquaintance at all; normally, they would just pretend that they were not home, waiting behind their door with a crossbow, just in case. The chef had wanted for the disconcertingly peculiar man to just stay in the wagon and out of trouble. Honestly, there was no sense in tempting the contemptuous gods by giving them any more opportunities to cause mischief. Naturally, though, Elijah scoffed at the idea of just sleeping outside and not making a scene. Apparently, being smart is just stupid. Chris sighed.

Sitting up finally, Chris took a moment to organize all of the reasonable assumptions regarding the situation. Assumption one: the townsfolk were afraid of something. This, of course, was so obvious that it didn’t even count as an assumption. Its associated question, regarding what, exactly they were afraid of, wasn’t an assumption either; it bordered on the opposite end of the philosophical horizon, where wild guesses and paranoia reigned supreme. Naturally, the chef had more than enough of both of those things to spare.

He glanced around, spotting the newcomer approaching to talk to Elijah. That seemed like a logical cue to get out of the wagon and find out what was going on. Even as he did so, though, his mind kept working. Another assumption that he felt safe making was that the townsfolk were either hiding something or they believed that the caravan was somehow associated with whatever they were afraid of – or both. That piece of information would actually be very crucial, especially considering all the dark, shadowy forms of villagers lurking around some of the corners. The next assumption was that the young woman who’d come down the street wasn’t a resident of the town. To be fair, that was hardly worthy of assumption status, since the girl’s words made it a dead, albeit clever, giveaway. Perhaps he should go and find out who this new person was.

Wait… back up!

Christopher’s entire train of thought came to a screeching halt and rewound. His head darted around in time to see a mass of townsfolk closing in on the caravan from behind. He counted at least twenty of them, many of them carrying pitchforks. Their sickly, shadowy faces were painted with the telltale expressions of fear-spawned anger. More scuffing footsteps alerted the chef to the presence of another mob moving in from the front of the wagon train.

A large, fat, bald man stood at the forefront of the second mob. In his ornate robes, he looked like a purple silk potato sack, waddling forward and waving around a club. Dark eye circles and large, fleshy jowls dominated his pale face. His corpulent appearance, style of dress, and the pompous air laced through his nasal voice marked him off as someone important – or, at the very least, someone self-important.

“They must be thralls of the bloodsucker!” the man screamed, pointing at the caravan. “Get them!” The townsfolk hesitated for a moment, as though sparks of reason were surfacing in their minds. These sparks were, of course, extinguished like candles in wind, as they let their fear take over once again.

“Wait. Thralls of the what?” asked Chris, subtly reaching into his chef coat for his trusty chef knife. The ringleader’s face contorted with rage. To Chris’s trained eyes, the rage appeared more exaggerated and forced, rather than sincere. “What are you talking about?”

“Silence, heathen!” cried the round man. He took another step toward the caravan, clumsily brandishing his club.

“A funny thing for one such as yourself to say, Mayor Eugeny.” At the front of the caravan, the smaller, dark-haired man, one of the leaders of the caravan, was on his feet, standing a couple of meters away from the mob’s fat figurehead. “Now, don’t do anything… unwise.” The plump mayor’s eyes went wide and his voice jumped up an octave.

“What… I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he cried.

Lovely, thought Chris. To his distinct dismay, things were getting interesting.

[Elijah_Morendale]

The woman's sudden and unexpected arrival caught me off guard. I cried out in surprise as I jerked around, immediately reaching for the comforting leather grip of my dagger. The fit kicked up a small dust cloud, scattering pebbles a few inches.

I took a quick second to size up the intruder. She was a thin one indeed; the dark cloak that was concealing her made that obvious. I then noticed the pointy ears and the hilt and tip of what was more than likely a big sword behind her. My eye twitched involuntarily. Just great, another elf is going to attack me in the night. I should've never gotten off that wagon. However, the tone of her voice convinced me that she meant no harm. But then again, I don't trust my luck, let alone a stranger encountered in the darkness, so I kept my hand on my dagger.

"Methinks that the lady is the least of your worries..." Nadia was leaning up against the door of the inn, pointing to her right, her sadistic grin half hidden by her wild bangs.

My gaze followed her finger's lead. A little under a dozen villagers greeted me with pitchforks pointed at my face, cautiously standing several feet away and ready to impale me at a moment's notice. They looked as if they might have been afraid of whatever they thought I was, but I have to admit that I was scared shitless at the mometn. Beads of cold sweat were forming on my forehead as I heard a booming voice tear its way down the road. I quickly spun around to see another group of villagers standing at the other end of the wagon I came into town on.

I slowly turned back to the first group, reaching for the sky with my shaking hands in an effort to surrender. I flashed an uneasy smile, hoping that it would put the would-be assailants to ease--but to no avail. Their makeshift weapons inched closer and closer.

I could hear the hushed voice of his imaginary friend in his right ear. "Hey. Idea. You let me take over, and then I go all stabby death kill. I--no, we--could take them." I turned my head to see the figment of my imagination's toothy grin inches from my face. Her eyes were beaming with a kind of energy that hinted that violence may be the only answer out of this situation.

But violence was one thing that never sat well with me. I whispered harshly underneath my breath, trying not to draw even more attention to myself. "No! There's a lot of them, and only one of us. I don't feel like dying tonight, if that's cool with you."

A look of deep rooted scorn replaced the smile on Nadia's face. She crossed her arms and pouted, hoping that I would change my mind. "You are such a fucking wuss, chief."

I shook my head and ignored the comment, addressing a couple of the villagers instead. "Can one of you please tell me what the hell is going on here?"

[Chiroptera]

Eltarri hadn’t been expecting the friendliest of welcomes—meeting strangers at night was hardly the best way to make lifelong friends—but she hadn’t expected to be glanced at and then subsequently ignored. Of course, she hadn’t been expecting the sudden onslaught of angry villagers, either, which really justified the man’s dismissing response. The people seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, surrounding the wagon and scowling like a pack of hungry wolves. It was almost amusing, the way they all carried torches and pitchforks like peasants on a monster hunt.

There aren’t any monsters, are there?

She heard a shout from behind the wagon and broke out in a cold sweat. Bloodsuckers. There was only one kind of creature that the unpleasant title could be applied to, and Eltarri was as loath to associate with them as the people around her seemed to be. But if they were opposed to vampires, why on earth were they bothering the humans in the wagon? A sudden apprehension made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, and the half-elf glanced at the dark-haired man with a new wariness. He had his arms extended over his head, and he was muttering under his breath. He didn’t look undead . . .

The sound of feet on the grass behind her made Eltarri turn around to see another division of the peasant army coming their way. A pitchfork-toting human stepped around the side of the inn, glowering as he jabbed the weapon threateningly in her direction, though he made sure to keep the tines at least a foot away from her. She took an obedient step backwards, putting her hands out in front of her to make sure he knew she wasn’t a threat. If he’d been trying to kill her, the bracers on her forearms would have stepped in and made sure that she defended herself against untimely puncturing, but the leather bands hadn’t even tightened. As angry as the people seemed, they didn’t yet pose a serious threat.

But that wasn’t a guarantee about the man behind her. She half-swiveled so that her back was to the inn, keeping the angry villagers on one side and the potential vampire on her other. When she’d first stepped out he’d reached for a weapon, so he wasn’t as completely harmless as his innocent-looking surrender made him seem. She was beginning to regret her hasty decision to come out in the first place. If she’d just stayed in the forest, she would never have gotten caught up in this little fiasco, but now she was here and had to make sure that she didn’t get killed.

Note to self: stay away from creepy villages and unknown men at night.

[Christoph]

“So tell me, how has Lord Kincaid been treating his faithful servant?” The young, cloaked merchant’s voice was clear and confident. Chris could even spot a smile forming on the man’s lips. The mayor became more flustered; his bald head was visibly red, even in the low light.

“Th-this is outrageous! Preposterous!” the fat man cried, his former air of pompous superiority having evaporated in an instant, replaced by poorly concealed fear. He did make one last effort to reassert himself, however. “The lord of death and night is the enemy of us all! How dare you make such an accusation?” The mayor forced an expression of blatant outrage onto his face. Again, though, Chris could stop the insincerity of the expression. The anger was real, but the righteousness behind it was not. The chef had no doubt that the cloaked caravan leader noticed, too, for he simply chuckled. This only made the mayor even angrier. “I demand to know by what authority you make such allegations!”

At that moment, the dark-haired merchant threw off his charcoal-colored cloak. Even Chris, a veteran to hundreds of story-telling nights by tavern fires, had to admire the man’s dramatic flair. The heavy, darker cloak concealed light, finely tailored cloak of ice blue. That alone didn’t seem important, but the silver symbol pinned to the cloak did. It was the shape of a sword, only the handle was in the shape of a balance scale, and the image of an eye was engraved into the blade.

The chef felt a lump form in his throat at the sight of it. It was the symbol most commonly associated with the witch hunters and assassin priests of the Ethereal Sway. Chris had heard stories of their brutal exploits, kidnapping traitors and political enemies in the dead of night. Some of the more radical agents were rumored to have “dangerous” sorcerers to be burned at the stake. He had much to fear from their type.

“I am under the only true authority, Eugeny,” the assassin- priest replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. Chris’s unease was nothing compared to the sheer terror now gripping the mayor, who was probably barely able to keep from soiling himself. “So answer carefully, would you defy the divine authority of the Ethereal Sway, in addition to your other blasphemies?” The mayor shrank visibly and sank backwards. The mobs of villagers had already lowered their weapons and were now looking on in shock.

“No! No…” The corpulent mayor’s club clattered to the cobbled road. His voice rose as his weapon fell. “I swear! I am not a blasphemer!” The starkness of the man’s change in demeanor amused Chris, who couldn’t tell if the mayor was still putting on an act, or if he had actually be driven to such as state by the presence of such a dangerous religious agent. Both seemed plausible.

“So you are either lying, or you are a greater fool than we thought,” said a deeper, growling voice. Chris glanced behind him to the source of the voice. It was the second head of the caravan, the large, broad man with the shaven head. He, too, had thrown off his disguise. To say that the chef was shocked would be an understatement. As though one deadly religious agent wasn’t enough, there needed to be two in the same caravan. To say that he was surprised, however, would have been a blatant lie. Such things were all too typical to the patterns of Christopher’s life. “Either one is a capital crime, Mayor.” The second agent’s eyes flared with wrath.

“No! Please!” the mayor pleaded, falling to his knees. None of the villagers budged. They were frozen, their eyes locked on the two powerful men before them. “I would never side with the Vampire Lord!” Everything clicked in Chris’s mind at that moment. Of course, deep inside, he’d already made the connection, but he was trying to deny it. Now the truth was before him, indisputable and undeniable. Of all the things that he could get caught up in on his way home, why did it have to be a vampire? The older priest strode forward, a clenching a war hammer in his fist. It was the younger of the two that spoke up next, however.

“You allow the infernal forces of this monster to swarm the countryside around your town and you attack caravans that come to your town. And, I must say that you’re looking a little paler than the last time we met.”

“No!” cried the mayor. The older agent snarled, looking his younger counterpart as he reached the front of the caravan. The younger man nodded back.

“Take him away!” the older priest growled. His order was immediately answered by six remaining men with the caravan, who sprang forth to restrain the fat mayor and drag him, screaming, into the shadows.

[Elijah_Morendale]

I wasn't quite sure what to make of these past few minutes, between getting the bejeezus scared out of me by the sudden appearance of the elven woman with the big sword and having frightened and paranoid villagers packing pitchforks, torches, and general tidings of ill will. But now, the gentlemen who were leading the caravan--who I dismissed as mere merchants who were kind enough to let me hitch a ride back to my hometown--have revealed themselves to be agents of the Church of the Ethereal Sway. And when I thought tonight couldn't have possibly gotten any worse, one of those religions freaks had to go and mention the word vampire.

I hate nighttime. Shit like this always has to happen when the sun goes down, doesn't it... All I wanted to do was get back to my hometown and do a bit more training with Gilliam, but no, nothing is ever that easy, is it?

My eyes kept on darting between the mysterious elf, the dozen or so villagers keeping me and said mysterious elf at bay (did we really look that dangerous?), and the other group of villagers, most notably the conversation between the rotund mayor and the two representatives from the Ethereal Sway. I was too busy worrying about vampires to catch their tiff word for word, but I could tell from the tone of the mayor's voice that the conversation wasn't favoring him. As the bigger, older of the two monks gained the upper hand, I found myself lowering my hands from their skyward position and became more relaxed. Sure, these guys were fanatical sons of bitches, but from the stories I heard, they know what they're doing. Hell, I could probably just hole up in the inn for the next few nights and not worry about a thing until this entire situation gets ironed out. I say that because, with my luck, nobody--not the villagers, not myself, not Christoph, and definitely not the monks--was going to leave the town until a vampire lord or two perished.

A cold chill racked my body as the V-word entered my mind once more. I've heard enough stories to know that those bloodsuckers aren't the type to play around. I could only hope that the monks dealt with any of those fanged freaks quickly so we could be on our merry way.

The older monk pointed at the fat man, barked something, and suddenly the other six guys the chef and I were traveling with leaped from the wagon, restrained him, and dragged him away. The mob, clearly as confused as I was at the moment, looked at each other and begun to ask themselves questions like, "Are those monks telling the truth? Was Eugeny in cahoots with the vampire? What about those other three?" Of course, they were referring to myself, Christoph, and the elf.

I chimed in, my voice hoarse from fear. "I asked if one of you guys tell me what's going on."

One of the villagers, a rough, dirty man with a scar near his left eye answered me, almost as an afterthought. "There's a vampire lord and his legion of undead living in the forest beyond this town. Every so often, he'll come out and terrorize us. Burn our crops, slay or feed on our townsfolk, you get the picture."

"Lovely," I sighed. "Oh, and I think you can put your farm tools down now. Do I look like a vampire's zombie bitch to you?"

The villager, clearly defeated by the false tone of confidence in my voice, slowly lowered his pitchfork. In light of the recent revelations, I guess I can understand why they acted the way they did towards us, but it would've had killed them to be kinder about it. A simple "hey, hows it going, you aren't a vampire by any chance, are you?" can go a long ways in my book.

I turned my attention towards the elf, who was obviously just in the wrong place at the wrong time to be caught up in this mess. What could've amounted to a decent if not sudden introduction turned into this mess, so anything I normally would've said would probably come off as awkward. So, instead, I opted for a quick smile in her direction.

A few seconds later, I could hear the thundering footsteps of a stray villager off in the distance. I squinted in the pale light of the moon, trying to catch a sign of the person. He faded into view, running full speed down the well-traveled dirt road. He stopped a few feet away from us, immediately doubling over and putting his hands on his knees while he tried to regain his breath.

"Z-zombies," he gasped out, his voice filled with terror and exhaustion. "Zombies! They--the v-v-vampire lord s-sent them, and they--they're coming this way! We're all gonna' die!"

My heart leaped into my throat. Night, I thought to myself. This always has to happen at night.

[Chiroptera]

In every life-threatening situation, there comes a point in time when panicking is the right and proper thing to do. At said point in time, the sympathetic parts of a person's nervous system take over cognitive corpular functions and alter processes throughout the body in order to prepare a person for necessary flight-or-fight reactions. Unaware of the minute complexities of the sympathetic nervous system but keenly aware of her pounding heart and shortness of breath, Eltarri was doing her best to force her body to ignore every panicky impulse her wide-eyed brain sent it in order to approach the difficult situation with the kind of poise and grace that separated the competent from their less intelligent subordinates.

The trouble was that every time she let her mind repeat the phrases vampire lord or legion of undead, a bolt of ice-flavored anxiety would shoot down her spine and impale her stomach, leaving her in an anxious state that was not very conducive to a listening demeanor. Her head was full of questions, but she couldn’t summon the composure to voice any of her queries, especially after she’d watched in paralyzed horror as the fat mayor had been dragged away like a criminal for . . . what had been his crime? He’d certainly protested involvement with the vampires earnestly enough. Was it even legal for village leaders to be hauled away on the basis of unproved accusations?

Of course, there was no way she would have spoken out against the men on the wagon, these members of “the Church of the Ethereal Sway.” It sounded more like a dance than a creditable establishment, but the men’s expressions and weapons guaranteed her that they, at least, took themselves seriously. But were they friend or foe? Vampire-killers were usually under the category of “good guys,” but village mayor-killers definitely weren’t. And if these men were all members of this Church, why did the man standing beside her act so differently? He seemed to have little more understanding of the situation than she did.

Eltarri glanced at the dark-haired man out of the corner of her eye and caught a grin that he tossed her way. The odd gesture only confused her more. Was that supposed to be a comforting smile, to assure her that the Church had everything under control and that she wouldn’t actually have to face any of these vampires because his friends had it all under control? Or maybe it had been a warning smile, the kind of malicious grin she usually got from leering men who were promsing all sorts of horrible experiences before they killed her. But she’d seen him reach for his weapon before and then opt for a peaceful response to her unannounced presence. If he wanted her dead, she’d probably already have been turned into a gory puddle on the ground.

She was about to open her mouth to ask at least one of her many pressing questions—like how she was going to be able to get out of the village without getting drained by a vampire or eaten by a zombie— whenher attention was distracted by the frenetic patter of a sprinting human. She turned to watch the man draw near with sinking apprehension, ignoring the nearby villagers who stood now with pitchforks lowered as they likewise harkened his approach. Her heart dropped. Nobody running that desperately came bearing good news. And after the man had stopped running and panted out his dreary announcement, Eltarri could only sigh heavily and do her best to keep herself from crying.

[Christoph]

Everything happened so rapidly that Chris could barely keep up. At first, his attention was locked on the mayor and the so-called holy warriors. This was for good reason. The agents of the Sway were feared by all in Salvar, especially those possessing abilities seen as unnatural by the Church and regarded as “unholy” by some of its more radical members. Their agents possessed great power and could do almost anything that they wanted. Hauling village leaders away on the basis of unproved accusations was not only legal for them, it was common practice.

The chef quickly began to feel uncomfortable in such a close proximity to the high-ranking agents. He didn’t want to think about what was going to happen to the mayor, even though he had some ideas that were probably frighteningly accurate. On the whole, though, Chris hardly felt any sympathy for the gluttonous mayor. At the very least, he was corrupt and had tried to kill them. The fact that he might or might not have been in league with a Vampire only made it worse. Still, his discomfort remained. It was as Chris made his way over to Elijah and the strange girl that he heard the gasping yells of a villager. The chef distinctly heard the word “zombies.”

“That man just said the ‘Z-word’, didn’t he??” Chris asked, reaching his friend and the slender girl on the other side of the wagons. His eyes settled on the slender stranger’s sword. It was massive. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the sword weighed more than its wielder. “I hope you can swing that thing, because I have a feeling that before this night is over, I will either applaud you, or I will be burying the remains of your body that remain uneaten by the undead.”

“I want every able-bodied man prepared to defend the town!” The clear, confident voice of the younger Holy Agent rang through the streets. The mob of armed villagers was already dispersing and relocating in preparation for the attack. The presence of the warrior priests seemed to be quelling the underlying current of panic. If things went poorly, however, fear could take over and chaos would rain for the few fleeting moments before everyone was eaten. The dark-haired Agent gave Chris, Elijah, and the girl an expectant glance. “I need everyone who can fight. Your lives are at stake as well.” Chris chuckled and went to his pile of belongings in the middle wagon.

“That’s the most logical thing that I’ve heard in a long time,” the chef replied. Dangerous or not, this religious agent actually seemed to make sense. Chris knew all too well that such things were rare traits. Perhaps there was a slim chance that he would be able to get along with this man… assuming that the Agent didn’t try to arrest and kill him.

The chef’s hand closed around the familiar hilt of his sword. It was a dueling sword about four feet long, including the handle. It was old and battered, but the steel was strong and well cared for. He looked back to his friend and his new acquaintance. Normally, he would have taken time to introduce himself to the girl properly… she was cute, so definitely. There wasn’t any time to spare this time, though. The introduction would need to wait until after. That is, assuming they didn’t get eaten.

“You two ready, or are you just going to stand there dawdling about like a couple of flirting adolescences?” He grinned with a sort of blood hungry mirth. He could hear an army was approaching. Instead of horns and war drums, there was only the shuffling of rotting corpses and moans of hunger for living flesh. “If I might be a little cliché and dramatic: we’ve got zombies to kill.”

[Elijah_Morendale]

I wanted to cry. I wanted to just roll up in a fetal position, stick my thumb in my mouth, and cry. In the distance, I could hear the shuffling feet and the long, haunting moans of the undead as they approached the town for a midnight snack. Even though I couldn't see the zombie herd, the mere fact that I could hear them alerted me to their numbers.

The disturbing noises grew in amplitude, and my knees began to shake. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Nadia's sadistic grin widen and widen. I knew what she wanted--she was burning to take charge and sever some zombie limbs with the katana that was strapped to my back. Myself, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to run in the other direction, just run until my body quit on me. I'm pretty sure I could outrun the undead--I was able to outrun the baker in the settlement I was raised in quite often, even with a few loaves of freshly baked and unpaid for bread in my arms. Besides, with the banquet laid out in front of them here in the town, they'd have no reason to follow me. I could escape! I know I could!

No! Wrong mentality! I mentally slapped myself in the face for being so selfish. These people needed help, heartless agents of the Church of the Ethereal Sway present or not! The hapless inhabitants of this village had a problem on their hands, one that I felt that it was my duty as an adventurer to assist them with (there's an entire article in the unwritten adventurer's code that deals with defenseless villages).

I began forming a sharp icicle in my right hand, but stopped when I realized that the agents of the Ethereal Sway might cry "heretic!" and bust me like they did with the mayor, who was certainly discovering the true definition of pain at this moment, his guilt of associating with this vampire lord dude notwithstanding. I kept my eyes locked on the forest's edge, trying to pick out any telltale signs, other than the ever growing sounds of the groaning and feet shuffling on the forest floor, that we were about to come under attack.

My hand slowly moved to the inside of my denim jacket, depositing the small chunk of ice that I had made into a pocket. I then grabbed my dagger. Nadia was beginning to lose control over herself, cackling with glee and wearing the face of a murdering psychopath who was off her meds. She wanted to be put in the game; to let herself go and kill without consequence. And frankly, I was thinking about letting her. It always helps in battle when you have a remorseless killer as a split personality.

It was then that I noticed some movement at the forest's edge. One by one, rotting, animated corpses began to file out from between the pine trees. I could hear my imaginary friend counting them out loud, anxiously brushing her crimson bangs aside as her emerald eyes darted from one corpse to the next.

"Five... Ten... Twenty two... Thirty seven... Uh... Forty something..."

I was keeping track as well. I, on the other hand, lost count after reaching seventy. A cold sweat crept onto my forehead, my hands shaking and knees wanting to give out. There were almost a hundred zombies, and just over a few dozen of us, including the religious agents. The zombie death squad was advancing quickly, ready to tear their decaying hands into us to feast on our gray matter. Their footsteps were growing louder, their moans becoming fiercer as their pace quickened, zombie after zombie trying to push each other out of their way so they could make the first kill.

I couldn't help but to think to myself that we would win the day. We've got manpower, and surely these villagers knew how to take care of themselves if they were still living here under the shadow of such constant threat. And besides, there were folks from the Church here! They'd go out there, kick some ass, take some names, and would be the end of that.

But did I believe myself? Fuck no! We were dead where we stood, and I knew it! They all knew it!

Before I could raise an objection or run like the coward that I was, one of the agents of the Church screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice thundering through the darkness. "Villagers! Now is the time to defend your homes!" The mob in turned emitted a unified war cry, saturated with vengeance with a drop of reluctance. I could tell that while they didn't want to die at the hands of the vampire lord's personal corpse army, they were far more afraid of the two blue-robed monks still standing on the wagon.

The farmers, merchants, and blacksmiths surged forward; unified for their defense, their weapons pointed outwards towards the advancing undead. I froze, unsure of what to do. A feminine voice echoed in my head: "Here, let me handle this." And then I blacked out.


***

Elijah was going to wuss out, I could feel it. So, I decided that it was time for me to take charge and strut my stuff. About a hundred feet in front of me, I could hear the sounds of battle--the clash of steel against rotten flesh, the cries of the villagers as several zombies ganged up on them, tearing the poor meatbags limb from limb before digging in for a bit of chicken-flavored goodness, the sounds of bodies hitting the ground. I closed my eyes, savoring the sweet symphony of destruction in front of me.

And yet, I've heard this number before. Time to spice things up with a searing, blood-soaked solo of sorts.

Grinning wildly, I hunched over, whipping my katana out of its wooden sheathe. It was time to put this sumbitch to the test in something other than the chief's subconscious. I screamed a mighty bloodcurdling war cry as I sprung into the fray, my swift footsteps kicking up clouds of dust as I traveled. One zombie heard me, and turned in my direction. Sadly, you lose some of your reflexes when you undergo reanimation. Before the bastard could raise an arm to swat at me, I swung my katana at his neck, severing his head cleanly and sending it a good ten feet away. The freshly re-deaded body fell with a crunch, oozing blood onto the dirt and stones below.

I felt the urge to shout something smart and bad-ass, but settled instead for an evil giggle as I moved on to the next unluckly sucker.

This was going to be fun!

[Chiroptera]

Circumstances were moving far faster than Eltarri could track, and her head whipped from side to side as she tried to keep up with the flurry of activity that surrounded her. The sky was still dark overhead, but the village was alive with motion and bustle as people rushed to and from houses, brandishing weapons and bundling women and children to relative safety. The air seemed to spark with energy and the fear that drove the people was almost tangible, like a spiked whip in the hands of a merciless taskmaster who spurred them unceasingly towards the prevention of their demise.

Nerves on edge, she almost yelped aloud when another man came from behind the wagon. He spoke casually, as if it was perfectly normal to be about to go on a midnight skirmish against zombies in an isolated village under the leadership of a creepy cult, and she could only give him a sullen glare, afraid that her voice would come out as a weak squeak if she managed to get anything out at all. It was so nice of him to be so optimistic.

I can swing it just fine, she thought with mournful cynicism as one of the priestly men started to shout orders again, it’s the hitting things part that I don’t have down quite yet.

Her heart sank at the priest’s crisp voice and she cringed under the harsh scrutiny of his glance. She’d been hoping that they’d put her with the other women and children and let her guard them in case the zombies got through all the men. That way she’d be able to avoid zombie confrontation for as long as possible without having to feel like a complete coward for hiding out during the battle. On the other hand, keeping all the women and kids together was probably an incredibly stupid idea. Why make the zombies’ job easier by putting all the food sources in one building? And her sword, of course, prevented her from even considering the damsel in distress ploy.

The newcomer spoke again, fingering his sword with a grin that worried Eltarri almost more than the growing sounds of the zombies.

“‘Flirting adolescents?’” she repeated incredulously, “Why are you so eager to get yourself killed?”

The priest’s voice boomed again, a deep call that made Eltarri want to cover her ears in case he decided to scream that way again. Maybe it was a good idea to move away from his his wagon-bed pulpit. But where to go? She was morally obligated to help protect these people, but the prospect of fighting zombies made her stomach turn.

There was a flash of movement at her side that made the half-elf jump, and then the dark-haired man was suddenly racing past her, a sword in his hand and a grin on his face that made her even more nervous that the other man’s had. What was it with the bloodthirstiness of these priests? Her hands were clammy inside her gloves and her breath came in short pants as she scanned the street around them, gauging the distance between herself and the imminent combat. Her fingers itched to release her sword from its sling, to grant her the comfort that the massive blade provided merely by being in hand. She could hear screams already, and she would have hoped they were zombie cries of agony if previous experience hadn't taught her that reanimated corpses didn’t feel pain.

She glanced again at the young man who hadn’t rushed off at the first sign of conflict, pushing back her hood and reaching back with her right hand to wrap her gloved fingers around the long hilt of her sword, letting her left rest against the clasp on her chest.

It was all about attitude now. Why worry, since worrying would do absolutely nothing to help keep her alive? The situation was definitely out of her control, and it seemed that the only course of action remaining was to fight alonside the villagers and the priests and hope to heaven that the reanimated corpses had been old ones. She did want to live to see daybreak . . .

“I don't suppose," she said drily to her new comrade-in-arms, "that you have any priestly words of encouragement for those of us who aren't really keen on the whole zombie-slaying thing?"

[Christoph]

“Priest? Do I look like a priest?” asked Chris, raising an eyebrow at the girl and motioning to his chef coat. He chuckled, despite the fact that his friend has just gone completely and violently insane to the point of being utterly suicidal. He’d seen stranger and more disturbing things. Probably… “My dear, look at what I’m wearing. I’m a chef, not one of them. Elijah and I were just traveling with the caravan. Of course… up until now we’d thought they were just humble merchants…” The chef trailed off as Elijah’s inhuman cry sent a shiver up his spine. He wasn’t about to let his unease show in from of the girl, of course.

“Wow, and you thought that I was in a hurry to get killed,” commented the chef, shaking his head in adeptly forced amusement. “He’s certainly getting into it. I’ve never seen the scrawny guy fight like that before. I only hope the priests from the Sway don’t think that he’s possessed…” It was only then that Chris realized that he hadn’t moved yet. In truth, he didn’t want to run off and fight zombies. He experienced enough of the undead in Corone.

What was worse, he was handicapped in this situation. In any other company, he could have called upon his magic and roasted some of the rotting corpses alive as though they were pigs over a fire-pit. In this case, it was just too risky. He knew that not all Sway enforcers were radical magic hating witch-hunters, but enough of them existed; Chris had no way of telling what sort these religious men were.

The circumstances meant that his only options were his sword and—He put his train of thought on hold for a moment, produced a convenient wood-handled chef knife from inside of his unbuttoned chef coat, and threw the large cooking blade at an approaching zombie, skewering its throat. And knives; he had knives.

“Right,” said Chris, turning back to the girl. “Normally I’m a gentleman, but I’m afraid you won’t be getting a ‘lady’s first’ this time.” He strode casually over to the zombie he’d taken down and retrieved his knife. The casual air was nothing more than a front, of course; in reality he was absolutely terrified. Once again, though, he wasn’t about to let that show. The chef gazed down the street at the thick trickle of zombies that were going around Elijah’s ring of gore. The fight was on.

In stark contrast to Elijah, Chris’s assault was quiet and cautious. No grin of glee was plastered to my face and no shrill war cry joined the dim of battle. His sword flashed about swiftly, slashing about approaching zombies in a dizzying blur. With flawless footwork, he practically danced between the rotting abominations, hacking through dead flesh with sickening splorches. There was no way that he was going to let Elijah hog all the gory glory.

Chris felt his confidence swell. When he’d left home, he was a novice swordsman at best. Somewhere during the trials of the year that followed before his return, he’d become a veteran without even realizing it. His blade was quick and his wit was even faster. The zombies might as well have been moving in slow motion. Of course… that might have just been because they were zombies. As much as he hated fighting the undead, he had to admit that they were easier foes than living, breathing enemies.

He remembered the greatest downside to fighting the walking dead as a splatter of green, rancid gore sprayed his face. It was foul, salty, and had a certain unnatural quality. The closest way that Chris could describe it was the smell of dead wet rats bathing in human fecal matter, on a massive skillet cooking above a bed of brimstone, put to taste. Yes, the worst part about fighting these crimes against nature was that they were far, far messier.

[Elijah_Morendale]

Corpses of both villagers and the undead littered the dirt road. Anyone who dared to step within reach of my blade trailed a stream of blood as they fell. More often than not, the cries that preceded the thuds were more like moans--at least the villagers were smart enough to stay the fuck away from my little rampage. Zombies were beginning to form a tight circle around me, like a ring of rotting death, moaning off-key dirges that promised a great deal of brain munching should I choose to stay put like an idiot.

My smile cracked ever-wider across my face as I broke in a mad dash towards the animated dead guy in front of me. I jumped into the air, delivering a solid dropkick to the zombie's decaying chest. Its ribcage shattered as it dropped to the ground. I impaled my katana in the thing's head as I landed on both feet. I didn't have time to enjoy the blood that exploded out of its skull--four of its pals were on either side of me. I sprung a couple steps forward, swiftly turning on my heels and making a blind swing that was intended to behead my pursuers.

My sword cut clean through one head--well, as clean as blood stained steel through rotting flesh could be--and embedded itself in another with a dull thunk. The zombie raised an arm at me, but I was too quick. I yanked my sword out of its head and gave it a swift kick in the chest. He stumbled backwards a few steps... Just far enough away for me to leap through the air and bring my weapon down in a flash of red steel, splitting his head in the process.

Two down, two to go. His body fell to the ground, revealing two more zombies that had my--well, Elijah's--brain on their mind. I lined them up and kicked the front one, sending them at a villager who knew a thing or two about wielding a farming scythe. I paused to nod appreciatively at the man, who returned the gesture--except that his eyes widened suddenly as he pointed at something behind me.

I could feel two arms constrict around my waist. Then, I could feel a mouth clamping down hard on my shoulder. The villager rushed forward to help me, but I paused as I started to giggle. "You friggin' zombie dumbass! Chain mail beats teeth every time!" Yes, Elijah's one piece of armor saved our asses, just as it did back in the Citadel against that demon bitch (before she rammed her bone spike through the chief's throat).

I struggled free from the undead bastard's clutches, only to turn around and tackle him to the ground. I quickly rose to my feet and kicked him in the head. His neck rolled and cracked with the impact, but the fucker just wouldn't give up. He moaned hauntingly as he slowly reached for my leg. I grabbed his cold, rotten wrist with both hands and smiled. With a foot buried in his armpit as leverage, I cleanly ripped the zombie's arm from his body. A thick goo--I dare not call it blood, but body rot--poured from the fresh wound.

The thick smell of blood and decomposition was thick in the air, thick enough to make most mortal men tear up, pinch their noses shut, and fan the foul stench away from them. But I didn't care. I was in the zone; seeing nothing but red, thinking nothing but death and how much I enjoyed causing it. I began to laugh uncontrollably as I planted my foot in the zombie's chest and began to swing the amputated arm at his head. With each thwack, his brainpan twisted in a new, unnatural direction.

I was starting to grow tired of playing around with the zombie. I jumped straight into the air and landed with both feet crushing what remained of the unfortunate thing's skull. Dark liquid and decaying gray matter began to ooze out of every orifice possible, including the ones I had just created.

I looked up into the sky, smiling. My--once again, Elijah's--body was covered with the blood of the undead. I gazed lovingly at the piles of corpses that my sword had claimed.

"Heh heh heh..." My laughter started off softly, building up towards something more demonic, something more me. "Haaaa ha ha ha ha!"

Noticing that a couple more zombies were headed my way, I picked my sword off the ground and got back to business. As I felled the two latest contenders, I could hear one of the villagers scream something about a demon. I looked at the man, and he was pointing right at me.

Demon?! Bullshit I'm a demon! Under normal circumstances I would've waltzed my ass over there and beat the living daylights out of him for insinuating that a simple split personality such as myself was a spirit possessing the chief or something. However, a zombie capitalized on the man's lowered guard, tearing his moldy digits into his throat.

As a gift to take to hell with him, I flipped him the best damn middle finger he'd ever seen and shouted, "Serves you fuckin' right, fudge packer!"


***

My field of vision shook violently as I regained control over my body. I could hear Nadia's feminine voice echoing in my head. "That was fun, chief. You should let me rampage more often!" As my eyes adjusted to the night once more, I could see a field of death lying before me. My jaw dropped as I tried to piece together the last few minutes of my life. Motionless bodies were strewn all over the place; some of them missing their heads, others cleaved in half, and a few more that were hacked into unrecognizable bits. My knees began to shake. How much of this was done in my name? Nadia's demonic cackling filled my head.

I kept whispering to myself, "I don't want to know, I don't want to know..." As I looked down, the katana that was in my hands was completely drenched in dark blood. In shock, I let it drop to the ground. "What did you do," I silently asked her.

"I saved your ass. What's it to ya'?"

I slowly came to the realization that I was covered in blood--my hands, my jacket, everything. The thick liquid spotted my clothes and face, giving me the appearance of someone who survived a trip through a slaughterhouse. Off in the distance, I could hear the sounds of the rest of the villagers fighting off the undead army. As I looked around, I could see a few of the villagers who were still around, hands tightly gripped around their weapons.

They were whispering. "Demon... He's a demon."

I cocked my head to the side. "W-what?"

The villagers raised their weapons defensively and slowly approached me.

[Chiroptera]

A chef? Eltarri didn’t believe it after the man in the white coat entered the fray, his sword flashing as he mercilessly worked through the zombies with a speedy precision that made his sword seem to be nothing more than a flickering reflection of light. How could a cook fight like that? His skill with the sword, at least, was human, but the other one . . . Elijah . . . his fighting reminded her of the stories she’d read about berserkers from barbarian tribes that killed indiscriminatingly in uncontrollable flurries of blood-induced insanity.

Actually, that seemed a pretty apt description of what was going on with him. He fought with a graceful lethality that scared Eltarri almost more than the steadily-approaching zombies who drew nearer with every lurch of their dragging feet. Simple journeyers who happened to be traveling with members of the Church of the Ethereal Sway? It’d take a lot more talking to convince her of that.

A gurgling human cry made Eltarri suddenly and shamefully aware of her immobility. Why was she standing around like a confused deer when there were people dying mere yards away from her? With a deep breath she moved forward, heading towards a farmer who had a zombie’s grey fingers gouging into his neck. She pulled the clasp on her harness as she went, grabbing the red hilt with both hands so that she could swing it back over her left shoulder. When she was a foot away from the struggling man, Eltarri swung her sword as hard as she could towards the zombie, aiming high and wishing that her bracers would help guide the hit.

They didn’t. The sword’s curved edge cleaved the rotten flesh of the zombie’s neck easily, and if the wide-eyed farmer hadn’t kicked out his own legs in a last-minute duck, the sword might have cut into his head as well. Cheeks flaming, Eltarri hacked at the zombie’s still-clinging arms and then smacked at the torso until the thing toppled over. She turned to the villager, who was fingering his bleeding neck and eying her mistrustfully.

“Sorry,” Eltarri mumbled, eyes downcast. “I didn’t realize they were so . . . mushy.”

The man shook his head and bent down to pick up his pitchfork. “As bad as the demon,” she heard him mutter, but before she could respond the leather bracers on her forearms tightened and pulled her around by her arms, her hands moving on the hilt to twist the blade into a vertical position. She tried to move with the bracer’s yanking and stepped in a clumsy circle as her sword jerked around and through the extended arms of a zombie that had been sneaking up behind her. Of course, the smell should have given him away, but the air was so full of the reek of rotten flesh that the girl’s normally acute senses were all being overwhelmed.

The black blade of her sword ripped through the zombie’s limbs, spattering her with flecks of gore. Holding back a retch, Eltarri swung the blade horizontally, slicing at the zombie’s chest and managing to slash him across the waist. Even split in two the thing continued to twitch and moan, its filmy eyes focused balefully on the sky as the armless torso smashed to the earth and rocked pathetically on the ground.

She quickly looked away, trying to find someplace to set her gaze where she wouldn’t have to encounter the decomposed bodies of the undead. She’d only dismembered two, and already she felt pushed past her limit. How many were there? Everywhere she looked men were fighting for their lives, hacking and jabbing and bashing and slicing, and still there seemed no relief. The zombies were so repulsive that she didn’t even want to have to sink her sword into anymore of their putrescent bodies. She didn't want to be anywhere near them. She grimly remembered the chef's greeting and his offhand remark about her ability to swing her sword. I hope you can swing that thing . . .

“Help! Help me!” A young man with a pair of butcher knives had his back against the side of a house and was fending off the advances of three brazen zombies, all of which had once been living, breathing women who might once have chased men for an entirely different reason.

Eltarri shook her head, trying to clear the headache caused by the intensity of the zombie stench. This wasn’t the place to lament the innumerable deaths that were necessary to create such an abhorrent army. Now was not the time for sentimental reflection! Gritting her teeth, the girl lifted her sword and ran forward, dodging the corpses and jumping over the body parts that littered the ground.

“I’m coming!”

[Christoph]

Bunny approved.

At some point in the chaos of the battle, Chris lost track of where Elijah had gone. In fact, he’d lost track just where he was. The cute girl with the huge sword was no longer in sight, either. The chef wondered how she was fairing. In Elijah’s case, Chris was more worried about the zombies and innocent bystanders than about his friend.

The girl, however, he wasn’t as sure about. It was not that he thought that she was weak and incapable – he’d learned during his journeys never to make that assumption about women. The problem was, unlike his friend, the slender girl seemed to be of sound mind. It was a state that, in Elijah, Chris had begun to question more and more. Sane people were more likely to panic when being attacked by zombies. In Chris’s case, he was panicking on the inside. He simply chose to ignore it, which probably made him insane as well.

That’s enough introspection for one night, Chris thought as a female zombie in an old, decaying evening gown staggered at him, dirty fingers extended rigidly. The chef’s tendency to maintain complex, coherent thoughts in combat frequently became a liability, as it would leave him distracted from the matters at hand. As it was, luck and his quick wit usually came to his aid.

His sword slashed at the creature in a rapid blur, hacking into its neck. The blade, dulled from the battle, got stuck that time instead of slicing all the way through. The foul zombie, who may well have been very attractive in life, drove forward mostly unhindered.

“Braaaiiihhheeehh…” The zombie’s moan didn’t fill Chris with fear but rather, with comical disgust. Braeeaaiiighmeerr… braaee—” The gurgling moan ended abruptly as the chef freed his sword from the beast’s neck and slashed from the other side, severing the head the rest of the way.

“Brains! It’s ‘brains’!” exclaimed Chris, yelling at the fallen abomination. “By the gods, who taught you how to be a zombie?” Once he was sure that no other zombies were close enough to post an imminent threat, the chef paused to catch his breath and laugh at his own joke. It was then he realized that half a dozen villagers were now staring warily at him, probably more than a little put off by his outburst. He laughed nervously. “Well, if these bastards are going to try to eat me, they should at least live up to my cliché expectations!” He flashed a nervous smile, but the townsfolk’s stares only became more suspicious. He blamed all the gore covering him.

It was then that he heard a terrified cry for help coming from thirty yards down the street. A man in a white coat not unlike Chris’s own was cornered between the wall of the village butcher shop and a stack of large wooden crates. A trio of snarling zombies advancing on him, their lifeless eyes hungry for the flesh of the living. The butcher couldn’t have been any older than Chris; his sharp, pointed face was still young and free of lines. His blue eyes were filled with fear as he tried in vain to fight the unholy monsters back with a pair of large knives.

“Get back!” yelled the young cook, his voice gripped by terror. Chris was about to rush to his fellow cook’s aid when he heard the voice of the sword-swinging girl and saw her slender form sprinting for the beleaguered man from the opposite side. Chris gave a satisfied nod as he spotted the slick red gore reflecting the torchlight coming from the outside wall of the butcher shop. It seemed that she could swing the thing. He was just about to let the girl handle it when he spotted three more zombies coming toward her from behind.

“Why does this always happen?” he grumbled to himself, clutching his sword and charging to the aid of two virtual strangers. The fact that one of them was cute wasn’t much of a consolation at that point, though it might prove to be afterwards. “Look out behind you!”

Chris closed the distance quickly, the hard soles of his black shoes clopping against the cobbled street. The girl spun around, startled partially by his warning, but mostly by the zombies heading for her. Letting her handle those three on her own, the chef focused his attention on the unfortunate cook who was about to become the main course.

“Watch out!” he warned, sprinting up to the crates and propelling himself on top of them with his arms. The knife-wielding butcher staggered back, only to realize again that there was a wall in the way. Chris scrambled to his feet atop the crates as the zombies turned their soulless faces toward him. The first of these faces suffered a solid kick and a shoe imprint. Its lifeless owner staggered backward and Chris jumped down and stabbed a second through the throat. The butcher slashed at the third with his knives, but had little effect even as the blades carved slabs of flesh off the creature’s torso.

In a single fluid motion, Chris freed his sword from the throat of the second zombie and swept it around at such a speed that, even though it was too dull to cut bone effectively, the blade cracked the monster’s skull open on impact. Before he could recover, the chef felt a sharp pain in his left forearm as the first zombie he’d kicked staggered back from behind and sank its teeth into his flesh. He cried out, despite his manly attempts to suppress it. His sword fell from his right hand and, instinctively, he shoved a head-sized explosive fireball right into the zombie’s face.

“Ah… shit,” he cursed, realizing what he’d just done. He glanced around nervously, praying to any god listening that nobody saw him. The butcher had been too busy cowering to notice, it seemed, and nobody new was nearby. Then Chris looked over to where he’d last seen the girl. She was standing in front of three brutalized corpses of the creatures that had already been brutalized corpses. Her eyes we locked on him. Damn… how am I going to explain this one?

* * * * *

Gradually, the town grew quiet again as the last of the side skirmishes died down. The attacking zombies had been driven back into the forest and the villagers’ cheers of victory echoed from all corners of the town. The only quiet place was in the town square. The square in front of the Hall was where most of the fighting had taken place, save for the Northeastern side of the settlement, adjacent to the forest. There, a fearful murmur floated among the piles of the slain and re-slain, filling the void left by the concluded battle.

“Demon!” After several moments, a bold villager finally broke the silence. He was large and broad, with arms and shoulders like a blacksmith and a smith’s hammer to go with them. His deep voice was aggressive and booming. “He’s possessed! Get ‘im before he kills us all!” Following their new ringleader, the mob of a dozen frightened villagers closed in on the clearly confused Elijah.

“Stand down, citizens!” The familiarly clear, strong voice of the dark-haired Holy Warrior carried across the town square. The man strode toward through the crowd, which parted around him like water around the bow of a ship. His blue cloak was still clean, save for a single smudge of blood on the sleeve. The only sign that he fought at all was his heavy wooden staff, which was completely coated in a lacquer of dark red gore. “Were he really an infernal agent, he would have surely sided with the abominations, and your very souls would have already been in jeopardy.” His words inspired a few sharp intakes of breath. The blacksmith still wasn’t convinced, though.

“But he fought like a madman! Like a possessed man!”

“Yes, it is clear that he fights with the might of Ethereal Gods,” the holy warrior replied, giving Elijah a subtle wink. He turned to the denim-clad adventurer. “I commend your divine fury.”

[Elijah_Morendale]

Without the religious dude's timely intervention, the villagers probably would've had their way with me--or worse, Nadia would've risen to the occasion and spilled more blood. My thoughts wandered to what the agent had said. Divine fury? There's nothing divine about the actions of a pissed off imaginary redhead. But to get the villagers riled up like this and have to be defended by the dark-haired agent, I had to ask someone. What the hell did I do in these past few minutes?

I decided it would be better just to play along for the time being rather than risk more hostility. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the blacksmith grumble as a sour look crossed his face. Nadia crossed her arms and stuck her tounge out at the man in defiance. I looked down at the sea of rotting corpses that lay at my feet. Choosing an article of clothing that didn't look completely messy, I began to wipe the off-color blood and guts from Nadia's katana.

I could tell that several of the villagers were still skeptical about me, despite the agent's reassurances. The agent clapped a strong hand down on my shoulder. In a hushed voice, he said, "Good job. Terrible technique, but it doesn't take much to outwit the undead. And don't worry, you can keep your secret."

"Uh, thanks," I hesitantly replied. This guy scared me. As far as I could tell, his robe was spotless; no signs of the battle showing up anywhere. Yet, in the moonlight, his heavy wooden staff glistened with blood. Evidenced by the grunginess of my jacket and pants, staying clean when fighting zombies takes a considerable amount of skill.

I nervously smiled as the agent let go of me. He called out to the nearby villagers, "It seems that you are all safe for now. The vampire lord's assault has been driven back. Go; return to your families." The confidence in his voice seemed to raise the spirits of the villagers a little bit as they shuffled off, their exhaustion making them appear similar to the zombies they had just slaughtered. He turned to me, a friendly smirk etched on his lips. "Your friends are probably waiting for you. I'm sure they have a few questions regarding your... shall we say, behavior." A chill crept down my spine. How was I going to explain this to the chef and that cute elven girl?

I held back until I was out of earshot of anyone before I had a little chat with Nadia. I shoved my hands in my pockets as I casually strolled back into town. "Right. What did you do to make them think I was possessed?"

Nadia grinned her devilish grin, her emerald eyes beaming with the joy of the massacre. "I came, I saw, I kicked some ass."

"I see that," I whispered in response. "You didn't happen to do anything that I may regret, did you?"

"Well, I laughed a bit as I was getting into it. You know how I can get during a fight." I damn well knew how Nadia could get, which would explain why the villagers had it out for me; watching me jump around the place wielding a sword that passed through anything that moved as I laughed like a psychopath would likely scare anyone. She wrapped an arm around my waist. "Come on, let's go!"

Back in town, all the villagers were gathered, celebrating their victory over the zombie horde. There were plenty of the men slapping each other on their backs, trading stories about how they killed X-number of zombies more than the next man did. A couple of them shot me evil eyes, but I chose to ignore them as I snaked around the crowd, trying to find Christoph. Several feet away, I could see him, dirty coat and all. The elf was standing next to him.

"Hey! Chris!" I jumped up in the air and waved my hand to get his attention. I "pardon me"-d my way past a few people as I approached the chef. My smile returned as I realized that they were unharmed, save for splotches of gore on their outfits and swords. "Good to see the two of you survive this mess."

I turned my attention to the elf, who appeared to be a bit shaken by the battle. "I know this is an odd time for introductions, but my name's Elijah."

[Chiroptera]

The cook’s explosion had left some kind of sticky fluid spattered on Eltarri’s cheek, but the cold substance lay forgotten against her skin, her arms suddenly too weak to do anything but hang limply at her sides with the edge of her sword resting on the ground. She was slightly out of breath, but her mouth was open mostly due to her jaw-dropping shock at the display of pyromancy that she had just witnessed. This guy was a wizard? It made more sense than the chef story, but how on earth did someone who could make fireballs end up in a tiny village like this one just in time for a raid by an undead mob? There had to be some kind of conspiracy, and the fact that she was there too just made her even more uncomfortable.

The girl realized that she was still staring at him, but she found herself unable to rip her gaze away from the strange young man. Even though he’d fought alongside her—heck, he’d probably just saved her life—the revelation of his magical ability made her instantly and intensely wary of him. She hadn’t yet found a good reason to trust magic-wielders, especially when they looked as guilty about using it as he did.

The pause was growing awkwardly long, but Eltarri still couldn’t think of a smooth way to end the tension. If she went for a polite inquiry into the extent of his ability, he might take her for an overly-inquisitive idiot and kill her to prevent her from blabbing his secret, but if she tried a casually witty remark instead, he might think she was mocking him and respond rashly with another fireball aimed at her head! But she couldn’t stand there gawking at him forever.

She was about to opt for a reverent word of commendation, but before she could speak another voice broke through the murmur of the crowd, followed closely by the young man whom she’d stood next to earlier, the currently unarmed berserker who had so recently been slaying zombies with entirely unwholesome glee.

Her attention turned from the fire-throwing chef to the blue-haired man who pushed his way towards them through the rejoicing crowd, whose smile- in light of his earlier attitude towards inflicting devastation - was somewhat less than comforting. As he drew nearer, however, Eltarri’s fear of the strange man ebbed away. He was definitely fearsome in battle, but even though he was several inches taller than her he was too lightweight to seem capable of posing much of a threat. Without a katana, of course. But as the white-coated “chef” had already taught her, looks could be quite deceiving.

Eltarri suddenly remembered the flecks of brain on her face and wiped at her cheek with her sleeve before she looking up at Elijah with something halfway between a tentative smile and a grimace.

“Elijah,” she repeated, “and Chris?” She was still too afraid to glance at the chef to see if he reacted unpleasantly to her failure to add ‘Wizard’ onto the front of his name, so she went on without a pause. “Forgiving the unpleasant circumstances, it's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Eltarri, and I really don't know how I happened to get here just in time for a war, seeing as I don't have any affiliation whatsoever with vampires, zombies, or Salvar in general."

She regretted the suspiciously nervous declaration as soon as she'd uttered it, but it had seemed wisest to get the truth out in the open before the church members decided to start denouncing the devil's spies. She certainly didn't want to end up like the mayor.

[Christoph]

Chris sighed, slightly comforted by Elijah’s return. On one hand, the scrawny, dark-haired, and typically amiable man had just turned into a raving killing machine several minutes before. On the other hand, the traveling chef had seen stranger things from stranger people, especially in battle. For that reason, Chris wasn’t put off nearly so much by Elijah as the girl was. As it was, though, the girl seemed even more put off by Chris.

The girl, Eltarri, didn’t even want to look at Chris. He didn’t try to create eye contact either. He’d expected suspicion mixed with a superstitious fear, not an overwhelming uneasiness as though she thought that he would turn on her at any moment and burn her to cinders. All the aspects of the situation mixed together and made him even more uncomfortable; the only things he hated more than being feared by others were awkward social situations. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much that he could do about it since he had no more of an idea what was going on than they did.

“I can’t say as though I have any affiliation with the powers that be around here, either” he replied quietly, still avoiding eye contact. “Of course, I never fail to run into zombies when I don’t want to… which is all the time.” He shrugged and glanced up for a minute, finally meeting Eltarri’s eyes again, before looking down at himself. He was covered in a collage of different types and colors of blood, gore, and slime.

“Ugh… I’m going to go wash off and… burn these clothes,” he said, only realizing immediately afterwards how poorly he’d chosen his words. The bloody chef left without another word, leaving Elijah and Eltarri alone.

* * * * *

Chris walked down the dark street alone, the tingle of battle still lingering. The town was in a state of celebration; the townsfolk were ecstatic over their victory against the undead horde. The battle seemed to be over, yet it was, why hadn’t the feeling left him? There was a sense of danger still lingering. None of the villagers appeared to notice it, but to Chris it hung as noticeably in the air as the stench of rotten flesh.

“Greh…” mumbled Chris as he found a tub of water that had been hauled out into the street by some of the women. This one was vacant, since most of the men involved didn’t waste as much time getting cleaned up. He gurgled and gagged slightly as he splashed the warm soiled water over his face.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” The familiar voice of the younger of the two Ethereal Sway agents made Chris jump. The dirty chef spun around to face the other man, trying to form words into a reply. His attempt was swiftly and adeptly cut off. “It’s too bad that you don’t have any cleansing spells in your repertoire.” The chef’s entire body became rigid and still. His eyes widened as he gazed into the darkness, refusing to face the other religious agent. How did the man know?

“I… what?” Chris asked, keeping his voice calm as he struggled to maintain his composure. The dark-haired man chuckled. It was the warm, friendly chuckle that the chef would have expected from an old friend at the tavern.

“I know what you can do,” said the agent. Chris spun around to face him and saw the man grinning. He chuckled again. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to arrest you for using magic, especially since you fought on our side.” The gore-covered chef raised a confused eyebrow.

“But how did you— ” The dark haired priest cut him off, his smile turning sly.

“I’m very good at my job, Christopher,” he replied. “But I only use sorcery as grounds to arrest citizens that I was going to arrest anyway.”

“You know, that really doesn’t make it sound any better.”

“Well, no, but it does ensure your immediate safety.” In spite of himself, Chris relaxed a little. Logic prevailed and told him that had the agent of the Sway wanted him dead or in custody, he would have seen it done already.

“What can I do for you?” The chef took a deep breath and finally met the dark-haired man’s green eyes with his own brown ones. Their gazes met with an almost tangible energy; the two forces of will collided in an invisible storm. Everything about the man was formidable, from his speech to his poise, and to his undeniable aura of power. The chef had always considered himself to be a potent individual, but the dark haired agent of religious wrath was the alpha wolf and Chris was lucky to be a lowly coyote in comparison. At that moment, he knew that he was losing but he refused to look away, back down, or show any signs of weakness.

“Names first,” he replied. “My name is Malachi, and my partner, the one with the hammer, is the Warrior Priest Ciaphas.”

“Should I feel privileged to know your names?” asked Chris, unable to control his innate sarcastic streak. To his surprise, Malachi laughed.

“No… ‘Privileged’ information involves a lot more pain and blood for most people,” answered the priest.

“Right. So how ‘privileged’ would I need to be in order for you to tell me why you were pretending to be merchants and how it is that you happened to arrive here just in time for a small-scale zombie invasion? I’m going to go out on a metaphorical limb and say that it’s not wild coincidence.” Malachi grinned and leaned on his bloody staff.

“You speak more like a scholar than a cook; are you sure that you chose the right profession?” The chef rolled his eyes. “But the answer is yes, which is why I came to find you.”

“I really don’t like where this is going,” Chris groaned. “I know that this fight isn’t over, but I was hoping that it could be over for me.”

“Yes, yes, you’ll get over it,” replied Malachi dismissively. “And you’re smart for your age; there is still much fighting left. My interrogators have extracted some very valuable information from the former mayor of this town.” Chris cringed.

“You people work unnervingly fast.”

“You know,” Malachi laughed. “That’s not the first time someone’s said that to me.” His voice grew serious. “At any rate, after having a little… conversation with the mayor, we were able to find out where the Vampire Lord Kincaid’s base of operations, a black tower in the forest, is located.”

“But wouldn’t someone have come across it by now?” asked Chris. He smirked. “Dark ominous towers don’t exactly strike me as inconspicuous.”

“That’s another thing that Eugeny was kind enough to explain to us. As it turns out, there’s some sort of enchantment on the structure so that it’s only visible at night, and—”

“And who in their right mind would go off to find a Vampire’s lair at night?”

“Precisely,” replied Malachi, still leaning on his staff and looking Chris in the eyes.

“Damn, okay, this is where you tell me that you need my help for something that’s likely to get me killed, right?”

“Ha, a very good guess,” replied the holy warrior. “And close, too. We have an opportunity to go into the forest and destroy this dark power once and for all… before he escapes and casts his shadow somewhere else. Some of my subordinates have already roused the local militia barracks stationed a couple miles from here and Ciaphas will be getting the villagers here organized and ready to move again. You and your friend are practically heroes to these townsfolk now, and so is that girl. Your presence will keep their moral from shattering like a piece of pottery. If they panic out there...”

"We'll all be zombie dinner.” Chris sighed, the full reality of the situation falling upon him. “I’ll go tell them the good news…”

[Elijah_Morendale]

Christoph's bunnies approved over AIM.

"We're gonna' to do what now?"

The color quickly drained from my face. I thought I was safe in a remote alleyway, away from the villagers and Eltarri (whom I failed at making non-awkward conversation with). And yet, that bushy-haired bastard found me. Christoph told me about the vampire lord who was living in the nearby forest; about how his black tower was only visible at night. This kind shit ALWAYS has to happen at night. Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this? I just want to go back home, is that too hard to ask?

The chef finished his little speech. "...So, the Agents of the Church have some reinforcements coming to assist us with the attack."

I butted in. "Not trying to sound like an asshole right now, but don't you think that this really isn't any of our business?"

Christopher sighed. "Of course, that's exactly what I think. But Malachi claims that these townsfolk regard us as heroes!" He paused for a second, then corrected himself. "Well, maybe not so much you... at least, not the ones that think you're a blood-hungry demon out to devour their young." I opened my mouth to object further, but he waved a hand to cut me off. "I have a feeling that those guys from the Church wouldn't let us leave town regardless, so we have no choice but to go along."

I threw my hands up in the air hysterically. "I don't care! I didn't come back to Salvar so I could run a gauntlet of zombies before getting torn up by a vampire! If I wanted trouble, I would've stayed in Corone!"

He was clearly becoming irritated with me. He began to rub the bridge of his nose as he leaned in close, his voice low and harsh. "Listen, let me translate some church language for you. A 'request' for them is really a demand, and there's no such thing as an 'I'd love to, but no.'"

I turned away from Christoph, kicking the road with my hi-tops. He was right; those guys in the light blue robes wouldn't let us out of town given the circumstances... But common sense and my self-preservation instinct told me to find the nearest rain barrel to hide in until this situation blew over. The chef continued, "Do you have any idea how easy it would be for Mr. Priest to accuse us both of being witches and demons in front of all the paranoid villagers? We're on his good side right now, and I want to keep it that way."

Staring off into the star-speckled sky, I couldn't help but to think out loud. "We've got a village full of idiots who refuse to move away, despite the fact that there is a freaking vampire nearby who has it out for them. We just survived a massive onslaught of zombies. And now, you're telling me that some nutjobs from a church that was probably founded by some guy after a nasty hit of hallucinogens believe that a chef, a kid that freaks out the villagers, and an elven girl with a sword the size of her own body are going to help them save the day? Am I the only one who isn't off their rocker around here?!"

Nadia coughed. "You might wanna' watch what you say, chief. Don't need those church dudes doing you a number like they did with fat-ass a while ago."

I sighed. "You're right, Nadia."

Christopher chimed in. "Who's right, Elijah?"

I froze. I was too busy panicking to notice that I was actually talking to Nadia out loud. I scratched my head, racking my brain for a reasonable excuse. "Well, uh, you are, of course." I tried to smile in spite of my stupid mistake.

The chef took an uncomfortable step out of the alley. "I try..." He looked me over quickly, then took off. "I think I'll go tell Eltarri the good news now." His footsteps were swift on the stone road as he made his way back towards the elf.

I sighed heavily. Nadia put an arm around my shoulder. "You fucked up," she said with a grin. "He won't be talking to you again for a while, that's for sure."

[Chiroptera]

“We have to do WHAT?”

Eltarri stood in shocked confusion, feeling naked and vulnerable even though she was completely dressed. Her cloak, jacket, sword, and harness were resting on a fence just out of reach. She’d been washing her face and arms in a bucket of water and had jumped like a startled cat when the pyromancer's voice had called to her from a few feet behind her. She was blushing furiously at her overreaction, but she was still too terrified to meet his gaze. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she could barely concentrate on what he was saying, but the gist of his message got through, and it was enough to make the girl overcome her fear of the chef long enough for the question to explode from her lips.

Wage war on a vampire tower? It sounded like something she’d read about in a book of horror stories to scare herself at night. People actually did that kind of thing in real life? She’d seen vampires in action and knew that even an army of humans was hardly a match for a single bloodsucker, and even with a pyromancer and a berserker and crazy priests there was no way fighting the undead would be a simple affair. Why on earth did she have to be involved?

She was about to risk the chef’s wrath by asking the last query aloud when the young woman who’d given her the bucket of water came scurrying into her line of vision to pick the pail up with an eager smile.

“If you need anything else, just yell!”

She was gone with another adoring smile before Eltarri could reply, but the memory of her regard lingered. The hard-working women had all looked on her with approval, especially when she’d had to walk down the street with her filthy sword in hand, better armed than most of the men and sporting just as much gore. She’d already been thanked profusely several times for her involvement, and there was a small group of children who’d followed her with wide eyes and whispers before a mother had shooed them away. It was almost as if . . . as if the people thought she was some kind of hero. While she'd been cleaning herself off, an elderly one had shuffled up to her with a handful of sweet-smelling herbs that she dropped into the half-elf's pail, her eyes warm as she smiled at the girl.

"You and your friends are doing us a great favor," she'd said in a voice weakened by age.

Eltarri had looked quickly away, splashing water on her face to avoid having to make eye contact. Friends? "It's no more than anyone else would do."

"It is, though," the old woman had insisted. "The vampire has been attacking us for as long as I've been alive. My earliest memories are of hiding in the cellar and praying with my mother that my papa would come home alive. We all grew up expecting to be his next victim."

She had kept her eyes away to keep from having to see the sincerity on the woman's face. She blinked away tears. What would a life like that be like, living constantly in fear of death? "Does the vampire attack often?"

"Not often, but regularly. And he has no mercy for those who wander anywhere near his castle. Stepping into the forest is a sure-fire way to get killed."

Eltarri had swallowed hard. She'd been bumbling through the trees like an idiot bear during hunting season! How close had she come to getting killed by a vampire? The old woman didn't notice her distress.

"Yes, I remember there was one time . . . about twenty-- no, twenty-five-- years ago when a whole family went out into the forest, a young couple and their wee ones . . . they were traveling, I think, or picnicking, maybe. They left at daybreak and never came back." Her eyes were round and sorrowful and her voice dropped in volume. "My husband's a woodcutter. He was one of the men who found their bodies, torn apart and emptied of blood like they'd been attacked by wolves."

She stared in horror at the old woman, whose face was glazed as she lost herself in her memory. Eltarri's hands had started trembling again and sloshed the water in the pail. The biddy had blinked and looked at her, the soft smile returning to her face as she reached out to pat the half-elf's cheek as she walked past her.

"You really are angels for helping us."

Eltarri shook her head to clear away the conversation, trying to wipe out the gory pictures her imagination had provided to supplement the old woman's tale. People were being killed steadily by the vampire, and the villagers all seemed to think that they could save them from the menace. They were depending on her, and the pyromancer, and the berserker, and the creepy priests; every glance and trusting smile said so. But that didn’t make her any more eager to have to fight vampires again! Chris went on talking, reciting one of the priest’s promises of forthcoming church aid. As if that was a comforting vow . . .

Eltarri’s spine went suddenly straight. What if the priests were being brought in not to encourage the villagers but to keep them from revolting against the two who were already in charge? Not every slave-driver had to carry a whip! From the chef’s tone of voice she could tell that he wasn’t exactly keen on the vampire hunt either, and if even a wizard could be coerced by the church, what chance did she have of refusal?

Flickering her gaze up from the ground at his feet to meet his eyes for the briefest moment possible, Eltarri nodded at Chris with a small grimace. She went wordlessly to her gear and quickly put her jacket and harness back on, then swung her cloak onto her shoulders before she latched the freshly-cleaned sword onto her back.

“All right,” she said with a small sigh, walking over to stand near – but not too near – the pyromancer. “Let’s do this thing.”

She followed him with dragging feet, trying to bolster her spirits by reminding herself that there were people looking up to her. Even if she was practically being forced to help, there was a whole village of people whose lives might be saved or bettered because of what she and the rest of the fighters were going to do.

That was a cause worthy of risking her life for, right?

[Christoph]

“But these townsfolk need—wait, what?” Christopher’s prepared follow-up speech was stopped before it had truly begun. “You’re actually agreeing without a huge argument?” He sighed with relief, having expected another struggle such as what he had gotten with Elijah. He cracked a smile at her. “Okay, that was easier than I thought, let’s go.” With that, the chef turned and started off.

“Oh, and just because I could set you on fire doesn’t mean that you have to be afraid of me,” he added, winking at the slender girl. He stepped closer. “And you missed a spot.” He reached out, brushing a splotch of rancid blood from just under Etarri’s ear with his thumb. Finally, he turned back around, trying to suppress the amused grin on his face as he pondered how much the half-Elf would be freaking out now.

* * * * *

It wasn’t hard for Chris to figure out where they needed to be. All of the able-bodied men were gathered at the eastern gate, torches lit, pitchforks sharpened. They congregated near Malachi, a brooding Ciaphas, and the dozen or so lackeys that they commanded like a jumbled swarm of bees. The seventy-man militia, in contrast, stood at attention in a mostly organized block formation, spears and shields held straight.

“See Elijah? Look at them all. It doesn’t look so hopeless, does it?” The chef turned to his denim-clad friend. Chris and Eltarri had found him standing near the mouth of a dark alley, looking at a large produce crate covered in a tarp with particular interest; he was probably pondering if getting out of fighting zombies and a vampire was worth smelling like old onions for a week. Elijah sighed heavily.

“Yeah… good one,” he replied, practically glowering at me. “Face it, they're all scared out of their wits. The villagers will be following these church dudes to a place that nobody in their right mind would want to go to, and as soon as that vampire so much as sneezes, they'll all panic and run like chickens with their heads cut off. And between you and I, I don't believe that either of us are qualified to tag along.”

“Well, probably,” Chris admitted. Then, his face formed a smile that seemed unnervingly cocky. “But hey, worst-case scenario, I just set the daylight fearing bastard on fire.” Elijah’s eyes widened in shock and horror.

“Whoa, hold on a second!” he exclaimed, before immediately lowering his voice. “You can't do that! Doesn't the Eternal Sway prosecute magic users like us?”

“You mean ‘persecute’?” asked the chef. “Well, they probably persecute and prosecute at the same time…” He chuckled softly. Elijah, though, was having no part of it.

“Great. Then there’s even less reason for me to go. I'll be in that onion crate; let me know when we're skipping town.” Chris grumbled impatiently as Elijah began to turn away, but quickly composed himself.

“These guys are on are on the level... or say they're saying.”

Elijah paused after hearing the chef’s words. “What do you mean?”

“Dark and scary stick-wielder knows that I can toss fireballs, but he hasn’t had me arrested and killed,” he explained. “We lucked out. He's not one of the radical agents.” Elijah conceded with a sigh.

“If I accidentally do some ice crafting and they kill me for it, my spirit is gonna' come gunning for you.”

Chris grinned. “Good. Now, I think Malachi is almost done giving his rousing speech telling the townsfolk why going into the dark, scary forest is a much better idea than going home to their young wives and ‘celebrating’ their earlier victory.”

It wasn't long before the heavy, reluctant footsteps formed into an awkward march beat as the rag-tag army of villagers, priests, a schizophrenic, an elf, and a cook made its way into the forest, and possibly to 'glorious' doom.

[Elijah_Morendale]

Chris and Eltarri walked with a swift pace towards the villagers while I lagged behind a little bit. I think it's an understatement to say that I was terrified of the conflict to come. My eyes wandered around the group; noting that despite the warrior priest's rousing speech, not a single one of these villagers looked as if they wanted to do this. The somber faces were etched with worry about their loved ones, as if they might not ever see them again after this dark journey.

As we all made our way out of the town and into the foreboding forest, I thought about the onion crate again. With a spot of luck, I could slowly make my way to the back of the group, then make a break for the town and my little hiding spot. I would survive the night, while everyone else would have the time of their lives with getting their asses kicked, their blood drank, and their brains eaten by the vampire lord and his army of zombies. In the morning, I'd come out, take a quick bath, and then bail the hell out of here.

I smiled as I began to enact my little plan. I slowed down to a nice stroll as villagers and Eternal Sway cannon fodder passed me. Of course, the gods decided to toy with me as Christopher began to look around, probably for me. Dammit! I willed myself to become invisible and ducked into the crowd as he turned around. "Elijah! Get up here!"

Fuck! I ignored his shout, until he repeated himself. "You might want to get up there... Remember, he can do some crazy shit, like explode your face with the snap of his fingers." I just love it when Nadia opens her mouth when she knows that she shouldn't.

I kept my voice to a whisper, as to not draw attention to myself over the shuffling footsteps of the makeshift army. "This is suicide. This isn't what I signed up for when I came back to Salvar. How much is it to ask that I get back home safe and sound?"

My imaginary friend brushed her crimson bangs back and rolled her eyes. "Cheese and rice, if you're gonna' be that much of a pansy, let me take over again and I'll hold your hand through this situation as well."

I sighed for the millionth time tonight. "No... The priest with the staff let me off the hook for your little rampage, but I'm not sure how the other ones with us now will react."

"Whatever."

We continued into the forest. Massive, dark spires of dead wood loomed over us. Moonlight seeped through the canopy of scraggly tree branches, offering scant illumination on the thin dirt path. Occasionally, a wolf howled sorrowfully, sending a chill down my spine. A constant feeling, as if we were being watched by invisible eyes, kept pulling at my coat, telling me to go back. People have died here, trying to do the same thing that we're foolishly charging in to accomplish. We're just going to be another banquet, I can feel it.

A cold sweat began to creep down my forehead. I immediately broke out of the group of villagers and jogged my way towards the chef and the elf, catching myself as I nearly tripped over the roots of a tree. "Guys..." Fear was oozing out of my voice. Man, I am such a wuss. "I've got a rotten feeling about this... I think I need a hug, or I should pray; just something to make me feel better right now... We're going to die. I just know it." My shaking hand wrapped around the leather hilt of my dagger, allowing me a small bit of comfort in this tsunami of doubt and fear.

Christopher turned away and mumbled. "Whiny little son of a..."

[Chiroptera]

It took Eltarri a few seconds to convince herself that the chef’s touch had left her alive and raw, and by the time she had remembered how to breathe, Chris was already several strides away. She followed at a slower pace, reaching up to scrub vigorously at the side of her face and trying to decide whether he’d been teasing or patronizing her. Either way, she watched his back with eyes narrowed mistrustfully and resisted the urge to cross her arms and pout.

The gathered mass of armed humans didn’t inspire much confidence in the half-elf when they drew close enough to see them well, but she kept her doubts to herself and scoffed silently at the pyromancer’s optimism. Elijah, on the other hand, was making her more nervous than she’d been before. What was he worried about? If anybody touched him, all he’d have to do was go kill-happy and slash his way out. She made a note to stay away from him when they got into any action.

One of the priests was orating to the crowds, of which there were two very distinct varieties. The pitchfork-bearing peasants left a clear gap between themselves and the militia, who looked far more competent but not any happier than the villagers. Had they been forced to come here by the priest’s “request” as well? She doubted that there was any sum of money that could have convinced them all to come on the promise of a reward. Then again, humans had strange priorities; so maybe some did consider potential gold more valuable than their lives.

A sudden exclamation from Elijah brought Eltarri’s attention to the two men standing near her. Their lowered voices and intense expressions made her take a mincing step closer so that she could hear what they were saying. As wary of them as she was, the three of them were basically like a separate regiment from the militia, villagers, and priests, and if they were going to exchange secrets she certainly didn’t want to be left out of the loop.

Ice crafting? Eltarri quickly stepped back away and bent down to rub at the scuffed toe of her boot, trying to pretend that she hadn’t been eavesdropping. The berserker was a magician, too? There was definitely something going on. How did she manage to have the bad luck of ending up with such a strange bunch? Chilly winds kept rushing over the ground, slapping her hair into her face and making her cloak billow. The sky was still almost oppressively dark, and the only light came from flickering torches that cast strange shadows on the faces of the people around her.

It seemed wisest to Eltarri to remain as silent and unobtrusive as possible while preparations continued and the men fell into marching ranks. She and Chris were a few paces behind the leading priests, followed immediately by the disorganized villagers with the orderly lines of militia bringing up the rear.

When the priests gave the order to depart, she wordlessly walked after Chris, staying a few feet behind and to the side of him. She didn’t really want to be any closer to him than she had to be, but it seemed logical to assume that vampires didn’t like fire, and for that reason alone she wanted to stay close. Elijah had slipped off into the crowd, but the procession hadn’t gone far when Chris turned with a frown that Eltarri was afraid was aimed at her and hollered for the berserker, who took longer to obey than she would have and who looked nervous enough to be contagious.

If he’s nervous, you should be scared out of your mind, an unhelpful part of her brain advised. Her palms were already sweaty and her throat was dry, and there was a tight feeling in her stomach that steadily worsened with each step into the murky woods, the same woods that she had been so ecstatic to leave just a few hours before. She had to consciously remind herself to keep breathing every time she heard a noise that didn’t originate from a human, and Elijah’s fearful words didn’t do much to help calm her. If the beserker was worried . . . but she couldn’t let herself think that way. It was hard enough forcing her legs to take each step towards possible death; dwelling on the subject would just make the misery even less bearable.

“You have to think positively,” Eltarri said firmly to Elijah, interrupting Chris' unkind reply and falling into step with the blue-haired man. “Convince yourself that we’re all off on a grand adventure to slay an evil monster, and when we come back alive and victorious we’ll be hailed as heroes and sent home with all sorts of rewards. Just don’t think about the fact that we’re in a creepy forest at night with a bunch of villagers and about to try to kill a vampire lord and his zombie army.” Eltarri grimaced. It had sounded a lot more encouraging in her head. "What I mean is . . ." Gods, what did she mean? "You have to distract yourself. Play a game, set a goal, think about something pleasant."

That was nominally better, even if she wasn't following her own advice. The only thing she could get her brain to focus on was how she ought to respond in various vampire-confronting circumstances in the unfortunate event that she actually met him.

[Christoph]

Though Chris refused to show it, the march into the forest was one of the most frightening and deeply disturbing moments of his life. Everything was right out of the gothic horror tales that he used to read during his younger years. An ominous curtain of cloud covered the dark sky, the light of the faded and obscured moon struggling futilely through like a beacon of false hope. The ground was cracked, dry, and dead, only the withered skeletons of plants covered the ground. Even the trees themselves were twisted and sickly, stretching upward like deformed claws, reaching forth to snatch what few stars remained in the black sky.

So far, he’d kept his composure admirably, knowing that if he broke down and panicked, it would just make everyone else’s fear that much more real. Of course, that wasn’t saying that there weren’t rightly terrifying in the forest. They were probably all going to die. However, so long as Christopher’s outward demeanor showed no signs of it, most everyone would stick together, which increased the likelihood of at least some of them escaping and surviving. Hopefully, he would be one of them. Despite all this, he was still very close to his breaking point as the battle against the dark horrors drew nearer.

“Think about something pleasant?” asked Chris, incredulously. Malachi and Ciaphas had made their way closer the militia grouping as they marched, leaving Chris, Elijah, and Eltarri on their own. “Oh, I know! Let’s think about the fact that once our brains get eaten, we won’t be able to feel the pain of the rest of our bodies getting eaten. Distract ourselves with what? The foreboding trees and the friendly wolves howling in the distance? Ha!” The spell-casting chef chuckled and snickered. He was able to choke out, “I’m sorry,” before bursting out into laughter again, planting his palm into his forehead.

Suddenly, the laughing stopped. The chef’s closed eyes shot open and darted ahead into the forest. At the same instant, the sound of shuffling feet on dry leaves and twigs came from the gloom, followed shortly by a chorus of inhuman moans. Chris grinned, casually forming a blue fireball in his hand and flinging it into the darkness. It impacted with a strange cross between a sizzle and a thump. The small explosion illuminated source of the noise that everyone had expected: a pack of zombies. There were twelve of them, one with a burning crater in its chest and the rest with hungry eyes.

Throughout the battle formation of villagers, priests, and soldiers, the sounds of battle erupted in a sporadic chain like an avalanche, quickly overtaking the entire army. Shouts of pain, anger, and command filled the air, mingling with the foul aromas of rotting flesh, sweat, and blood to create a fume that stung Chris’s nostrils.

Then, the shroud of cloud parted, allowing the moon to wash the forest with its sickly, silver glow. And there it was, standing like the ominous shadow of a demon in the surreal light. Even through the trees and in the gloom, he could see jagged spikes protruding from the black stone. Murder holes reinforced by metal bars dotted the structure and balconies lined with spiked railings and covered with stone gargoyle statues. Chris’s grin widened as he realized that he’d just stepped into one of his books.

“A game, though… Now that could work.” Chris winked at his two companions and readied his sword as the shambling hoard shuffled toward them. “Looks like I’m leading one to zero. You’d better hurry if you want to keep up.” And with that, the chef charged into the fray with the mass of villagers.

[Sighter Tnailog]

((Moved as of October 27th.))

[Elijah_Morendale]

"A game? How the blazes can you compare something like this to a game?!" My hysterical words fell upon ignorant ears as Christopher charged into the fray, the light of the flames from the ignited zombie dancing off the steel of his sword.

It was the shindig at the village all over again. Zombies, darkness, screaming, and violence--haven't we all experienced enough of that for one night? I quickly surveyed the situation. There were only a dozen or so of the undead; we clearly outnumbered them. I was content to stay out of the mess, but I was overcome with the urge to dive in as Nadia's cackling laughter echoed through my head.

Seemingly against my will, I smiled as I extended my left hand, encasing it with ice. Hell, if the chef can get away with his little fireballs, the Agents wont mind this, right? ...Or, at least that was what I was hoping for. The icicle grew to about a foot and a half in length, flattening itself out into a sharp, frozen blade. I quickly drew my forefinger against the edge, causing a jolt of pain to run down my hand as a small trickle of blood streamed out of the open wound.

"Yes, this will do nicely."

I sprinted towards the chaotic mass, yelling at villagers to get the hell out of my way. For the most part, they obliged; the image of Nadia's rampage still fresh in their minds. The villagers parted, forming a path to a stray zombie who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I lunged forward, thrusting my ice-encased arm into his chest cavity... Or was it her? You can never tell with the deceased. The blade easily passed through its rotting flesh--I quickly drew my arm horizontally through its ribcage, causing a gush of disgusting gunk burst out. I slashed at the zombie's throat, decapitating it.

As the zombie's head crashed to the ground with a dull thud, a loud, ear-splitting shriek filled the nighttime sky. I looked up to see the silhouettes of three figures. They appeared to be humanoid, but they were flying--thanks to leathery wings that fluttered as they hastily descended into our little party. Villagers shouted at one another in confusion, until one of the bat-things swooped down and grabbed one unlucky guy. I watched in surprise as he was effortlessly thrown against a tree. His unconscious body fell to the ground with a thunk, crumpling up like a rag doll.

Another screech pierced the night, snapping me back to attention. I looked up again to see another of the horrid creatures coming down at a sharp angle... Right towards Eltarri. There was no way she'd be able to bring that mosterous sword of hers up in time to defend herself.

"Eltarri! Above you!"

With my free hand, I crafted a small ice javelin. With all the force I could muster, I hurled the projectile at the creature, hoping that I could hit it and save the elven woman from a nasty meeting with whatever the hell that thing was.

[Chiroptera]

A hot blush was already making its way up Eltarri’s neck when the men’s attention transferred from her inane suggestion to the sudden and more pressing matter of undead attackers. Chris was swiftly gone in a slightly disturbing show of hysterical blood-lust, and before the half-elf had even caught a glimpse of their opponents Elijah was wrist-deep in ice and sprinting through the crowd of villagers that was already beginning to scatter.

More zombies? It had obviously been rather stupid to hope that the only thing they would have to contend with would be vampires, as if they weren’t enough. Eltarri unclasped her sword and swung it carefully off her back, making sure that no one was in the way of the blade as she pulled it around in front of her. She stepped back to avoid a blindly-rushing human who was screaming in terror at a gore-dripping figure shuffling after him, then had to duck and spin when her bracers jerked her arms up and around to intercept a pitchfork that came whistling through the air towards her head. The young man on the other end stared at her with wide eyes, his rusty weapon dwarfed by her black sword even though he was about a foot taller than her.

“Watch it, would you?” she snapped irritably at him. How humiliating, to get killed by a pitchfork-toting villager in the middle of a vampire hunt. “I’m on your side, all right? Get the ones with guck dripping out of their mouths who are trying to eat your brain!”

The man jerked away and ran off, but Eltarri remained motionless, trying to contend with her rising fear. The chaos was starting to get to her. The screams of humans mixed with the mumbling wails of zombies, clashing with the bellowing war cries of the soldiers all swirled around her in a menagerie of bedlam. Everything was moving, rushing, swinging, jumping, falling . . . there was too much going on to keep up with! Eltarri just wanted to curl up into a ball and hide until it was all over, until the panic had quieted and the situation was calm.

Coward.

“Eltarri! Above you!”

Elijah’s voice pulled her out of her panic-induced paralysis. Her head jerked towards the blue-haired man and the long white weapon that had replaced his left hand. His other hand was moving, but Eltarri caught sight of movement above her and dropped back her head in time to see a monster descending. It dove with claws extended, dropping straight down from the sky like a . . . well, like a vampire on the hunt.

Do vampires have wings? The question shot through her mind even as she moved, releasing her sword and dropping into a crouch that wasn’t fast enough to save her from getting clipped by long black claws that tore at her left shoulder, sending sharp jolts of pain down her shoulder blade. She could feel its heavy presence hovering above her, smell its dank skin as it dropped more of its weight, sinking its claws into her flesh . . .

But then it was gone.

Eltarri looked over her shoulder and saw the creature still airborne a few meters away from her, screaming furiously and yanking at a shaft that poked out from its chest. Her eyes dropped to her shoulder and the two-inch slits in her cloak. The cuts felt shallow, mere grazes when they could have been rents. Had Elijah just saved her life?

Eltarri didn’t want to wait to see if the monster would recover. She grabbed the hilt of her sword in one hand and pushed off the ground and into a sprint, charging past the blue-haired man with a quick nod in his direction as she transferred the sword to her left hand to test her shoulder. It protested the movement, but the pain was tolerable and Eltarri pushed thoughts of it aside as she hefted her blade to swing it blindly at a zombie whose eyeballs were hanging out of their sockets. She was inclined to think that she could handle the land-bound zombies; she’d let somebody more competent take care of the aerialists.

[Christoph]

Bunnies approved

The series of skirmishes erupted into a full battle in a matter of moments. That is, it erupted into what might as well have been two separate battles. The first battle actually looked as such, with rank-and-file soldiers formed into a wall of shields, spears, and swords, pushing against a large chunk of the zombie hoard. The second, however, was more of a massive riot than anything else. The mobs of villagers charged into their festering foes with reckless courage and the organization of a swarm of mosquitoes. They were going to get themselves killed fighting like that.

Chris was just glad to have gotten clear of that storm of certain death before he got caught up in it. If he’d gotten stuck in the middle of the chaos, no amount of skill or fiery magic would have saved him; if the zombies didn’t devour him, the villagers would have probably trampled him in their fervor. Their defeat seemed certain, as clear as the frigid frost that encased his breath.

The chef hacked his way through a half-dozen scattered straggler undead until he reached the top of the rocky hill. From that vantage point, he could see the entire thing unfold. The villagers were even more disorderly and useless than he had initially though. Most of them were only looking out for their own survival, and in turn they were all dropping like flies. With his new perspective, though, he could see the purpose that these citizens were serving. Though they were getting ripped to shreds, they were tying up a huge chunk of the undead hoard that surrounded the tower, allowing the comparatively well-trained militia to push through without getting surrounded and overwhelmed.

Then, he spotted Malachi rushing through the ranks of soldiers and swarms of zombies, smashing them into mangled heaps with his staff. Chris could not help but be in awe of the poet of death as he danced through a sea of rotting flesh like a whirlwind of destruction. Chris sprinted down the hill toward him, sword drawn and his magical energies already focused and ready to grill a zombie at a moment’s notice. On one hand, being that close to the tower increased the chances of the Vampire appearing and attacking him. On the other hand, knowing Chris’s luck, he would surely be the first one that the evil vampire attacked; Chris couldn’t think of a better way to keep himself safe than to hide behind the cloaked killing machine that was Malachi.

As Chris charged toward the sinister tower, he saw several of the gargoyle statues, originally assumed to have just been an imposing part of the architecture, start moving. Their stone eyelids shot open, revealing eyes that glowed red like a hot furnace. In moments, they came to life like the beasts of lore and flew into the battle. He couldn’t help but sigh as he ran. I should have seen that coming… At least they weren’t coming after him, he supposed.

Three more incinerated zombies later, Chris reached the bottom of the hill, skidding to a stop next to Malachi.

“A nice night for a little stroll,” he said filling his smile with as much confidence as he could force. “Where’s your hammer brother, Ciaphas?” The chef never heard the priest’s answer, though, for on a chance glance upward, he spotted a dark figure leaping down from one of the higher windows of the tower. The shadowy form landed on the cold ground with cat-like grace. Chris could see faintly glowing eyes of hellish green and an expression of cold malace plastered on his face, and he knew it was the one being that he feared most.

* * * * *

The battle raged beneath Sandulf’s dark granite wings. The stink of rotting flesh floated like a putrid mist between the trees. Grown men screamed like children as the unholy beasts tore them limb from limb. There were no clear battle lines to speak of anymore. Chaos reigned supreme. By the dark gods, it was beautiful. Two hundred years standing as a motionless living statue had done nothing to diminish is appreciation for beauty and art. And this hurricane of bloodshed was art at its finest.

The Gargoyle’s stone lips formed into a gleeful smile as he swooped down to pluck and unsuspecting villager from the ground and tear out his throat in the air. Sandulf had not had such fun in many decades. It almost made him wish that his master Kincaid’s victims would rise up more often.

He swooped down for another attack, raking his claws across the stomach of another pitchfork-wielding upstart. He then drove his other hand right through the chest of a third one, ripping out a shredded wad of flesh. He threw his victims aside like the discarded husks that they were. The winged statue strode forward for a few seconds, swatting aside the weak humans with the backs of his hands, before taking off into the dark sky once again. Soon, the pathetic mortals would see why the night ruled of the land, and why he and his master were the lords of the night.

Sandulf’s burning eyes were suddenly drawn to a lone figure wearing a blue coat. What easy prey. The bloodthirsty gargoyle arced down without a moment’s hesitation, his clawed hands outstretched. The scrawny, black-haired human saw him coming though, and yelled with a start and jumped aside. Sandulf grinned. This one might prove good sport. From the looks of it, the boy had even managed to dispatch of a couple of Kincaid's other winged minions, weak and fleshy as they were.

Then, to the gargoyle’s surprise, the young man conjured a dagger out of thin air and hurled it at him. Sandulf’s anticipation quickly shattered, however, just as dagger shattered against his chest. Was it made of ice? Ice? Pathetic. He would truly enjoy extracting the boy’s entrails. He would feast upon his warm flesh before handing the rendered carcass over to his master to become another member of the dead legion And then—

Sandulf’s thoughts ended abruptly, never to resume, as a mighty hammer shattered his head, sending a spray of jagged rock in all directions. Ciaphas stood over his slumping stone body, muscles bulging like an ox, his massive fist The dying gargoyle would not despair, however, for his brothers and sisters would surely avenge him.

[Elijah_Morendale]

This intimidating giant of a monk had just saved my life. I stood there in dumbfounded awe for a split second, trying to think of something witty to say to him in thanks, but stammered out an incomprehensible jumble of syllables instead. I'll have to buy this guy a drink after this whole mess is over with. I stared at the fallen mass of rock that had attacked me seconds before, small chunks of ice scattered amongst the ruins of the creature's face. Without another word, the Ethereal Sway agent moved onto his next victim, a zombie who was unaware that in mere moments, his guts were going to be splattered all over the dark forest floor. The elegant swing of the monk's hammer and sickening impact almost made me feel sorry for the corpse.

A few feet away, I heard a familiar, high pitched screech. I quickly spun around, only to see the bat-thing that I impaled mid-flight with an icicle half charging, half limping towards me with murderous intent, the shaft of ice still protruding from its chest. "What the fuck! Don't you know how to die," I screamed at the creature as I thrust my iced-over hand at its throat. Whatever this thing was, it stopped in its tracks as the sharp tip of the frozen blade burrowed into its brown, leathery flesh. A dark, rank liquid oozed out as I pushed harder.

I could see the spark of life slowly disappear from the creature's eyes as Nadia's cackling laugh echoed throughout my head, drowning out even the chaos of battle. "Let me at 'em! You can't be the only one to enjoy this!"

"Shut up!" With a quick jerk of my arm, I snapped the ice blade free of my fist, leaving the bat-man no choice but to crumple to the ground in a lifeless heap. Instead of re-crafting the ice blade, I focused my energies and shattered the thin layer of ice encasing my hand. Then, I quickly created two ice daggers (skipping out on the whole dragon emblem part) and rejoined the fray.

As I elegantly moved from one zombie to another, leaving a trail of undead gunk and corpses in my wake, Nadia kept on distracting me with her violent urges. "I wanna' wreck shop again, chief!"

"Haven't you had enough bloodshed for one evening?" I quickly slashed at a zombie with both of my frozen weapons, nearly decapitating it with one and lodging the other in it's skull as it flailed its rotting stubs of arms at me.

"Bitch please, don't make me come in there." I knew what she meant by that; Nadia was eager to take over whether I wanted her to or not. Resistance was futile, so to speak, so I had no clue why I was arguing with her in the first place.

"No means no!"

She let out a frustrated groan as I slowly felt my consciousness slip.


***

You would've figured that I got off enough during the zombie raid in the village, but the chaos going down here was enough to revive my bloodlust. I quickly ran towards the nearest zombie and planted Elijah's ice daggers in its eye sockets. As it groaned and grumbled and backpedaled, I ripped my katana out of the sheathe and slashed at its neck in a flash of finely crafted death. The sharp blade passed through the zombie's flesh and bone with ease, sending the amputated noggin twirling through the air.

Before I could move on to the next unlucky son of a bitch, I felt a sharp set of claws tear away bits and pieces of my cheek. I screamed at the top of my lungs as I stumbled back. Warm, thick blood began pouring from the wounds as I snagged a look at my assailant. The creature resembled a cross between your mom and a vampire bat. Its skin was dark and looked like it was stitched together using the hides of dead forest animals, and smelled just as bad. The abomination's face was contorted, resembling that of a bat who was smashed in the face with a beer bottle.

The thing snarled at me, bearing its formidable fangs that could've easily tore through flesh like it was paper. With a screech that tore through the nighttime air, the bat thing charged at me. Unafraid, I stood my ground, my fists tightly clenched around the hilt of my sword. As soon as the thing swiped at me again, I hopped to the side, bringing my katana blade up and through the creature's side. It howled in pain and fell to the ground; openly inviting me to finish it off. I leaped into the air, coming down hard on its lower back before it could rise. Even in the noise of the battle, I could easily make out the vertebrae snapping in pieces underfoot.

But was I done? Of course not. Deciding that the creature that scarred our beautiful face hadn't properly paid for its crimes yet, I quickly maneuvered to one side and gave it a swift boot to the head, sending the thing rolling over a few paces as it cried out in pain. I jumped again, this time gripping my katana so the tip of the blade was pointing down. Before the thing could move out of the way, my blade found a new home in its neck.

It was then that I heard a deeper, more menacing howl echo through the battlefield. I looked up, seeing the silhouettes of two monstrosities tear themselves out of the dark decor of the tower in front of us. Giant stone wings extended from their shoulders, the sound of crumbling rock accompanying their every movement. I could feel the maniacal smile slowly disappear from my face as one of them sailed towards me.

Not good.

I cried out, hoping someone would hear me. "Hey! Elf girl! Flaming chef! Dude with the hammer! I'm gonna' need some help over here!"

[Chiroptera]

The chaos swirled around Eltarri, drowning her senses in the sight of blood, the smell of gore, the sounds of death. She had her sword in her right hand, surprising herself at her ability to loft it single-handedly. The bracers on her forearms were magical, though, and it wouldn’t have surprised her if she wasn’t actually stronger than she thought she was but was instead merely being helped by the red armbands.

Her eyes couldn’t stay focused on a single combatant for long enough to make a move, even though the two pace perimeter that she’d hacked for herself was already being infringed upon by mini-skirmishes that raged around her. Villagers were falling left and right, overcome by the sheer number of zombies that lurched forward to rend flesh and rip off limbs. Where were the soldiers? Where were the priests?

The bracer on Eltarri’s right arm tightened and jerked her around, twisting her wrist so that the sword in her hand was in a horizontal position when it slammed into the zombie that had been sneaking up behind her. Not that it had been a very covert approach; if she’d been paying any attention to her immediate surroundings she would have easily been able to hear its gurgling moan as it pushed air through its rotting throat.

Gritting her teeth in annoyance at her own inattention, Eltarri jerked her sword free of the zombie and grabbed it in both hands to swing again, this time swatting the oozing corpse soundly on the side of its head with the flat of her sword. The decomposing spine didn’t hold against the force of the blow and the head snapped off and dangled against the zombie’s shoulder by a thin strand of grey skin while it lethargically slumped to the ground.

Eltarri ignored the queasy clenching of her stomach and stepped away, avoiding oncoming zombies in an attempt to get an idea of what was going on around her. She could see the uniformed soldiers not too far away, moving towards the castle, seemingly oblivious to the plight of the villagers. Why were they advancing when their own allies were being killed off in droves? The answer that came to her made her stomach twist even more. Were the villagers there just to serve as a distraction? Had they been dragged into this battle just to be killed off?

Her bracers tightened, and she stepped sideways to lend momentum to her swing as they spun her around to sink the black blade of her sword into an oncoming zombie’s swinging arm. The blade cut straight through the limb and got stuck between its ribs, and Eltarri had to saw it free before she could again keep moving.

She wasn’t the biggest fan of superstitious villagers, but there was no way she was going to just waltz by to get to the vampires and let them get destroyed. She didn’t know where the priest who were supposed to be in charge were, but they certainly weren’t organizing the men, and as a famous general once said, “Together we stand, divided we fall.”

“Hey, guys!” She shouted as loudly as she could and was peeved when only a few heads turned, most belonging to languid zombies who emitted low groans and started plodding in her direction. “I meant the humans!”

She darted towards a throng of men who were swinging wildly at the several zombies that were attacking each, neither one worrying about how close they came to chopping off the head of the comrade beside them. Eltarri came up from behind and pushed her sword through the stomach of one of the two zombies that was on one of the men, wrenching it free to lop off its head before impaling the other to hold it still while the burly man it was attacking bashed its head in with a pair of forge hammers. His eyes met hers when the thing had toppled.

“Thanks,” he said in a burly voice that carried easily to her ears over the din, half turning to step around her to charge into another fight. Eltarri unthinkingly stuck her sword out to block him, making his eyebrows rise warily in question.

“We need to be organized!” She shouted. The man frowned in reply. “The villagers are getting massacred because nobody is telling them how to work together. We need to get people organized!”

“I heard you the first time,” he said gruffly, his eyes sweeping the area around him, “but we’re not soldiers. We’re farmers and blacksmiths and butchers and bakers. We don’t have nobody to lead us.”

Eltarri knew they didn’t have much time before more zombies found them. She lowered her sword and stepped closer so that she wouldn’t have to yell.

“Why can’t you lead them?”

He gave her a look that made her feel stupid.

“Well, I certainly can’t do it,” she snapped irritably, watching as a zombie caught sight of them and started lumbering in their direction. “I’m the only female in a ten-mile radius who isn’t trying to eat other people.”

He used the butt of one of his hammers to scratch at his red beard. “So?”

Eltarri rolled her eyes. Now was certainly not the time to expound on systemic sexism in medieval civilization. “My voice isn’t loud enough for anyone to hear me, and I wouldn’t know what I was talking about anyway.”

He stepped away from her with a murmured apology to clap his hammers against either side of the head of an approaching zombie, and Eltarri took the opportunity to help one of the other men nearby. When she turned around again, the hammer-toting blacksmith was back with new flecks of gore spattered on his beard and a thoughtful expression on his face.

“My name’s Plank,” he rumbled with a grin. “But for now, you can call me Voice, because that’s what I’m going to be. What do we need to do?”

Taken aback by the burden of responsibility that he had so willingly dropped on her shoulders, Eltarri took a second to think, racking her brains to come up with some clever means of keeping a bunch of untrained and swordless soldiers alive. She stood on tiptoes to scan the area to get an idea of what was going on all around her. Then she turned back to Plank, trying to make herself sound more confident than she felt. “Tell all the villagers to retreat and line up, so that the zombies are facing a wall of people instead of solitary attackers. The only way we're going to survive this is if everybody's working together.” She wished the priests and militants had gotten that lesson drilled into them during their training.

Plank nodded in agreement and lifted his chin to bellow the message over the noise. Standing mere feet away from her, Eltarri worried for a moment that the force of his voice might ruin her ears again, but the majority of the men that she saw glanced back as he began to holler. She just hoped that they'd do what he said. Her attention was distracted by two dark figures that were swooping out of the sky like birds of prey from hell, advancing with more intent than the last strange monsters had. She got an idea of their target a moment later when Elijah’s voice rang out, and as much as Eltarri wanted to turn around and worry just about the zombie-fighting humans, the blue-haired man had saved her life, and she reluctantly had to admit that she owed him a favor.

“Sorry, Plank, you’re on your own,” she yelled to the heavy-set man before charging away. She dodged zombies as best she could, but she still ended up having to dispatch several as she made her way towards Elijah. The pair of monstrosities was getting closer, and Eltarri knew she wasn’t going to get to him before they did.

Two more zombies seemed to spring out of the ground in front of her, and she could only shout apologetically before she had to worry about keeping their reaching arms away from her face.

“I’m coming, Elijah!”

[Christoph]

Malachi tightened his grip on his blood-soaked quarterstaff, leveling his green eyes at his adversary. He thought that he’d heard the chef-magician say something, but he wasn’t listening. For twenty-five years, he’d prepared for this moment. Since the night that his family was taken and he was left in the forest to die, he had been waiting. Since the moment that his parents were murdered just outside of Tirel and their bodies violated by the vampire Kincaid the divine warrior had awaited the night that he possess the power to avenge his family and all the other innocent lives that the vampiric monster destroyed. The fact that he was doing so in the name of the Ethereal Sway meant little to him. This was personal.

Perhaps it was his destiny; perhaps it wasn’t. It didn’t matter. Fate was meaningless when compared to the power of desire; and no desire was stronger or more all consuming than that for vengeance. He started for the vampire, the abomination, taking long, purposeful steps. The rest of the battle disappeared around them as they approached his family’s murderer. His slow strides quickly shifted into a lightning sprint.

As he closed the distance, he could see his foe’s face. There was no expression of fear or surprise, nor was there one of anger or confusion. Instead, Kincaid’s eyes held a spark of recognition and his face a smile of the most malevolent amusement. He knew exactly who Malachi was, and he was laughing. The priest grit his teeth. Even with the frigid air whipping through his hair, he was sweating more than he ever had in his life.

Malachi’s first blow came before the vampire even drew his sword. The slick staff snapped forward, slicing through the air in a strike too swift for mortal eyes to follow. Kincaid’s eyes, however, were anything but mortal. As fast as the attack was, the vampire saw it coming and ducked just in time. He spun to the side and drew his sword in a single fluid motion before making a counter attack. The gleaming blade flashed with supernatural light as it connected with the other end of Malachi’s staff, mere inches from the priest’s thigh.

His blood-sucking foe didn’t let the duel stagnate for a moment. He lashed out in a flurry of attacks, each one lighting up the forest like bolts of lightning. Malachi was forced back, desperately parrying each strike inches before the blade reached his flesh. It was a vicious dance, and the tempo was increasing. Kincaid came in for a thrust; the priest parried in down just in time.

Crack!

The vampire’s undead fist impacted the side of Malachi’s very living skull. The force of the punch sent the warrior priest spinning backwards and to the ground. Carefully honed combat reflexes took over as his vision failed him. He rolled to the side, narrowly escaping Kincaid’s demonic blade. Trusting his instincts, the holy struck out with his foot mid-roll, kicking the side of the vampire’s jaw with a crack almost as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be.

Malachi scrambled to his feet, deflecting a few more blows with little more than luck. He jumped backward, out of his foe’s sword range. He knew that he was over his head. Already, his breath was ragged and short while his undying adversary had no need for air at all. He kept going backwards as Kincaid advanced after him, praying to the gods that he didn’t run into any zombies.

Desperate, he realized that he had but one card left to play. The meager gap he created was closing quickly. Not stopping his retreat, Malachi produced three small stones from his cloak. Arcane runes of destruction, justice, and fire were respectively etched onto the grey surface of each one. He grinned harshly and hurled all three at once. They detonated in a vicious explosion, spreading a wave of fire over the shocked vampire.

It was only a moment, though, before the shock quickly passed to Malachi as Kincaid flipped backward away from the magically generated inferno. His grace was beyond that of any acrobat. The priest cursed as the slightly scorched vampire started for him again with a murderous snarl on his face, the arcane markings on his blade glowing . He was out of options and almost out of hope when he heard marching footsteps behind him. They were all uniform; it was the militia!

Then he realized that he wasn’t the only one to notice them. Kincaid sprinted forward, clearly not wanting his prey to escape. Behind him, the gate of the tower opened, spewing forth a swarm of gruesome creatures made from slabs of flesh sewn together with hooks for hands. Crossbows fired from the militia. Most of the bolts flew into the undead mass, but several went into the vampire’s stomach and shoulders. He shrugged them off and continued forward.

Malachi struck out with his staff, but this time the vampire lord caught the steel-shod shaft in his free hand. Kincaid yanked the staff from the warrior’s hands like a parent stripping a child of a toy. Malachi tried to run, but the vampire was too fast. He felt his own staff strike his ribs and he heard the metal bindings on his staff creak and bend and the wood splinter and crack. The world faded into a sea of blackness and agony.


* * * * *

Chris was perfectly happy to let Malachi charge past him in the direction of the vampire lord. There was nothing that he wanted more than to allow the task of vanquishing the blood-drinker to be someone else’s problem while he watched from a distance. Unfortunately, his stint as a spectator was short-lived. More and more zombies seemed to be appearing from every shadow. The fact that they came toward him in a fairly thin trickle limited the threat they posed, but they were as irritating as they were disgusting.

By the time he heard a series of three explosions followed by the unmistakable woosh of igniting flame, the tower was just barely in Chris’s sight. The chef sprinted back to his hill, slicing down a few more of the rotting, lumbering beasts along the way. From his vantage point, he could see the tight militia formation advancing on the tower gates. He could see the dark form on Kincaid pressed against the wall of the gothic structure nearest Chris, shielding his blazing eyes from a patch of white fire and gripping a glowing blade in his hand. The pyromancer could see a polluted river of abominations, twisted and hideous even by undead standards, swarming out of the tower’s black iron gates and into the ranks of living soldiers. What, rather who, he couldn’t see was Malachi.

“This… is so very, very bad.” Chris swallowed hard. Malachi was gone and the vampire still lived. He shuddered to think of the power and skill that it must have taken to defeat the warrior priest. The only consolation was that Kincaid seemed to be drained and injured, but even one without Chris’s keen perception of magical energies would have been able to see that the creature was recovering. It would only be a matter of time before the undead lord rejoined the fray, tipping the perilously balanced scales against the beleaguered militia regiment.

And what about that sword? The chef’s eyes were drawn magnetically to it. There was no doubt that the blade that the vampire wielded was magical. The glyphs and runes covering the weapon glowed with devastating magical power. Such a weapon would only make the mighty vampire even more dangerous. If Malachi didn’t stop him, who would?

“Damn, someone needs to stop him before this entire operation gets screwed. I guess I’ll have to—NO!” He growled at himself, and shook his head furiously. “No, no, no! Why should I fight the vampire and get torn limb from limb? What chance would I possibly stand? More importantly, why am I talking to myself?”

He sighed and gazed grimly down at the recovering vampire. If he were going to have any chance at all, he would need to act right away. Perhaps if he snuck down the hill and hit the vampire with every ounce of fiery wrath he could muster while the unholy creature was still weakened, he could even the odds and prove victorious. It was his only chance. He was probably going to die.

Without giving himself a chance to second-guess his decided course of action, Chris ran down the hill. He arced wide, staying well away from the battle. He wondered briefly if anyone in the militia army knew that Malachi had been defeated. He wondered whether Elijah or that girl were still alive, and if they were, whether they had stuck around for the battle or if they’d just snuck off to go make out in the forest somewhere away from it all. Given his current circumstances, the chef wouldn’t have blamed them for choosing the latter. Better that than fighting a vampire.

To his amazement, Chris reached the base of the tower without being noticed by any of the zombies or the vampire. After looking at the black structure from so close, he was amazed that such a massive thing could have been hidden for so long right under the noses of the townsfolk.

He inched along the wall of the tower, gathering his magical energies and doing his best to tune out the din of the nearby battle. The noise grew louder and Chris could smell singed flesh and cloth. He was close. Without a second though, the chef darted out, away from the tower. He angled toward the battle and formed a large blue fireball in his hand, larger than he’d ever made before – twice the size of his head. He hurled it without hesitation the instant he saw the vampire.

The glowing ball of blue destruction streaked through the cold air, leaving a trail of steam and smoke in its wake. Kincaid spotted it just in time, though, and sidestepped out of the way just in time to avoid the brunt of the spell. It was only a minor setback, as he was still hit by the explosion. With flames singing his target, Chris knew that he couldn’t let up now unless he wanted to lose his advantage. He threw another fireball, this one smaller, at the still off-balance vampire lord, hitting his squarely in the torso.

The unholy being doubled over, letting out a bloodcurdling hiss of a scream that cut through the night air and carried across the entire battlefield. Chris was about to grin when Kincaid straightened his posture and started forward. It was just another minor setback. Want some more? The chef chuckled menacingly and stabbed his sword into the dirt. He’d hurt the vampire; that much was certain. He would just need to do it more. Taking a step toward Kincaid, the pyromancer focused every ounce of available magical energy and unleashed a swirling inferno of sapphire fire with more power than he’d ever put into a spell before.

The blaze engulfed its target, swallowing the vampire whole. Kincaid’s tormented scream pierced the heavens and resonated in the Chris’s skull. The pyromancer didn’t let up until his energies failed him, causing the spell to fizzle out. By the time he was done, the sleeves and hems of his chef coat were singed and the vampire was little more than a sizzling, blackened humanoid husk. Even that was impressive, as any mortal would have surely been burnt to ash.

Chris gasped for air, the severity of his exertion hitting him all at once. He pulled his sword from the ground and walked toward his fallen opponent, intent on making absolutely certain that the creature would never rise again. He only got within four steps, however, when the vampire’s hand clenched around the hilt of the magical sword. Kincaid was still alive! This was a major setback.

[Elijah_Morendale]

Bunny approved

Fight-fatigue was starting to overcome me, there were a set of nasty scratches pouring blood on our face, and there were now two gargoyles descending upon the battlefield, their glowing eyes locked on me with a murderous intent that felt all too familiar.

Aw hell ass bitch fuck damn shit balls, this is going to suck majorly.

I called out again to the elf and the chef again, but didn't get an answer other than the sound of a mob of villagers wrecking shop with an army of zombies. The stone creatures increased their speed, and I found myself backpedaling, my hands shaking ever-so-slightly as I raised my katana to a frontal defensive position. "Hammer brother," I screamed. "Some fucking help, if you will!"

Screw it. I turned around and started zig zagging throughout the clearing. My only hope was that when one of those bastards dive bombed me, I'd luck out and escape at the last minute as they crashed into the dirt beside me. I looked over my shoulder at the midnight sky, and saw that they separated. This is going from bad to worse, I thought to myself as the one I could see swooped down, its sharp stone claws extended. I rolled out of the way as it sailed harmlessly over my head, but as I stood up the second one caught me before I could react.

I had to be thankful for Elijah's chain mail vest; for without it the gargoyle's claws would've dug themselves several inches into my chest, which probably would've hurt. The gargoyle thrust his arm forward as he returned to the sky, sending me a good fifteen feet back. I landed on the hard packed dirt with a crunch, the impact knocking the wind completely out of me. My vision went dark for a brief second as I laid there, mouth agape, trying desperately to regain control over our body. Struggling, I rose to one knee as I caught sight of one of the gargoyles descending upon me, like some bird of prey who was targeting a baby rabbit. A swift dodge was out of the question--I didn't really have the energy. I decided to focus what little power I could into crafting a thick sheet of ice around my balled up fist.

I cracked a small, tired grin as the creature flew at me, arms stretched out and ready for another pass at my life. With the gargoyle several feet from my face, I fell over and let a frozen uppercut fly at its stone jaw. With a satisfying crunch, I could feel the creature buckle from my blow. Chunks of granite and ice sprayed into my face as it howled in pain. The gargoyle broke its flight path, deciding to crash into a nearby tree.

I continued to rise to my feet as the gargoyle picked itself up from the shattered tree trunk. It slowly turned around, its thick gray lips curled in anger, sharp stone teeth bared and ready to tear through my flesh. With inhuman speed, the creature rushed at me. I froze out of fear, unable to even bring up my katana. I quickly closed my eyes and expected death, but a sickening thud and another powerful screech made me realize that I wasn't going to escape this fight that easily. I opened my eyes to see the gargoyle hunched over the thick blade of the elf girl's massive sword, debris scattered all over the ground. Eltarri withdrew her sword, leaving the stone creature to slump over, bereft of life.

The pretty elf girl looked at me, as I energetically danced over to her as if there was nothing wrong with me. "Thanks for the save, girl," I whispered into her ear with a smile before departing. Turning back towards the main portion of the fray, I opted to conserve my strength by ducking out of zombies' ways instead of hacking off limbs. Sure, I'd occasionally decapitate some random animated corpse, but I was able to keep myself in check for the most part. While I was weaving my way around the battlefield, wary about the second gargoyle that luckily found other fleshbags to tear apart, I heard a new kind of commotion coming from the tower's direction.

Curious, I poked my head above the battling masses to see another type of monster pour out. Scowling, I wondered how many more tricks this fucking vampire had up his sleeve. This particular breed was far more disgusting than the zombie horde: The abominations were constructed of random body parts, sewn together like patchwork dolls. Their hands were replaced with some very sharp and dangerous-looking meathooks, and they wasted no time proving to the townspeople that they weren't there for aesthetic purposes. The slackers who didn't get out of their way were stabbed and cut to ribbons, the small fountains of blood shimmering in the moonlight.

It took a second for me to realize that the big monk with the hammer was standing next to me, grimly surveying the spectacle. He stood there, his elegant blue robes slightly stained by the gore of the battle. The agent tightly gripped his weapon, turned to me and nodded. I flashed a toothy, slightly demonic smile, my eyes . "I can't say I've had this much fun in a long time."

It was then that I spotted the chef off in the distance. He was taking a few frightened steps back as someone who looked like they took a skinny dip in a volcano slowly stood up and advanced. The agent's eyes lit up--I could only assume that he knew who the fried husk of proteins was. He looked around a little bit, worriedly muttering to himself about his other agent friend, the one who dragged me, Elijah, the chef, and the elf into this whole mess. He clenched his fists tighter around the shaft of his hammer as he blindly charged towards the chef and his assailant.

Unfortunately for him, however, his highly masculine and bad-ass war cry caught the attention of a group of the meathook guys. They immediately converged upon him. The agent swung his hammer ruthlessly, catching several of the things dead center in the chest and sending them flying into the air with crushed ribcages. And yet, I watched as their numbers grew and grew, to the point where they easily overwhelmed the warrior priest. He cried out in great pain as they repeatedly drove their hooks into his body, tearing out huge chunks of flesh and muscle. His blood was everywhere, coating the creatures in a thin crimson mist. Not long after the struggle had begun, his anguish faded into the sounds of the battle.

It was beautiful.

[Chiroptera]

Eltarri’s breath was going in and out of her mouth in wheezy pants by the time she’d recovered from killing—if that was the right word—the gargoyle. She’d seen Elijah on his knees and hadn’t really thought about anything except getting to him before the grey monstrosity did. Luckily for her, the bracers on her forearms were far more in tune with the situation, and though her pell-mell dash only put her in front of Elijah just as the winged creature reached him, her arms moved of their own accord to sling her sword into the creature’s path, bracing her for the grating impact of iron against stone.

She stood for a moment after Elijah’s unexpectedly energetic departure, trying to regain her cool and hoping that her blade wasn’t chipped.

“Don’t mention it,” she muttered after the blue-haired man before hefting her sword up and tracing her route back to the villagers. They hadn’t moved far distance-wise, but even at a single glance she could tell that progress had been made. The majority of the men were gathered together, shoulder to shoulder in an outward-facing circle that was moving in slow, measured steps towards the castle. The circle was constantly shuffling, rotating slowly as it moved so that different men were always on the frontward-facing side. It was slow going, but there was an energy to their movements, a new vigor to their swings that seemed to show that they, at least, were feeling better about the battle.

“Plank!” Eltarri rested the hilt of her sword against her shoulder so that she could cup her hands around her mouth to yell, but her voice still didn’t come anywhere near loud enough to be heard over the din of the screaming militia and the strange creatures that sprang from the tower. Vampires turned mindlessly at her call, though, and she quickly took up her sword again and hacked her way closer, trying to ignore the stench of blood and rotting flesh that got more pronounced as she drew closer to the castle. She skirted the circle and then ducked nearer to it when she found the tall, red-haired blacksmith, whose forcefully swinging arms kept even the humans beside him at a wary distance.

Eltarri pulled her sword free from the falling corpse of a zombie and waved her hands to show that she wasn’t undead as she got nearer.

“Plank, how’s it going?” she shouted.

The big man grinned when he saw her and stepped backwards into the middle of the circle, motioning for her to follow. She edged in after him and the men moved closer together to shut the gap behind her. It was like being in the eye of a tornado or a magician’s circle, completely safe from harm as long as she stayed within the boundaries of the warring men.

Plank was beaming. “It’s going great! We haven’t lost a single man since we started this circling technique. No one gets too much action at the front, and we’re still managing to move closer like we were told.”

Eltarri nodded, biting her lip in thought as she stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of the men. “It’s great, Plank, but I don’t think we’re moving fast enough. There’s all kinds of weird things coming out of that tower, and we need to clear the pathway for the priests as soon as possible.”

She wasn’t sure that it was the priests who needed to be let into the tower, but they were as likely of candidates as any to be responsible for invading the vampire’s lair. Then again, Chris was a fireball-tossing pyromancer, and Elijah could apparently turn his hand into rock-crushing ice when the mood took him. She pushed away nagging dismay over her own magical ineptitude. The men surrounding her were human, for crying out loud, and they were still doing their part, and they didn’t even have any magical devices, let alone legitimate weapons. Who was she to complain about being underarmed?

“I see what you’re saying,” Plank rumbled, his eyebrows lowered with worry. They had to walk slowly to keep pace with the circle, and he waited a few seconds before continuing. “We could try to move faster.”

Eltarri shook her head. The last thing they needed was a fifty-man pile-up as all the humans tripped over themselves and each other in their haste to move more quickly. “I think we need to try a more aggressive structure.”

“Like what? The zombies keep popping up on every side.”

Eltarri’s eyes narrowed in thought. “We need an arc, like a half-moon . . .”

“What about our backside?”

“We’ll move faster if we have more men up front facing the way we’re headed—”

“And in back . . .?” Plank persisted.

Eltarri shrugged. “They’re coming less heavily from behind. If we had just a few people sweeping along the back and knocking off the zombies that get too close, we could get through them and just pick off the stragglers.”

Plank thought for a moment, then nodded with a grin. “That could work, as long as people with long-ass swords are doing the sweeping.”

Eltarri grimaced in reply, and Plank started shouting, his booming voice making the men that surrounded them pause, their attention immediately turned to him. They dispatched the zombies nearest to them and moved back as a unit, separating themselves from the melee and giving themselves a few seconds before the confused zombies could advance.

“New formation, boys,” Plank hollered. “We’re plowing loose soil!”

“Cornfield or potato?” asked one of the men.

“Potato all the way!”

The distinction meant nothing to Eltarri, but the men moved immediately, the circle splitting at the back to fan out into a line that bulged out towards the tower. Eltarri and Plank were left with a twenty-foot space of land between the men on opposites sides of the line.

“Gee up!” Plank boomed, and the line began to move forward more quickly than it had been before. Their faster pace moved them towards the castle, but it left more zombies on their flanks who followed after them with outstretched arms and mournful moans. Plank’s eyes burned feverishly as he glared at the undead approachers. “Ready, sweeper?”

She realized then that it would only be the two of them keeping the straggling zombies from attacking the villagers from behind. Before she could voice her objections, though, Plank was off, charging towards an approaching zombie with hammers lifted high and a gutteral bellow pouring from his mouth. For a moment Eltarri couldn’t move, overwhelmed by the responsibility that had been thrust upon her. Why would anyone trust her with the lives of all these men? The irrelevance of the question made her shake her head with self-deprecation, and she gave a moderately ferocious war cry in compensation as she hefted her sword and headed for a zombie.

The ragtag army moved steadily forward, hacking their way through scores of zombies and gaining considerable ground at last as the men worked together to forge through their assailants. Eltarri was usually too distracted by zombies that lumbered after the advancing army to take much notice of their progress, but when she paused for a moment to catch her breath and glanced in the direction that the villagers were heading, she was shocked to see that they were almost at the foot of the tower, close enough to see the individual rocks that made up its grim façade.

"Plank!" Her lungs burned from having had to run back and forth across the open end of the formation, and her voice barely carried to the blacksmith, who was still joyously pounding his hammers into the heads and torsos of following zombies. "PLANK!"

He turned at her second call and came over to her, his head swiveling to keep an eye out for approaching zombies. "What's the plan?"

Eltarri blinked. The plan? How was she supposed to know what the plan was?

"Um . . . let's . . ." she searched her mind quickly. How could they be the most useful without having to engage in suicidal vampire attacks? These men could fight fine against the lumbering zombies, but vampires were fast and smart and could certainly kill humans off by the boatload if they weren't careful. Their manpower was certainly necessary, but she wasn't going to let them become martyred as a distraction. "We need to get into the tower."

"Into the tower?" His bushy eyebrows rose, but his eyes flickered over her shoulder to a zombie that was making its way towards the men on the line.

"Yeah, we need to clear the doorway as best we can and try to get in. Keep the men organized, but change the formation so that we're clearing a way for the militia and the priests. Can you do that?"

Plank nodded firmly, already hefting his hammer as he stepped around her. "Without a doubt."

Eltarri watched him topple a zombie before he started bellowing orders again. She didn't understand all the imagery that he used, but a moment later the line was morphing as the men moved with something that bordered on precision into new formations that made their advances all the more effective. The villagers were making headway, but where was everybody else? She wanted to take the time to search out her strange new companions to see if they were still alive, but skirmishes ranged across the grounds, and the sky was still too dark for clear vision.

An energized voice started talking, loud enough to seem as though the speaker were right next to her ear. "You gonna stand there sky-gazing or are you gonna kill some zombies?"

Eltarri gave the blacksmith a withering glance and followed him back into the battle.

[Christoph]

Fire. It was the bane of the Unliving. It consumed him, singing his flesh, boiling his blood, and threatening to extinguish the stolen life that he’d spent centuries guarding so jealously. He fell to his knees. Was this was hell felt like? If so, he never wanted to go there. The fire stopped, only to be replaced with an even more excruciating pain as the icy Salvic wind hit his charred undead flesh. Kincaid snarled as his strength faded. He grit his teeth defiantly, unwilling to have met his end at the hands of a puny mortal magician.

Then, he felt some of his vitality return to him. Invisible tendrils of energy seeped from the sword, up his arm, and coiled around his dead heart like a soothingly cold serpent. It was as though he was being driven by spite alone. Or perhaps the arcane blade was not ready to let its master’s fall just yet.

Kincaid stood, a grin forming on his mangled face at the sight of the boy’s shocked, frightened expression. The temptation to laugh maniacally and shoot off a menacing one-liner such as ‘your corpse will join the ranks of my legion’ was great. He wasn’t that sort of villain, though. There would be plenty of time for an evil monologue after ripping upstart’s throat and draining his blood; there would be plenty of time to savor his enemies’, rather, his cattle’s, death after killing them.

The boy in the chef coat began backing up quickly. Not so fast. Kincaid sprung forward, despite his injuries, slashing out repeatedly. The chef continued backward, parrying desperately. He had some skill, and the vampire was still sluggish after having exerted himself in his battle against the priest – not to mention the agonizing burns covering his body.

Kincaid snarled as the pyromancer retreated and evaded. He lashed out with his claws angrily, raking across the boy’s chest. The scent of blood tingled his nostrils and threatened his self-control. Only through strength of will did he contain his thirst. The boy cried out as the vampire’s claws tore more of the boy’s flesh. Kincaid wondered if he would scream louder before dying. The boy started to panic as the undead lord closed in. Good. It was a shame that he lacked the time to truly savor it. Killing could be so boring if one couldn’t take the time to enjoy it.

The vampire swung his sword in a powerful vertical strike. The chef blocked desperately with his puny sword, his knees almost buckling under the force of the blow. Kincaid smiled as the boy’s eyes went wide and he struck again. The mortal managed to parry again, but the strength of the attack was such that the dueling sword gave out against the vampire’s enchanted blade. He cursed as the broken have of his sword fell to the ground, glittering on an exposed rock.

A swift kick sent the boy flying several feet back. Kincaid was upon him in an instant, sword poised to plunge into his enemy’s chest. Victory was close. His nightmarish minions were already devouring the puny mortal soldiers. Soon, these upstarts would learn to remember their places as the cattle of the immortals. He raised his blade to finish the boy off. He would greatly enjoy feasting on his flesh.

Suddenly, Kincaid felt a piercing pain in his back as something drove past his spin and through his ribcage, into his black, atrophied heart. The agony from his burns multiplied three-fold. His body went rigid and he fell, paralyzed, to the ground. His sword and the dark gods had forsaken him. The moon cast the cloaked shadow of a ghost upon him.

* * * * *

As the two hundred surviving villagers entered the fray alongside the beleaguered and breaking militia, the tides immediately turned. The extra weight of numbers pushed the swarm of twisted abominations back to the black tower. Pitchforks and torches, swords and spears; they broke through the final bastion of the undead legion. Moans and inhuman hisses mingled with war cries and heavy, panting breath, creating a bloody, stinking harmony with the sounds of splattering flesh.

The unholy army launched a series of desperate counter-attacks, but practically bounced off of a wall of shields, spears, and pitchforks. With someone finally leading it, the disorganized army of townsfolk had transformed into an implacable front, pushing the zombie hoard back to the tower. Unearthly screeches and inhuman gurgling moans clashed against panting breath and human shouts.


The one being in the forest that could turn the tables against the humans once again was Vampire lord, but he was nowhere to be seen. Without their master in sight, the abominations broke before long. The clamor of battle faded as the cheers of victory rose, echoing between the gnarled trees and filling the dark forest.

* * * * *

“What the…?”

A bewildered Chris staggered to his feet as the creature that should have been the cause of his certain death suddenly fell to the ground in front of him. He lurched forward, his legs shaking under his weight. This couldn’t be right. Had all of the Vampire’s injuries done him in at last? Then, the chef saw the broken half of a staff with iron bindings literally peeled sticking out of Kincaid’s back. It had pierced directly between his shoulder blades, stabbing into his heart.

Staked through the heart? Well damn… Chris’s eyes were finally attracted by the cloaked figure behind the fallen undead warrior.

“Malachi?” asked Chris, seeing the familiar green eyes. “Where were you? When you vanished, I’d just assumed that you were dead.” The warrior priest laughed.

“By all rights, I should be,” replied Malachi, showing the chef the other half of the staff. “The last thing I remember is getting my rip cage smashed in by my own staff. It cracked the wood, too. But yet…” He pulled his cloak back, revealing a perfectly intact torso.

“That’s not possible,” stated Chris, disbelief painted on his face clearer than the blood splotches. “Sorcery?” The priest laughed.

“I believe that my Gods decided that it wasn’t my time yet,” stated Malachi. “Whatever plans they have for me, they didn’t involve me meeting my end at the hands of an aristocratic vampire.” The chef couldn’t help but scoff, forgetting for a moment that he was talking to a priest of the Ethereal Sway.

“Oh come on,” asked Chris, incredulous. “You don’t actually believe that, do—” It didn’t take more than a stern glare from Malachi to shut the pyromancer up. “Oh, right… I guess you do.”

“Yes, I do.” The two of them stood in awkward silence for several moments.

“Um… so I guess the battle is ours, then,” stated chef.

Malachi nodded. “It would seem so. The identifiable dead are already being gathered up, and everyone else, including the zombies’ remains, are being hauled to a large ravine a few hundred yards behind the tower. We’ll be burning them.”

“That definitely sounds like a good idea,” he replied. “And… thank you for saving my miserable ass.” The priest smirked.

“Oh, it looked like you had it under control, judging by all those scorch marks on the beast.”

“Well, I do have a few tricks…”

Malachi chuckled. “Remind me never to piss you off.” Chris cringed slightly before looking down at the seemingly dead Kincaid.

“Right, I’d better make sure that he doesn’t get up again,” said the chef, reaching down for the Vampire’s ornate sword. He felt a surge of power rush through his arm the moment his hand clenched around the hilt. With a single fluid motion, Chris severed the creature’s head from his shoulder. “This is a nice sword…” He grinned, feeling the strange energy flow through him. The hilt seemed to melt into his fingers. Malachi’s expression, however, was far more apprehensive, though Chris couldn’t be bothered to notice. The runes and glyphs covering the blade still glowed faintly, burning into his eyes.

“That sword is evil, Chris,” said the priest, taking a step toward him. “It’s dangerous. We will need to get rid of it.” The chef didn’t respond, his gaze still locked on the blade. “Chris? Chris! ”

The pyromancer jumped with a start. “Ah! You’re right. We… this sword needs to be disposed of…”

Malachi nodded. "As it is, I don't know how to destroy it." He paused thoughtfully. "We'll have to throw it into the ravine and burry it with all the bodies before we burn them. The pile of charred remains and ash should be enough to keep it hidden until I can send for some experts to take care of it for good."

"Why don't you just take it," asked Chris, raising and eyebrow and held the sword out -- albeit reluctantly -- to the priest. "Why not just keep it in your possession and protect it yourself?" The priest started to reach for the blade almost too quickly, but then recoiled, expertly-concealed fear in his eyes.

"No. That would be unwise," he stated at last. "Follow me, this is how it has to be.

[Elijah_Morendale]

"Well, I just had the best fifteen minutes of your life."

Nadia's voice was the first thing I heard as I regained consciousness. My eyes slowly recovered from Nadia's control, colors and shapes gradually taking form. I was seated on a small knoll, my clothes stained by even more blood. Not far from me, I could see the villagers celebrating their victory over the vampire lord. Suddenly, a wave of pain washed through me. I winced as I clutched my chest. "Why does it feel like I've been hit in the ribs with a heavy rock," I implored through clenched teeth.

"Because you were. Derrr."

The psychotic redhead told me everything--how a we narrowly avoided death at the claws of a couple gargoyles, all the zombie slaying that went down, the patchwork creatures with hook hands that tore apart the poor priest who carried around that giant hammer, how Chris torched the vampire with his fire magic, Eltarri's save... It was too much for me to take in, so I kind of tuned out her excited storytelling as I watched the villagers holler and dance around in victory. I tried to smile, but felt a twinge of pain in one of my cheeks. I felt the area, dismayed to find that my skin had been sliced open. I tenderly touched the area again and thought about using one of the two potions I carried around with me to heal it up.

"No!" Nadia stayed my hand. "I think they make you look more mysterious and bad-ass." Pausing for a moment, I thought to agree with her. I looked around some more for Chris and Eltarri, finding no sign of them. Rising to my feet, I began to navigate the sea of corpses. A few of the villagers hit me on the back, commending me on my "work". I chuckled weakly and returned the kind gesture. I guess they all got use to Nadia's unorthodox fighting style when she did a great deal to help them out in their cause.


***

After a while, everyone returned to the village for a celebration. The survivors packed themselves like sardines into the inn that I tried to get into before this whole mess started. The cramped tavern only served to amplify the noise, causing me to develop a nasty headache. Several oil lamps illuminated the room, sending shadows dancing along the walls. Bottles of wine and alcohol were being passed around the room to thirsty patrons by young women wearing blouses that did wonders to draw attention to their assets.

I found myself sitting by myself in the corner, quietly nursing a tall glass of water. Nadia was sitting on the edge of the table, kicking her feet playfully in the air, her deep red bangs still wild across her face. She tore up her own ensemble and splattered blood over her clothes, a gesture to make me not feel so bad about my own poor, stinky, beloved denim jacket (I was rushed into here before I could wash it out in a rain barrel). "So," my imaginary friend asked as she brushed her bangs behind one ear, "do you think it's all over?"

I crafted a small ice cube and dropped it into my water. "I hope so. I just want to get the hell out of this place." Slowly, I lifted the glass to my lips. The cold water felt refreshing on my lips and tounge.

[Chiroptera]

The battle was over before Eltarri had any idea that it was drawing to a close, the tide of bloodshed turned definitively against the undead monsters that had initiated it. The half-elf pulled her sword free from the crumbling ribs of a once-dead human and looking around with the surprising realization that there weren’t any more zombies to kill. The villagers had abandoned formation to chase down the stragglers in smaller groups; some were even joining the militia as they charged into the tower to make sure that every last trace of the vampire was eradicated from the forest.

Eltarri’s gaze roved the corpse-littered ground around her as she let the tip of her sword slowly lower to the ground. Was it over? Her hands were still shaking, but she couldn’t tell whether it was from fear or adrenaline. Bodies were strewn everywhere, but as far as she could see the majority of the living men were still upright, sheathing weapons, helping the injured, and grimly searching out survivors, decapitating the zombies that dragged themselves pathetically across the ground towards the nearest human in mindless obedience to the cause for which they’d been resurrected. Eltarri shuddered as a militiaman lopped off the head of a legless zombie that had been gnawing on the face of a freshly dead human. She didn’t want to know how many of the bodies on the ground had been alive—really alive— hours earlier that day. They’d accomplished their task, but how many people had died to achieve it? The vampire was dead, but at what price?

“Eltarri!”

She turned at the booming voice in time to face the barrel-like chest of the blacksmith, who caught her up in a huge, sweaty hug that cracked her ribs and made her eyes water. Plank set her down with a chuckle and grinned at her as she stumbled back coughing for breath. He swept out one arm towards the tower, beaming proudly at the villagers who were celebrating the victory.

“We did it,” he crowed, swinging one of his hammers as if there were still someone he needed to kill. “Can you believe it? The vampire’s dead! There won’t be no one to kill us off whenever he gets hungry!”

Eltarri made a noncommittal sound of agreement and bent to pick up her sword. When she straightened, Plank was staring at her with narrow-eyed disapproval.

“You don’t seem very happy about our victory,” he said reproachfully.

“I’m glad the vampire’s dead,” Eltarri said, “but it doesn’t feel like we really won. Look at how many people died.” He followed her vague wave towards the scattered corpses, his smile fading. Eltarri felt guilty for hindering his celebration. They had won, after all. People died in every war, didn’t they? She couldn’t understand why the logic didn’t make her feel better.

“I can’t speak for everyone,” Plank rumbled somberly, “but I know that I would be proud to have been one of the ones who died getting rid of the vampire. It’s thanks to them that we’re still alive right now.”

"Proud to have died?" She couldn't keep the incredulity out of her voice.

"Proud to have been killed for a good cause, yeah," Plank said. "There are worse things to die for, anyway."

Eltarri dropped her gaze and stepped away to find a zombie corpse whose clothes were still intact enough to wipe off her sword. When it was again hanging from the sling on her back, the half-elf moved towards the nearest clump of humans, who were hauling the bodies of slain comrades to the village or dragging the dismembered pieces of the zombies around the tower towards a ravine that cleaved the ground behind the looming spire. The men’s moods were subdued and respectful as they handled the bodies of their friends and neighbors, but a hint of triumph still lingered in their eyes, providing energy that made them move with a speed and efficiency that adrenaline couldn’t account for.

“No, let me get that for you.” A young man quickly sprang up beside her when she bent to pick up a detached arm. He snatched up the limb and tossed it onto a pile that was slowly growing a few feet away from her. “You should go back to the village. There’s probably some kind of celebration going on.”

Eltarri shook her head. Celebrating was the last thing in the world that she felt like doing. “I don't mind helping.”

The man shook his head politely and gave her an apologetic smile, but he didn’t move out of her way. “You fought beside us and proved yourself to be a formidable woman, but you are still a guest to our village. Please do us the honor of at least trying to enjoy your stay.”

It wasn’t a direct slight and his tone never strayed from being respectful, but the man’s meaning was clear to the half-elf. In his mind, women didn’t belong on the battlefield, and sending her away for the worst part of the process was a small step towards regaining the dignity that her very presence had snubbed. It was nothing personal— if anything, the men who nodded or smiled at her did so with almost deferential camaraderie—but the battle was over now, and life could return to its normal order.

Eltarri nodded curtly and turned away. It wasn't as if she wanted to play with dead bodies. There was a long procession of men returning to the village and she joined the line as unobtrusively as possible, staying to the fringe of the path and avoiding eye contact so that she wouldn't have to rack her brain for things to say. She reached the village without being bothered and saw that there was indeed a celebration going on. The inn was full of people and lamps had been hung from every available hook as if to banish any lingering shadows that might have been missed in the vampire eradication. The dead were being laid out on the streets wrapped in mismatched linens, and Eltarri looked away uncomfortably from the weeping women who sat by the covered corpses.

Children were running up and down the roads to bring buckets of water for the arriving fighters, and Eltarri snared one and washed her face and arms again, grimacing at the blood that dripped from her fingers. Her shoulder seemed to have stopped bleeding, so she didn't bother going to the women who sat with needle and thread to stitch up wounds. She didn't want to have to face them anyway, just in case it had been her lack of leadership that had caused a loved one's death. She knew it was slightly stupid to try to take the blame for all the villager deaths that had occurred during the battle, but she nonetheless felt responsible, and she avoided eye contact when walking past them. There was a long enough line for more serious injuries anyway.

Standing a few yards away from the rowdy inn, Eltarri watched men celebrating through the lit windows and asked herself whether she really wanted to go in. It would no doubt be daytime soon, and even though she was swaying with fatigue there would probably not be any free beds and she'd end up sleeping on the ground anyway. And even with the vampire and zombies supposedly eradicated, she still wanted to put as much distance between herself and this little village as she could as soon as possible. With enough walking, even the battle of last night could fade to the intensity of just another bad dream. And she still needed to find a wizard for her mother . . .

Eltarri had turned and taken a few steps down the road when she remembered that she hadn't said goodbye to her comrades in arms. The berserker, the blacksmith . . . even the pyromancer was less frightening in her mind than he'd been before. They'd fought together, risked their lives for each other, stood up against a malevolent force that they probably weren't really qualified to oppose, and if that didn't bring people together, what did? Sure, she'd probably leave alone and most likely would never see any of them again, but for the space of a few hours, they had been . . . friends? The hopeful realization made her wish she wasn't covered in zombie gore so that she could run back and give them all hugs. But stink or no stink, she wasn't about to leave without saying goodbye.

Inside the inn, Eltarri tried to keep her breathing as shallow as possible so that she wouldn’t be knocked out by the powerful odor of a multitude of sweating men in bloodstained clothes. She wormed through the celebrating masses until she reached a wall, then slid along the edge of the room until she reached a corner, where she stood while scanning the crowd for familiar faces. Where had Chris and Elijah gotten to?

She didn’t see anyone she recognized until her gaze dropped to the man who was sitting forlornly at the table right in front of her. The blue-haired man was drinking what looked like water, and by the look of his clothes he was definitely contributing to the foulness of the air. But it was better to be smelly with friends than pristine and alone, right?

Eltarri pulled the clasp on her harness and leaned her sword against the wall behind her before she flopped into one of the chairs at Elijah’s table and gave him a lopsided grin.

“Glad to see you survived," she said dryly.

((No spoils.))

[Christoph]

Chris had survived as well, but he was even less welcome to the thought of company than Elijah had been. It wasn’t homesickness, seeing as he was mere short weeks from his town. It wasn’t that he scorned the victory either, or that he was bitter for having fought for strangers. By all rights, doing such a noble deed should have made him feel good, and it did. He was happy for the town. He wasn’t the dark, quiet, brooding type. He’d always enjoyed the company of others.

So why this solitude?

The weary chef sighed. As much as he might deny it, Chris liked being the hero, but little had gone right that night. He had considered himself a potent individual and had admittedly gotten used to seeing others in awe of just a fraction of his power. Even Elijah, who had been harder to impress, respected the chef’s abilities. Here, though, even his best wasn’t good enough. Fire was the weakness of Vampires, yet even every ounce of energy he had wasn’t enough to vanquish the beast.

To be fair, he’d always been well aware that there were many forces out there in the world that were mightier than he was. However, knowing that and actually being thrown in the middle of it are two very different things. It was a humbling experience, as well as frightening. It was easy for him to think about sinister villains and beasts of unbelievable power from the depths of the hells when he could simply pretend that they were in some far away land, not right in his backyard.

“The more power you have, the more power you see,” Chris muttered to himself. He gazed at the starry sky. The thick blanket of clouds had drifted away like a film of smoke hiding the stubborn light of a thousand candles. Each star was small enough to pluck from the sky, and just one of them had more power than the entire world. He sighed. “The more power you see, the more you crave.” But where would he get that much more power? It was a question that he already knew that answer to. But could he go through with it? Once again, he already knew the answer. First, though, he would need to make an appearance at the Inn lest the others get suspicious. In a few more hours, the sun would be rising.

* * * * *

The cold Salvic wind swept across edges of the forest and through Malachi’s black hair, stinging his ears and nose painfully. On the bright side, at least he was still alive to feel it. That in and of itself would baffle him for the rest of his life. By all rights, he should have died. His chest cavity should have been smashed to dust like dried clay. The gods must have had plans for him. Why, if he hadn’t somehow risen again, that chef would have been killed; the vampire would have survived, the villager assault would have been crushed, and Xem’zûnd would still have had an agent within Salvar.

Malachi stopped sharply as he heard faint shuffling sound to his right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow dart from one tree to another. The priest cleared his throat.

“The lords of the night fear the dawn,” he called. A few moments of silence followed before the shadowy figure emerged from the night. “Good evening, brother Borris. It’s good to see a friendly face lurking in the shadows for once.”

“Well met, Malachi,” replied Borris, stepping into the moonlight. He was a graying old man, his face so heavily lined and scarred that it could have been carved from granite. His sky blue eyes were stern and distant. “But I was beginning to think that you’d had so much to drink that you didn’t notice me.” Malachi laughed and gripped the old man’s hand firmly.

“It’s good to see you, old friend,” said the young priest.

Borris nodded. “Aye, likewise. Now, for the business at hand.”

“The mission was successful,” Malachi replied. “My agents reported that he was definitely an agent of Xem’zûnd. Fortunately, Kincaid was vanquished and his tower purged.” His expression turned slightly grim. “Despite the fact that I almost died.” The old man’s eyes darted to the priest instantly.

“What? How?” he asked with a certain air of urgency. Malachi sighed and shrugged.

“That’s the strange part. I was fighting with the vampire, and he grabbed my staff from my hands and smashed it over my chest.” Borris tilted his head inquisitively. “The staff broke, Borris. I felt my chest shatter and collapse. Yet, less than twenty minutes later, I stood back up without a scratch or bruise on me.” He smiled softly. It was a smile that held an emotion very rare in such times: hope. “For whatever reason, that Gods must favor me. They must have a plan for me.” The older man sighed and shook his head.

“I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple,” he stated. Malachi raised an eyebrow, his optimism and hope starting to crumble in moments. “You are too important to the Church for us to allow you to die so easily.”

“What do you mean?”

“How old were you when you were rescued by the Ethereal Sway priests?” he asked.

“Five years old,” replied the young priest.

“Well, any other time we would have just taken you in and given you food and shelter, instead of inducting you into the Order. However, one of our eldest priests was on his deathbed and we needed someone to take his place as a seal-bearer. We chose you and began your preparation, part of which involved a dangerous enchantment designed to save your life. If what you said is true, then the enchantment has been used up at the worst possible time, with the civil war raging as it is. In fact, the time may come when we’re ordered to sneak all of the seal-bearers to Alerar to keep them safe.” A long silence stretched on for what seemed like hours. Only the wind remained, whispering doubt and fear into Malachi’s ear.

“So I’m one of these seal-bearers?” he asked at last. Brother Borris nodded. “But what, exactly, is being sealed away?” A trace of fear entered the old man’s hardened eyes like a vessel in foreign waters.

“It would suffice to say that Xem’zûnd’s war in Raiaera is the least of our worries.”

* * * * *

Where is it? He knew it was there; he could feel it.

Chris dug, almost frantically, through the endless heap of ashes and charred human remains that choked the dark ravine behind what was left of Kincaid’s tower. His white chef coat was caked with black. He would need to dispose of it and use his spare one until he got home, lest anything get suspicious. Chris couldn’t believe that he was doing this. He was digging through a giant crematorium. The smell was atrocious; it made him gag every few seconds. It would all be worth it soon enough.

It would need to be very soon, though. The first traces of morning light were kissing the purple horizon. It would be morning soon and Chris would need to be back at the inn before the others started to wake up.

I know it’s here…

“Ha!” he shouted as his hand closed around the familiar hilt to the magical sword. Immediately, coils of cold energy slithered up his arm, causing him to moan softly. A grin formed on his face as he climbed out of the ravine, mystical blade firmly in his grasp. And somewhere within the darkest pits of the abyss, a dark god laughed.


Spoil request: The Vampire's sword. It is a masterwork Prevalida longsword. It is covered with arcane runes and glyphs, though only one of them -- the one that feeds magical energy into its wielder -- is active. It also has a dark curse that will haunt Chris for a long time.

[Call me J]

I liked this thread a lot, but I didn’t love it. It seemed in many cases that all three of you have got your writing down to the point where you could turn in a 80+ score, but in practically every category there was something that stopped you from getting it. I’m not sure if this is your first time working in a thread this long and involved, but I did get that feeling, because it felt as though you made a lot of “rookie” mistakes even though none of you should really be considered “rookies” on the site any more. Anyhow, my comments may seem overly critical, but that is only because I’d really like to see all three of you turn in better quests in the future. There was absolutely nothing here that was bad, just many things that can be improved.

Total Score- 72.5

• STORY ~ 19/30

Continuity (7) ~ If I were to ever make a judging based on one post, Christoph’s conclusion to this thread would be worth a 10 for continuity. I really liked the sense of foreboding it gave me. However, the beginning of the quest would have scored considerably less, while Salvar is both Chris’ and Elijah’s homeland, that, in and of itself, does not tell me why they are there. Even though Chiroptera’s “traveling” rationale was not particularly creative, it worked, because it made Eltarri seem more real because she didn’t come out of the blue.

Setting (6) ~ There are two things that will help you get a very high setting score. First, I need to know what the setting is that the characters perceive, and second, I need to know how they interact with it. In the first category, you guys did more than a fair job. I really got a good sense of where you were at all times, and you incorporated many aspects of geography into your posts, but at the same time, I don’t think you did nearly as good job on the second of these two categories. The setting was described, and then mostly ignored, with a few limited exceptions. This is not just an issue of battle strategy, when you have a fire, if your characters are in Salvar and cold, why not have them warm their hands by it? Stuff like that helps bring the setting to life.

Pacing (6) ~ I really feel like the entire first fight in this thread was perfunctory. Outside of the beginning, the thread was paced really well, but it seemed that you guys had a bit of trouble getting started. More coordination could have helped you, either via PMs or just by having a much shorter initial altercation.

• CHARACTER ~ 21.5/30

Dialogue (7.5) ~ I feel that all three of you struggle sometimes with the issue of “cool dialogue” in a different way than most of the people I see. You seem so interested in making cool dialogue sometimes, I don’t know if it really is the most character and time appropriate dialogue. Keep in mind, you’re not getting graded here on how many witty quips you have, unless the situation calls for witty quips. There were a few times where I even felt the dialogue detracted from what you were trying to do in the rest of your posts. Elijah, you were the worst offender here, but in your defense, many times the dialogue helped get persona across.

Action (7) ~ There are two types of action that are leave impressions. The first are the good kind, where a player does something so creative that it impresses the reader. The second is the bad kind where the player does something so stupid it annoys the reader. This thread really had neither of these.

Persona (7) ~ I really felt like Chris came off as a bit flat in the early going, I’m not sure if this was because there were so many important NPCs and this was such an involved thread that it took a while for him to be really introduced, but I really felt as though I had to cobble together an impression of him as the thread goes on. This is somewhat problematic, because while even though I leave the thread with as much knowledge of the character as I might have had otherwise, I’m trying to learn about the character at a time when I’m supposed to already like him.

As for Chiroptera, Eltarri did not come across as particularly interesting or unique. I’m not sure if this is because you haven’t developed a deeper understanding of who your character is, or this thread didn’t allow you the same opportunities for character growth it really did for Elijah or Chris. If it’s the former, I think you should think long and hard about what makes Eltarri unique, aside from her rather unique lineage and facetious personality. You by no means did a bad job here, but like I said, I’m giving you the tips that will get you the really high scores.

Elijah, I think you need to work on more devices for character portrayal than just dialogue. Don’t get me wrong, you use dialogue very well, but it seems like you have to use it even in situations when it’s inappropriate because it’s the only way Elijah doesn’t seem generic. Please also see my notes in Clarity.

• WRITING STYLE ~ 24/30

Mechanics (10) ~ I follow the see no evil rule here. I saw nothing wrong, so I’m going to assume there was nothing wrong.

Technique (7) ~ I’m not sure how much I like the writing style used by Elijah, there is way too much use of slang for my tastes, considering that this is Althanas. I’m probably somewhat of a hypocrite for suggesting this, considering I have a character whose dialogue is inspired by the speech patterns of the Bromley Contingent, but I really feel like you rely too much on contemporary American colloquialisms.

Clarity (7) ~ I had no problems, outside of the occasional brevity issue with anyone but Elijah. Sometimes, it was a bit hard to figure out what was going on when everything was taking place within the character’s head, especially with the use of “imaginary” for Nadia, when something akin to “secondary personality” is more accurate.

• Wild Card (7) ~ This was a very nice quest. I feel that you all have a lot to be proud of here.

Spoils

Christoph receives 5304 EXP and his spoil.
Elijah_Morendale receives 3418 EXP and 754 GP
Chiroptera receives 4342 EXP and 754 GP

[Witchblade]

EXP and GP added!

Christoph is level 4, Chiroptera is level 3, Elijah is level 2!

Everyone levels up!