[i:358590ab8b]"Lift yer bow another inch, lad...."[/i:358590ab8b]

The mans breath froze as he spoke the words; whilst his student obediently elevated his longbow another inch, perfecting the aim, and damning the Stag, some sixty yards off into the forest.

[i:358590ab8b]"Now gently, put another tug o' pressure on the string...."[/i:358590ab8b]

The boy... no, the man; for any person who had seen what this man had seen, and done what he had done, could not be rightly called "boy", for that held too much innocence. The [i:358590ab8b]man[/i:358590ab8b] did as he was told, his breathing steady and constant...

[i:358590ab8b]"Now, son, kill the bugger...."[/i:358590ab8b]

Before the sentence had been finished, the arrow had whistled through the air, and struck the great Stag in its rear thigh. The beast let out a great howl of pain, and bolted, somewhat clumbsily, out of the clearing, back into the forest.

The man earnt himseld a punch from his mentor, and he fell to the ground.

[i:358590ab8b]"Ye fuckin' goose! Tha' were our feedin' fer a week! There'll be no meat this side o' the river now after that bleedin' yell. "

"Ah'm sorry Father! Must ha' been a gust o' the wind or somethin'!"[/i:358590ab8b]

The man, who in fact was nothing more than a fifteen year old boy, unlucky enough to see more death than anyone should, pushed himself to his feet, shielding his head - expecting a blow to push him back down, but it did not come. Instead, his adoptive Father, the Jarl of his clan, picked up the bow and started walking down the valleyside to the small stream at which the Stag had recently been drinking.

The boy, Alain, jumped after him, possessing all the agility and eagerness of a boy yearning to become a man in his Fathers eyes. In truth, behind his puppy-esque obedience, the boy was desperate to join his Father in battle; something in him called for it, begged for it. Though he could not admit it, he lusted to kill.

[i:358590ab8b]"Ah'm sorry Da', ah'll find ye another quarry... Ah promise..."[/i:358590ab8b]

His Father wheeled on him, and the look on his face made the boy stop dead.

[i:358590ab8b]"Do no' be hasty in yer promisin' Son. Ye'll be bound to yer words till yer death if ye learn aught fro' me, an' ah'll beat tha' into ye if ah ha' ta."

"Ah cry yer pardon, Da'...."

"Aye, ah forgive ye lad, but we still ha' problem o' food ta find fer yer Ma' to cook."

"Ah canna understand why ye still hunt fer yerself, Father? The men bring enough meat in fer the whole tribe..."

"Aye, but when a man will no' catch his own supper, he grows fat on his big arse and forgets about the outsides.... He forgets about the better things in life, boy."

"What ye mean, Da'?"[/i:358590ab8b]

His Father did not answer. He had ben down to sip from the stream, the water in his cupped hands did not reach his lips. It was not clear water; it was tainted.

[i:358590ab8b]"Down boy..."[/i:358590ab8b] The man waved at his son, speaking quietly, and pointed to an outcrop of rocks a few yards behind them. He trotted over to them himself and crouched down by his confused son.

[i:358590ab8b]"Wha' is it Da'?"

"The wa'er lad.... bloodied...."

"Could i' no' be one o' Karls Goats? Or a wood-beast?"

"Nay lad, Karls on t'other side o' mountain this moon. An' the blood was diluted thin... come down a long way; probably from the spring. Ye ken no beasts fo further than the treeline other than Karls Goats.... Nay, ah suspect different son...."

"I can run back.. Get the Warriors..."

"Nay, ye might be cut off. Take this..."[/i:358590ab8b] His Father handed Alain the bow and quiver.

[i:358590ab8b]"Get up ta Fjornein's Crop...."[/i:358590ab8b] He nodded towards the well known rock outcrop that was as equally as frequented as it was forbidden to the youth of the Clan.
[i:358590ab8b]"Look for me 'ere, and watch ma path. Ah'll wait till ye arrive, then track me upstream. Ah suspect the blood come fro' the Witchs cave - an she ne'er wastes good blood.... When ah'm there, if we go' trouble, ah'll be pointin' at it, and ye'll be killin' it. If no, ye'll come down ta me, an if ye tell yer Ma' ah ordered ye up there, ah'll beat ye senseless...."[/i:358590ab8b]

Alain nodded, and grinned slightly.

[i:358590ab8b]"Go lad. An' be quiet like... Ye may yet kill this day."[/i:358590ab8b]

He pushed his Son off towards the mountain path, and hoped to Odin that the crazy old woman had just got too zealous in her potion making. That was unlikely, and there had been a lot of Wolf trouble recently.

He waited till he could see his adopted son peering down at him from the suicidal rock outcrop, waved, and trotted upstream, into the forest. The trees only lasted a few hundred yards, and he was out in rocky terrain. He could now hear faint voices on the wind, and sighed inwardly.

Bandits.

Travelling men who harassed villages and loners, often killing. They were often remnant rag tag groups of sacked fiefdoms, or bored men too cowardly to fight for their Jarls, and so being banished. Whatever the reason, they were often angry, maliscious and drunk.

He moved closer to the sound, now smelling meat being roasted, and it did not smell like foul. It smelt like human flesh. Something he had smelt too often as his Brothers had died and deserved cremation. Yet this was not the honourable end of a Brave, this sounded more like a feast.

He glanced up, and could just make out his son, who was mostly hidden by rocks. He wished for some communication with him, he wanted to know the number of the enemy. There could be no retreat for back up now. It was a sake of honour; the enemy was at hand now, it would be wise to send for more men, but in the mean time, the bandits might move on, and be lost until next moon, when they would pillage his own hamlet when he was off searching for them.

He gained a position as close to the camp as he dared. HE could count the voices now, and made seven. A base camp. There would be twice that amount off in search of more plunder - they would not dare attack his home; a well fortified and guarded place; but they might ruin some of the surrounding farms.

It was up to him, Sigmund Vorghjaskati, son of Tryh Helmsson, and Father to Alain and Sarah; with the aid of his adopted boy, to slaughter these rogues, and alert those under his power of their presence. With luck they would see their dead friends and leave at the omen. Without luck, they would meet their deaths.

He slowly looked round the rock he hid behind and took in what he could;

[i:358590ab8b]A campfire, burning high, a body spat above, burning grotesquely.
Four men sitting around the fire, another two shouting to a third inside the cave, which was not much more than a vague shelter from the winds, who shouted some insane replys concerning the manner of the darkness.
Two more men seemed to be asleep. They could wait.

"The three at the cave...."[/i:358590ab8b] he thought to himself, [i:358590ab8b]"Them first."[/i:358590ab8b]

He began crawling around the campfire; it was getting dark, but still not dark enough - but the campfire would soon be his advantage. As he neared the cave mouth, hidden by a large boulder, he saw the four at the campfire split; two walked into the woods - over the spot he had watched them - probably searching for more firewood. He could see the beginning of the stream, where a pile of bodies was piled, the blood only now beginning to stop flowing freely from the fatal wounds.

He looked up at his son, who could see him clearly; having gained his attention, he made slow hand signals, signalling the two men at the entrance, still shouting things; now drug influenced; he knew the boy would understand - such signs were taught to every child.

[b:358590ab8b]Kill

Closest

Man

On Signal

One

Two[/b:358590ab8b]

He drew one of his daggers, and made the signal for "three", hoping his Son would not miss this time. He watched as his son released the arrow, he heard the sound as it passed some feet over his head - then he moved from the cover of the rock, and for a moment his cover was blown.

But only for a moment; his sons aim had been true, and the man closest to them fell forwards with the arrow through his throat. Sigmund slung his hand-knife at the other man, who seemed to be a guard, it whistled through the air and buried itself in its targets forehead before said target had managed to lift its sword. The body fell forwards.

Sigmund turned and gestured to his son; pointing two fingers at the two men sat by the campfire. They were out of sightline, but they would soon notice the lack of noise; regardless of the flow of mead. Whilst his Son practiced the art of sniping, Sigmund backed against the mountains stony side and crept round the corner of the cave, trying to avoid being sillhoutted at all costs.

[i:358590ab8b]"What has happened to you Men?"[i]

A voice sounded from inside the cave.
Sigmund did not answer, instead he focused on it.

[i]"Where are you?"[/i:358590ab8b]

The voice had moved. It had moved impossibly. It was now [b:358590ab8b]above[/b:358590ab8b] Sigmund; who looked up, and though he would not recall it later, saw the grinning face of the devil descening - falling - towards him. He was struck, but managed to stay conscious and bring his arm up to protect against the sword that would have otherwise impaled him vertically.

He screamed, but not in fear - in rage, he reached down to his belt, grabbing his short sword. The [i:358590ab8b]thing[/i:358590ab8b] was now obvious to his sight. A curious, pale creature. Dressed in leather, but sporting no weapon. It looked neither male nor female; but some weird combination of both - almost feline.

[i:358590ab8b]"How are you, my good friend? Perhaps we can come to an agreement, eh?"[/i:358590ab8b]

Whilst sounding perfectly feasable; feasable enough to tempt Sigmund into dropping his sword; his actions did not support this. He threw a small blade at the Norseman with lightning reflex, wounding his right thigh deeply.

[i:358590ab8b]"Father? Wha's 'appenin'?"[/i:358590ab8b]

His sons voice came from outside.

[i:358590ab8b]"Ah got the two a' the fire... Are ye there?"[/i:358590ab8b]

Urgency in his voice.

[i:358590ab8b]"Run lad! Get back to town... There be some monst..."[/i:358590ab8b]

His sentence was cut short, literally, as another blade swiftly dug into his chest.
He cursed the gods for not teaching his son obedience better as he saw him run into the cave; then his eyes shut as he succombed to the pain.

....

[i:358590ab8b]"Ah'll feast on yer carcass Demon if ma Da' be dead!"[/i:358590ab8b]

The enemy replied with a disturbing giggle.

Alain leapt forward, his youthful agility fuelled by new found battle-lust, and somehow managed to strike a lucky blow against his unknown opponent. Not lucky enough. It drew blood, but he was rewarded with a kick in the testicles, and a push inhumanly strong. He was pushed back far enough to the cave entrance. As he fell, he managed to roll out of the cave, and stand. He had dropped his sword - he quickly moved to pick one out of one of the dead guards hands, expecting fingers around his throat any second.

He lifted the sword, whirling round, and saw the man - the enemy - standing at the cave mouth, grinning at him.

[i:358590ab8b]"Come fer me demon..."[/i:358590ab8b] He lifted the blade, and the fortune of the gods was with im. The setting sun reflected on the steel, onto the porcelain face of the creature, and what happened surprised the boy. It recoiled in agony... Then it bcame evident.

[i:358590ab8b]"Vampyr?"[/i:358590ab8b], Alain questioned aloud.

The wits that would save his skin for centuries to come took control, and he angled the sword, tracking the creature, causing it to scream... Smoke began to etch from its skin.

Still, the sun was dieing, time was short. He had to retrieve his Father... now. He stabbed the sword into the ground, aiming the sunlights reflexion; he took the other sword and did the same; this time the other side of the creature that was hissing in pain as its skin burnt and smoked. He now hoped the light would serve as enough of a prison for him to grab his Father.. If not, he would die trying. He ran in and grabbed his Fathers arm, watching the creature try and get past the light-walls... And it couldnt.

He dragged his Father out, and yet more luck - Sigmund began to gain consciousness; but still the Sun began to fall...

[i:358590ab8b]"Da'! Da'! Come! It be Vampyr! We must leave... Please stand!"[/i:358590ab8b]

His Father managed to get to his feet groggily...

[i:358590ab8b]"Alain?... Wha'?..."[/i:358590ab8b]

Then he looked and saw the sickened expression of the thing in the cave, and understood with the same presence of mind that had rubbed off on his adopted child.

[i:358590ab8b]"Lad... For fucks sake, run and do no' look back..."[/i:358590ab8b]

And together they ran... back to their village. As the sun finally set, they managed to reach the safety of an outlying farm; and from there they alerted the men. For now they were safe from the terrors of the night; but they knew this was going to be just the beginning. The stories of the Vampyr were horrific and scarce - but none had a happy ending.

There was no moonlight that night; but the stars were out in force. Each sent its own small shaft of illumination down to the clearing in the forests, several miles south of Hardanjer, Norway. The quality of light was an advantage to one of the two groups of men that stood either side of this isolated oasis from the trees that dominated this land so heavily.

One of the groups, consisting of half a dozen tall, grim looking men; stood just inside the treeline, watching. The other group did exactly the same, but fifty yards to the south; and what they saw was the stuff of horror stories. Twelve red dots at eye level, blinking occasionally in the darkness. This in itself did not scare them - they were not inexperienced fighting Gangrel; the dogs of Cainites.

These Gangrel had managed to disrupt the plans of the southernly group, however, which was why, on this night, they must die.

The southern group was larger, fifteen vampires were here. Three of the Lasombra, and twelve Brujah. The Keepers had been trying for the best part of three years to quell the native kindred in the Hardanjer area, and had succeeded apart from one group of roving dogs. And now they had them.

The offer of open battle had been a challenge from the Gangrel, but it had been welcomed by the Lasombra, who had absolutely every intention of ending the upstarts quickly and efficiently. Their hired brutes had served well - perhaps a little too well - in ransacking and putting the terror of the gods into the populous. Now it would be decided.

[i:c619386eb9]"Rufus, Ivan, Devlyn, Jacob; you come with Isiah and I; the rest of you stay with Ezekiel. You will meet them and we will attack the flank - we have no element of surprise, but if possible we must weaken them quickly. They are outnumbered, but they are tough bastards..."[/i:c619386eb9]

He gestured to the four Brujah and the single Lasombra he had named, and moved West, circling round to the side. In the distance a wolf howled, but was ignored. The sounds of the night were ever too frequent in this forsaken wilderness.

Ezekiel looked at the seven Brujah thugs beside him and smiled gently. The Gangrel [i:c619386eb9]were[/i:c619386eb9] hardy creatures, but they were built for single combat; they were hunters, not soldiers. Organised tactics were the key. He had been brought up the son of a Duke, and died the Duke of nothing. His Fathers lands had been taken by one of the large wandering tribes that were so qucikly dying now - but they still achieved small victories, and clung to them ferociously. He wished to conquer these cold lands, build an army of living and dead soldiers alike, then sweep down to Germany, and reclaim his home.

And tactics were the answer - he knew; he had witnessed as the pillagers; some descendent of the Goths he surmised, used their bestial men to amazing ends; of course there was no rank and file, but the strategy had been supreme. Absolute dominance in less than an hour.
He had died thenat the hands of one of his own guards, and then realised the guard was granting him life; life for revenge. Somehow a Vampire had served him whilst mortal, given him eternity, and then died defending his retreat.

If nobility could inspire such loyalty, then Ezekial, formerly known as Immanuel of Bavaria, was the man to inspire legions of the dead. And it would start here, with this pitiful land of snow and trees. Even the cold mountains of his homeland offered decent summers. There was no warmth here; not that it mattered to him anymore, he quietly noted.

So he told the Brujah that this night they would soil the ground with vile Gangrel blood, and then feast on the fresh blood of the townsfolk.

And so from the south came nine Vampires, and to their right they moved, drawing the enemy towards them.

Unsheathing their swords, fastening their bucklers, the cohort paused, having expected a rush of fang and claw; it did not come.

[i:c619386eb9]"Come and meet steel with your own, Gangrel. We come for battle, do not insult the gods with cowardice..."[/i:c619386eb9]

From the left...

[i:c619386eb9]"We come for ye, Lasombra..."[/i:c619386eb9]

From the right...

[i:c619386eb9]"We come for ye as the stars bleed upon ye..."[/i:c619386eb9]

From behind...

[i:c619386eb9]"We come now to end yer evils...."[/i:c619386eb9]

And from three sides came a gutteral war cry; somehow he had been outflanked - then he saw; those flickering eyes that he had focused on were naught but candleflames. The deception came bitter; but worse was to come.

Because from the wilderness came death.

...

Solomon kept his eye focused on the red eyes of the enemy, knowing they saw him circled round the forest edge. But he knew they must expect nothing less than tactical play. He turned to speak to Isiah and saw from the corner of his eye movement. As Isiah came fully into view, he noticed it was [i:c619386eb9]only[/i:c619386eb9] Isiah who stood there now. Four bodies lay behind them at intervals of no more than three feet. Wooden stumps protruding from their hearts, their heads halved; a blade placed between the lips of the victims and pulled backwards quickly, slicing through the weakest part of the skull and spine.

All he thought of before he died was how easily he had been fooled. Not once in two hundred years had he been outwitted. But now he was outwitted, but fortunately not for long, because a moment after he realised it, he died.

....

The two Gangrel who had slain six of the enemy now sheathed their daggers and drew their prime weapons;

[i:c619386eb9]"Remember lad; Hit hard an' deep. Fightin' the dead ain't the same as slittin' ones throat. Cut it's arm off an' it'll no' give a shite. Ye must be final with each blow..."[/i:c619386eb9]

The Gangrel who spoke wore a l kilt, and bore long dirty hair. Beside him stood another Gangrel; whilst dressed the same, his head was bald, shaven clean before his death.

[i:c619386eb9]"Aye, Erik, ah understand."[/i:c619386eb9]

Euryon hefted his great stone hammer, weighting it in his muscular murderers hands. Erik did the same with his great double headed ax. Then their cue came; the surviving enemy issued the challenge;

[i:c619386eb9]"We come for ye, Lasombra..."[/i:c619386eb9], Erik cried. and his clan-mates supported the call.

[i:c619386eb9]"We come for ye as the stars bleed upon ye..."[/i:c619386eb9]

[i:c619386eb9]"We come now to end yer evils...."[/i:c619386eb9]

And then, a heart beat later, all six Gangrel charged; screaming their animal noise of rage.

Hammer, Ax, Sword... Each was raised aloft, ready to crush, sever and slay the nine Vampires who were now taken by surprise. The Lasombra led Brujah had expected to face six Gangrel in one direction, with support from the flank. Now [i:c619386eb9]they[/i:c619386eb9] were being charged by the enemy, from three sides, and they were off balance.

The Brujah were not as slow to react as the Lasombra, and were charging into their enemies, trying to meet them before they were surrounded by the tiny force.

Euryon and Erik saw three of the Brujah begin to run towards them; they wore large bucklers on their left arms, and carried large broad swords in their right. A pathetic attempt at organised uniform. Erik swerved to his right, drawing two of the Brujah towards him, he skidded to a halt and hefted the Ax over his shoulder; and around him, the world slowed. The battle lust consumed him, and he saw the dead blood coarsing through the decayed veins of the two Brujah as they moved towards him, runnning with fury - to their deaths.

He released his own rage, and the world resumed its regular speed, and his Ax swung gloriously, taking the heads from both Brujah in one arc. Their disciplined training had taught them nothing but how to die in the face of a creature that moved faster than the lightning.

Meanwhile Euryon had achieved less luck; though not much. His initial onslaught on his sole enemy had failed, missing the target, and he cursed himself, as the Brujah quickly moved to his side, stabbing the sword deep into Euryons torso. Euryon screamed as the blood fired inside him; in his agony, luck aided him; the blade caught between his ribs, and the Brujah could not pull it out - Euryon wheeled round, swinging hs huge fist - claws stretching from his fingers, and ripped the Brujahs chest open, blood spraying out in a gory fountain.

He pulled the sword from his side, and leapt onto the bleeding Brujah, and in one cut, tore its head off with his claws. He then stood, the lust of the kill high in him; the beast was riding the wave of slaughter, and saw his comrades fighting the other Brujah. It was not going so well, the shadows were pinning two of the four Gangrel, whilst a third was being hacked at by two of the warriors. Erik appeared beside him;

[i:c619386eb9]"Ah think we'd best aid our Brothers, pup.... Come..."[/i:c619386eb9]

And Erik charged into a new fight, with Euryon following; his hands drenched in blood; but his thirst demanded more. Much more.

In the end, of the six Gangrel, four survived; Euryon and Erik among them. Of the Lasombra and Brujah - all died that night.

For a little while longer, the Gangrel would own the Northlands.

The sound of rain on leaves lulled Euryon from his thoughts, from his memories. He stood, and watched the trail of a shooting star rise and fall over the skyline of yet another city. He had wandered on for months now. Through Europe, across Asia, down the Americas, and now stood on a hillside in Eire. Nothing to do, no place to go. Just his own mind to keep him company.

But the memories puzzled him; he rarely called upon his past experiences - true, he often recalled battles and the like, something to entertain a pup; but on his own, he rarely allowed himself the freedom to reminiss.

Was there a connexion? His first kill as a mortal, and his first kills as a Cainite? Perhaps... But what it was, the gods alone knew. Until a reason came, he had nothing else to do but travel.

And for the first time in centuries, he realised that he was anxious. Anxious for something to happen.

[i:79c62d0d7f]Don't be a fool... All ye can find is troubles, so leave the future be, and ye'll find less worry...[/i:79c62d0d7f]

This thought did not still him, however. The lust to wander was being intoxicated with another need - a desire to achieve something.

[i:79c62d0d7f]Wha' can ah do these nights though? Ah'm old, ah ha' nought to call mine, and need nought... The nights o' adventure are gone... It be a world for words, not swords...[/i:79c62d0d7f]

He crouched again, running his claws through the diluting mud. What was there left for him? He had no lust to lead, no grail to find, no unfulfilled oath. All he [i:79c62d0d7f]did[/i:79c62d0d7f] need in death was blood to keep him going, and the hunt. And over the years he had mastered the acquisition of the former, and the efficiency of the latter to the point of mechanics.

He sighed inside and began moving down the hillside, away from the city lights. He would find clean water, he would bathe and drink - then he would wait as he was purified in blood and in mind. The answer would come, or he would die.

He stripped his few garments down, and washed himself in the stream. And then he sat on the bank, and waited, as night turned to day, and day to night; he waited and rested...

The moon was half again; or at least reversed in its presence. Six weeks had passed; and no answers had come. And deep inside himself, in that ancient, forgotten membrane of a soul, Euryon knew that they would not, either. He had been forskane.

Or at least, he knew he [i:84d95bbb9e]would[/i:84d95bbb9e] have believed such a thing even a year ago. Now, disbelief was stirring itself in him. After all this time; after all his victories in the name of honour, after all his quiet manoueveres to keep the world in balance; he was not forsaken, but rather; there had never been anything to forsake him.

So perhaps the answers were coming; as he lay starved of blood, almost unable to stand; the slow realisation that there never had been some ultimate creature protecting him. no gods who heard his prayers.

He felt cold; or the feeling that occurs to the dead when they hunger - when they are ravenous; the feeling of veins collapsed on themselves, and the sensation of a pulse of warm, fresh life running through everything... He was almost tempted to sink his teeth into a tree, and suckle the sap from it... It would achieve nothing.

Would anything matter now? He did not know. Thoughts were becoming clearer... Clarity in the last few moments he had not possessed for a millenia. Things that simply should have been known were only now becoming obvious.

His death was not [i:84d95bbb9e]intended[/i:84d95bbb9e], there was no destiny for him; no great beast that needed to die by his stranglehold. He had killed out of curiousity first, then out of desire. There wasnt much more to it than that.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, and uttered a low pitched growl. Presently a score of woodland creatures decided it would be fun to sit around this great lump of a beast, and have their blood drained until death consumed them.

Things were a little easier now, the clarity remained, with a little less hunger.

[i:84d95bbb9e]So thats it...
The inner cause I've had all this time mean nothing...
What is there now?[/i:84d95bbb9e]

There was only one sensible answer to this.

[i:84d95bbb9e]Eternity.[/i:84d95bbb9e]

He had remembered his past; recalled the pretence he had fought under; and realised it was nothing more than that - an empty belief. There was just time, and whatever he could do to fill it with.

Lost faith did not incur some great change or desire to discover himself; rather it was as though a burden was lifted... As though an unknown weight had fallen from his shoulders.

So now, he decided, he would drink deep of the blood, then he would fly, he would fly East to a place he had known well, a place that held more memories; much more recent in his long unlife. He would visit an old hunting ground.

((this is a great story. i truely enjoyed reading it.