A chilling howl ripped through the air, echoing off the Carpathian Mountains and growing in intensity until it crept through the villages nestled below like the roar of a demon. Peasants clutched their children tight as they heard the wail, for it had become all too common in recent years, the unmistakable cry of the werewolf. In their youth, the elders had foolishly scorned the folk tales of creatures more wolf than man, believing that they were stories used to scare them into obedience âdonât stay out too late or the Garou will get youâ, a terrifying prospect then but as they grew older, they realized that there was little substance to these warnings.
Wisdom seemed to walk hand in hand with their maturing minds in those days, dispelling myth and rumour with cold logic and the realization that naughty boys and girls would always need guidelines, would always need rules, so that their parents didnât worry themselves into any early grave when they returned home after dark. Times were changing now though, and that same terror that had clutched their hearts when they were young had become an almost palpable feeling of dread as word had spread from neighbouring towns of monsters that stalked in shadow, wolves that walked on hind legs and carried people off into the night. The elders had been cautious then, as the twelfth century had dawned and ushered in a rise of abductions, but even the militia they posted on the outskirts of town could not prevent the fate that had befallen these lands and two weeks after the rumours had begun, they lost the first of their daughters to the inhuman menace.
Despite the outcry of its citizens however, the lords that governed these lands refused to commit resources to defending mere paupers, declaring them a âlost causeâ and pretending that they were concocting the rumours to squeeze their coffers dry and fill their bellies with the coin that was supposedly ârequiredâ for their protection. Beneath the weaving tongues of the nobles façade though, there lay the grim reality that War had come to Romania and mortal men were locked in a deadly struggle of survive against the expanding thirst of the kindred nation. This was a time of treachery and chaos where suspicions ran rampant through the court and the desire for territory consumed menâs thoughts more thoroughly than any womanâs lips. Amidst this sea of intrigue and strife, where kings faltered and barons begged, there was one who managed to thrive, a deposed noble whose sadistic tastes had seen him discharged from the royal army and forced him to gather a band of barbarians and miscreants to continue his devilish campaign of bloodshed.
Monstrously ruthless, even as a mortal, the most vicious member of the Dracul line had only grown in infamy after his alleged demise, for what began as a man had now transformed into a thing so savage, so merciless, that few dared to meet it on the battlefield and deliberately avoided confrontation with the force that had become known as the âBohemian Behemothâ.
[align=center]******[/align]
Thump-thump, thump-thump, their hearts were racing now, flickering anxiously like a candleâs flame caught in a draft, for the two woodsman had stayed out too late in their search for lumber, planning to gather enough to last their families for several weeks so they could escape the icy bite of winter. The snow was already up to their ankles by now and they knew that with one more fall, maybe two, it would become impossible to forage in the forest without freezing to death as they fought through the damned drifts and so they had stayed, far longer than they should have, to pile the sled high with wood. When the howl had come however, they stopped dead in their tracks and turned frightened eyes to each others face, seeking the reassurance that one knew the other could not give, for that was no animal that had made that noise, that was no beast, and speechless terror washed their features whiter than the ground around them as they realized the legends were true.
A rustling sound came then, as leaves and branches cracked under the approach of an unseen presence, almost as if in answer to their silent trepidation. They could not have known that it had been watching them, glaring through the darkness with a malevolence born out of slavery, no longer bound by chain or bond for it had cast them aside as easily as its master. No matter how dominant these filth thought they were, in the end they were only kindred and one leech was dispatched as readily as the next with well-placed swipes from its massive claws, claws it reflected, that would soon come in handy when it pounced upon these two humans. Haunches poised and flanks rippling with effort, furry brown hide shot out of the tree-line like a cork from a bottle, soaring through the air as the werewolf leapt upon the nearest human, batting aside his hatchet before the man knew what was happening as its gigantic maw sunk into the sweet flesh of his jugular.
Stammering in shock, the one remaining woodsman stumbling backwards as he attempted to put some distance between himself and the fearsome creature but, before he had fled so much as a foot, a soft clink,clink,clink filled his ears and, for one gleaming moment, he thought that a knight had actually tracked him down and was here to save him. When he turned his head expectantly though, he found not the smile of a gallant knight greeting him, but instead the largest man he had ever seen towering over him, well over seven foot in height and covered in an ancient suit of armour. Before he could surmise why this stranger was wearing armour that looked two hundred years old however, his beady eyes trailed up to the visage of his âsaviourâ and the sight that met him caused his jaw to practically hit the floor in mingled horror and admiration.
Framed by a thick raven mane, the face of the giant held a myriad of scars that actually accentuated its beauty, rather than detracted from it, creating the disconcerting portrait of an angel that had seen a thousand battles and proudly wore its scars. Gaining a little confidence from this unearthly spectacle, the lone woodsman proclaimed hopefully in a voice etched with relief âIâm saved!, Iâm saved!â. The stranger paused to regard the jubilant human for a moment, examining how much meat he held on his spindly frame while his fingers wrapped about the hilt of a longsword, actually smiling as the werewolf continued to crunch on his companions carcassâ Savedâ¦yes, I suppose I will need something to wash the first course down withâ. Before the meaning of his words had a chance to sink in though, the stranger's massive fist suddenly engulfed the manâs skull and, with one tremendous squeeze, reduced it to pulp, sending squishy bits of brain and viscera spilling down his gauntlet and onto the unblemished snow.
A guttural growl ripped from the strangerâs lips then, as the woodsman crumpled to the ground, a growl that heralded his arrival so that this Garou would face him head on and without the disadvantage of being caught off guard while it fed. Normally challenging a werewolf, openly or otherwise, without a band of soldiers would have proved suicide for a vampire, but this Warlord had not been sleeping in some tomb like his fellows, no he had spent his entire life fighting and simply continued to hone his skills as he passed into the eternal bliss of damnation. Advancing towards his opponent then, with the reassurance of experience on his side, rather than the fear his kind usually felt, he brought his weapon around in a horizontal arc, cutting right to left in an attempt to catch the beast just below the sternum and disembowel it in the process.
Swift was the stroke as his sword sped through the air, resembling a streak of black lightning, but quicker still was the werewolf as it harnessed its Rage and used it to amplify the pace with which it moved, allowing it to narrowly avoid the edge of the assailing sword as it stepped backwards. Relying more on instinct that actual strategy at this point, the beast didnât allow the stranger to regain his composure but instead struck out as the blade passed, knocking the flat of it with its paw and then, as the sword was sent tumbling towards the ground, it madly rushed forwards through the hole it had created in its opponent's defences. Caught by surprise at the accuracy his blow had been deflected with, the stranger could do little to recover his weapon in time to meet the werewolfâs advance and decided to drop it so that, when his adversary did arrive, at least he would have another hand free to grapple with.
Bracing himself for impact, he even managed to use his formidable four hundred pound weight to his advantage by positioning his feet behind him to counter the impending collision and prevent himself from being bowled over but, precautions aside, the onslaught that the werewolf unleashed was no less vicious. Raking and tearing with its powerful claws, the Garou scored several minor hits as its nails scraped across its foes armour and found small patches of exposed skin, though it was amazed that the figure had withstood its initial charge and not been thrown to the floor, but it was not worried and it knew that it was far more effective in close quarters than its disarmed opponent could hope to be, given their proximity. Resisting the charge would have been the first mistake that a novice would make, were he faced with such incredible odds, because they would then relinquish their ability to strike at the werewolf from range, allowing them to avoid its ensuing attacks once he gained his feet, but this stranger, this ancient Tzimisce favoured the brutality of close combat more than his enemies ever suspected.
Matching his strength with that of a Garou was something that this insane fiend had always longed to do in the past, actively seeking their hunting grounds for several months now, and so when he had heard the call tonight he had come upon the scene with an eerie hunger in his eyes, something that surpassed even his thirst for vitae. Now, when he finally had his prey within his grasp though, he didnât plan on letting it escape and so, ignoring the painful cuts that the creature was inflicting thanks to his natural Fortitude, he caught the beast in a bone-breaking bear-hug and while it writhed against the sheer Potence of his embrace, three intricate flaps within his stomach quietly burst open. Slithering with a ghastly sentience of their own, the reason for these flaps became all too apparent to the incapacitated werewolf as, to its terror, the Methuselahâs intestines plunged into its unprotected flesh and whipped about wreaking havoc upon its internal organs with the cruel hooks embedded on their tips. A low and agonising groan erupted from the Garouâs mouth as it felt its insides being shredded by the strangers probing tendrils, in as cunning a use of the dreaded Entrail Saraband ability as ever there was, but it refused to be defeated so easily and started desperately biting at the vampires shoulder with its vice-like jaws.
Pain sizzled through the strangerâs senses as teeth tore repeatedly into him, rending muscle and bone to ribbons as it sought to loosen his hold, but instead of falling prey to its sting and recoiling in dismay, this wicked Tzimisce actually enjoyed the suffering it was enduring and found himself becoming aroused by the rapid pang of canines drilling through him. As much as he would have loved to savour the decadent thrills that this werewolf promised him though, the stranger had more pressing matters to attend to once he crushed it and so, utilizing his Celerity he flicked his hands from the monsters sides onto its muscular neck in one blinding movement. Twisting with all his might, before the beast could bring its mouth to bear for another assault, he gazed triumphantly into the creatures eyes as he felt the neck beginning to give and then bellowed in its faceâ Not even you shall stop the rise of MORTIAN RAKSHASA DRACUL fool, not even you!!â and with that he snapped it with one savage twist.
When he finally released his terrible hold, retracting his intestines into their grotesque âpouchâ, the werewolf toppled lifelessly into the snow, which now resembled a pallid sky flecked with crimson stars. Once he was sure that he had slain the nightmare of nature, that had been nine feet of imposing fur before he encountered it, he retrieved his sword and then, with one single fluid swing, he severed its head and started to peel the skin away with his teeth. This was but the beginning of his victory feast however, because once he had stripped the tastiest pieces from the beast's skull and turned it into a fearsome helmet, he set upon the bleeding carcass and drank it dry, though even this large offering could not sate his hunger and so he proceeded to polish off the remnants of the two woodsman as well.
[align=center]******[/align]
A chilling howl ripped through the air, echoing off the Carpathian Mountains and growing in intensity until it crept through the villages nestled below like the roar of a demon, but this time there was only the blood-stained form of Mortian, roaring at the heavens as he set off through the winding forests towards Walachia, and the dark promises it held for his future.
Total Members: 637
