A new day was breaking behind the city, its jagged skyline shadowed by the rising sun. Ozgad's Folly the place was called now, after the pirate king Ozgad One-Hand, who had made an ill considered last stand here six score years ago against the marauding orcs and beastkin of the Gorelord. The Folly was not this place's original name, nor was serving as a port to desperate pirates and lowlifes its original purpose, but few things in the vast desolation of Nagath were called now by the same titles they wore in the days of their glory, or served the same uses.

He sat back in the saddle and fixed a battered pipe in the corner of his mouth, lighting it as he surveyed the mudplains and marshland around the city. A few small villages- if that word could be used for collections of huts on stilts- could be made out in the faint dawn light, home no doubt to toadfolk and crab-farmers, eeking out an existence in the salt swamps, under the dubious protection of the pirates they helped to feed.

His gaan-lizard shuddered beneath him, letting out a cantankerous snort, signaling its displeasure at the fetid atmosphere, so different from the dry heat of the ashlands they had spent weeks traversing.

His hand absently clutched at the small leather pouch hanging around his neck. Something within squelched wetly as he grasped it. He closed his eyes. He could almost hear Them now, a barely-audible whisper just below the surface of things.

He gave his mount a sharp kick and it plodded forward more briskly, towards the silhouetted skyline. His eyes fluttered open again. It was ironic, he supposed, that years of toil and planning would come to fruition in
this squalid backwater. But it mattered little.

From humble beginnings could come great things. Even gods.

The young boy’s eyes watched the stranger intently Ashe passed, carefully studying every detail from the lizard he rode to the clothes he wore. When the man’s hand moved to the pouch around his neck he boy took special note of that detail too. He continued to watch until the stranger passed out of sight and then scooping up his begging bowl quickly scurried off between the ramshackle shacks.

It didn’t take long for the beggar boy to reach the hut which was his destination, the routes around the city were second nature to him after all the years spent living on them. Pushing open the door the boy squirmed his way inside, passing the rows of tables where others like him, the lost and discarded who fell through the cracks, were busily gobbling down the thin gruel which was a feast to many of them.

The boy finally came to a stop beside a large trestle table which had a large pot and piles of bowls set upon it. Behind the table was Widow Brue, a beautiful young girl who many would feel was wasted in such a desolate hovel. The holy woman smiled down at the boy, her hand moving over to a large pile of freshly baked bread.“Do you have something for me G’rash?” She asked in an expectant tone, her hands holding the loaf against her chest enticingly.

“Yes M’m,” The boy replied, his voice only slightly distorted by the fangs which were only just beginning to poke out from between his lips. “A new stranger, M’m. Riding a lizard and eying the place all distasteful like.” As he spoke G’rash’s eyes never left the loaf, his mouth already watering in anticipation of the sweet bread. It had been a few days since his last taste, and already he’d been suffering shakes at its absence.

Smiling down on the poor boy Brue held out the loaf, her fingers letting it slip away as the eager young urchin snatched it away and scurries out of sight. Wringing her hands on a cloth the Widow nodded her head wistfully. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard talk of the stranger, but it was the closest report of him to come to her ears. With a nod to the young girl who was readying herself for a life as a Weeping Widow, but who had not yet come of age to undergo the trials, Widow Brue stepped away from the table and made her way into the back room.

She was greeted by the sounds of ruffling feathers and pleasant cooing, the racks of birds reacting to her arrival with gleeful delight as she walked between them. Taking her place at a small writing desk the dutiful Widow scribbled a note down in the language of her order, which looked more like random markings on the sheet of parchment than any form of writing. Moving back between the cages, the holy woman carefully chose a bird before quickly fastening the note to its leg.

Making her way out the back door, holding the animal firmly but carefully in her hands, Brue flung it as high into the air as she could. As soon as it felt the wind beneath its wings the bird began to flap its wings, quickly gaining height until it finally vanished from view.

With her duty complete Brue smiled to herself and stepped back inside the rustic kitchen. By nightfall the Maid would know of the strange sighting, and by the morrow news would’ve spread throughout the region to be on the lookout for the stranger riding a lizard. Within the week every Weeping Widow in the country would know of the arrival, and if necessary the Sisters would take action as they saw fit.

None of that mattered to Widow Brue however. She could smell the fresh batch of bread baking in the oven, and pulling the door open she reached for the skillet. Smiling thankfully at the gorgeous loaves she thought of the happy faces who’d be granted another day’s food, all thanks to the will of Daigon.

Staring out over his city from the window of his personal study, Vasha tapped his bony middle finger against the solid wood of his desk in thought. A piece of parchment lay on the desk before him, an ink pot close at hand with the quill in his grasp, but he wasn't using it just yet as he contemplated what he wished to put down on paper.

He had put off writing this message for long enough having been interested in taking a more 'Wait and see' approach to see if anything actually came from it; The results were no doubt interesting, but now it had reached a point where he needed to see if the rewards for allowing the experiment to continue could balance out the positives of ending it and claiming the resources for other projects. After a few more minutes of contemplation, he finally put quill to parchment.

It didn't take long to write out the full message, but as he took a moment to reread it to ensure that it was readable enough that the average orc could take a crack at understanding it, he rolled the parchment up and sealed it closed with a wax seal baring his mark. Content with his message, he reached out to ring a small bell on his desk. Within moments, a well dressed goblin women was standing behind him, offering a curtsy as she softly asked "Yes my lord?"

Vasha turned to offer the goblin woman the rolled up message, gazing at her through unnaturally glowing blue eyes as he instructed "Take this to the bakery on third street. Tell the woman behind the counter that it is to go to the Sisters. She'll know exactly who you mean." Thinking for a moment, he seemed slightly less serious as he suggested "Help yourself to a bun if you want. Do not let me detain you."

The dice was cast as the goblin woman curtsied again, this time to respectfully leave his presence. Now how things played out was going to depend on the answer he received from the Widows.

Clanging metal reverberated faintly though the stone, heavy footfalls pattering somewhere far above. Somewhere in the citadel's upper reaches the orcs were fighting once again. The sound of the distant skirmish was the first sensation that the devil had registered in a long time indeed. How long was impossible to say, for he had not only lost track of time but all interest in it. There were few things interested him anymore.

The demon Arkhagon laid upon the cold stone floor in pitch blackness. In more hopeful times, this was the deepest hold of Arkhagon Zul, the nexus of power of the once-mighty stronghold. Falling water from the citadel's great dam was harnessed, used to generate arcane energy, and condensed here for use by the master of this place. The arcane conduit that in centuries past crackled with life was now stone cold. For a long time indeed, this place was naught but a great emptiness in the deep.

Arkhagon had laid here for many years in agonized torpor, scarcely moving at all. So still, that a thick blanket of dust had formed over him. He shifted slightly, twitching to hear the sounds of combat somewhere far above. He regarded the orcs fighting in the upper levels with contempt. How foolish could the greenskins be, to spill their blood over this worthless ruin? In the past century, a great earthquake had all but toppled the stronghold's twin spires and severed the conduit running between this chamber and the hydromancy engines. The engines themselves had been torn apart and stolen for their precious metal, as had everything else this citadel had once contained. The tremors had likely broken the dam itself as well. There was nothing left to fight over in Arkhagon Zul, only an imposing ruin for some greenskin warlord to call himself master of.

Perhaps, Arkhagon thought, he was no less foolish than the orcs for remaining here.

He had laid here for many years, ever since returning to Geryon from a twelve-year journey in the Beyond. He had been combing the underworld of Hmegoth, fighting the indigenous demons of that plane and questioning the doomed souls there, asking if they had seen him. But even in the Beyond, Arkhagon's master was nowhere to be found. Daigon, the Dark Lord of Nagath, was nowhere to be found in any of the numerous hells and underworlds.

Ever since the realization that he would never again see his master and only friend, Arkhagon wept and agonized, relegating himself to an enternity of loneliness and misery.

Arkhagon considered - not for the first time - that perhaps it would be better to end himself. After all, there was some small chance that his soul would encounter Daigon's somewhere in the Beyond. And that was slightly more hopeful than laying in the darkness until the end of time. But for the devil lord, ending his own life was easier said than done. Daigon's Gift - the dark ritual in which Arkhagon was transformed from mortal man into a demon - was a powerful blessing indeed. Arkhagon was effectively immortal now, and exceedingly difficult to kill in battle. During Daigon's rise, Arkhagon had once led his master's forces in a the charge across the lava fields of Thagarond. There, he and the vampire thralls he was fighting against broke through a thin spot in the volcanic stone, and fell into a pool of glowing magma. The enemy combatants were instantly incinerated, but Arkhagon was coughed up from a nearby lava vent a fortnight later - encrusted in volcanic glass and horrifically burned - but alive nonetheless. It would take a powerful foe indeed to end his life.

It was then that Arkhagon felt another sensation - the smell of a man. A human? Here? For a time, he was uncertain, but it was not long before the devil lord could confirm the scent. A man was approaching, descending through the rock above. He was silent, but to the devil the air reeked of mortal man. Arkhagon could almost taste the vitriol and ambition in the intruder's very perspiration wafting now through the stagnant air of the dark chamber. Arkhagon was very interested, and rose now from the floor. Years of dust cascaded off of the demon's body as he hungrily sniffed the air. He knew what this interloper was now, for only one kind of man ventures so boldly into a demon's haunt.

Castigati.

Arkhagon felt for the first time in centurires something approaching happiness. He would have his death wish granted soon enough.

We used to rule, you know. Many centuries ago, in times the memory of which has been carefully blotted out.

Not here, not in this wasteland, but in the West. We were masters of the great cities of men, who were Our slaves and Our cattle. That was before Justinian came and threw Us down from our hidden thrones. He was mighty. Is mighty. The source of his power remains obscure to Us...and We have done much, have done terrible things and great, to uncover his secrets. Still they elude Us.

The godling's rise forced Us to flee east, to the lands ruled by his foe. The one they now call the Dark Lord and speak of only in whispers. Some of Our kind submitted to him and served him. Not Clan Stryge.

We do not serve.

So We bid our time, hidden in the great tombs of the north from God King and Dark Lord alike, feeding in secret on the norsemen who served Daigon. And when he was thrown down, and the norsemen grew desperate, we became rulers of men once more.

The Cursed Sea, North of the Broken Arm

Water exploded over the prow, a huge bloom of white foam showering the foredeck, drenching the already drenched clanswords. Jago grinned as the freezing sea washed over him. His left hand tightened around the grip of his short sword, his right around the handle of his axe. He lived for this.

The Almalexia lurched beneath his feet as the ship climbed the oncoming wave. As it crested, their quarry came into view. The Ushtobal was listing badly, the choppy sea around it churning and red. Their prey was a chariot-ship, sleek and fast but poorly armed, pulled through the sea by a harnessed zama whale. A masterful shot from one of the Lexia's ballistae had wounded the monster in an earlier skirmish, and now the sharks had set in on it...leaving the Ushtobal adrift.

"Axes!" shouted Blackteeth, Jarl Valen Vymar's favored thane and right hand, "Axes out!"

A clatter ran up and down the deck as the clansmen armed themselves. Jago bashed his sword and axe and let loose a warcry so loud it left blood in his mouth. The men around him took it up.

Another plunge, another plume of water washing the warriors. Another rise...and they were on them. The Almalexia crashed into the Ushtobal with a splintering crunch.

"Get the child!" shouted Blackteeth, "Everyone else is sharkfood!"

Jago had leapt the gap and was on the other boat before the thane finished shouting. A deckhand rushed at him with a harpoon. He swatted the rusted tip away easily with the flat of his sword and beheaded the man with an axeswing. The head skidded across the planks, blinking in shock, before it tumbled into the waves.

The Ushtobal crewmen fought like demons- knowing that capture meant thralldom or worse. It was well known that the men of Nagath's northern shores consorted with ghouls and monsters, that even their kings and chieftains answered to decrepit things that supped on the flesh of men. The Ushtobal's captain had taken a real risk sailing so close to the shores of the Broken Arm, depending on his vessel's speed to outrun reavers on his dash to Port Nailbite in Northmarch.

The gambit might have worked, had the northmen not been ready for them. Perhaps the circling shadows in the overcast skies following the Ushtobal since Ozgad's Folly had not been seabirds, after all.

Jago cut down three more deckhands. More northmen were aboard now, and the slaughter was general, the sleek ship's deck slick with blood.

"One more step and she's dead!" screamed a shrill voice. Jago glanced up. The Ushtobal's captain stood beside the wheel, a bug-eyed dandy, his cutlass drawn across the neck of a girl of nine or ten. Dirty blond, dressed in a colorless shift, skinny. Her eyes were closed, her expression resigned.

The child they had come for. The one the Stryge wanted, gods and devils help her.

"I know you're here for her," said the captain, shaky but calmer now. A half dozen clan warriors formed a semi-circle around him, bloody weapons in hand, "I'll make a dea-"

There was a crack like thunder and the captain collapsed, his sword clattering to the deck.

Jarl Vymar stepped around the cluster of clanwarriors, a smoking flintlock in his hand. He was a tall man, grave, dressed in a salt-stained black cloak, with black hair going gray at the sides.

He grabbed the girl by the arm. She opened her eyes.

"You're safe now," said Vymar, then to the clan-warriors, "Get her on the ship, then cut this hulk loose."

The baker's wife looked down at the piece of paper with clear confusion on her face. "You said this was an order for 'the sisters'? Which sisters would those be, dear?"

There seemed to be a lot of words on the paper, and the few the uneducated woman could understand didn't seem to have anything to do with baking, and she could only guess that it must be some sort of complicated recipe or some such that the great Count wanted as a special order. For the life of her she didn't know what it could mean though, or who it was meant for.

"All He said was that it is to go to the Sisters, and that you'd know exactly what that would mean." The goblin lady replied, a little unsure of her Master's commands herself. She was used to such requests from the old man however, as he rarely if ever explained the inner workings of his mind to her. "He also said to help myself to a bun."

The baker's wife smiled brightly at the last piece of news, tossing the parchment aside to show to her husband later. Unlike herself he was a man of letters, and perhaps he would understand the recipe and know who it was meant for. "Now that I can help you with," she went on to say, turning her attention back to the buns. "Any particular take your fancy? One copper each or five for three coppers."

---

The villagers seemed a little anxious as Widower Bartholomew wandered into the town square, the satchel on his back filled with trinkets and gewgaws with which to entertain the children of the small fishing outpost. It was rare to find such a community this far north, but somehow the hardy people had lived many years without attracting the attentions of any of the nearby powerful tribes, and Bartholomew was curious exactly how they managed that.

Today though many of the locals he had grown to recognise during his previous visits seemed to be giving him a wide birth, scurrying away as he approached down the path and quickly hiding themselves in their half-buried homes built just above the high tide mark of the nearby shore. Finally as he entered the square he was greeted by the elders who seemed to be the unofficial leaders of the community, who were too deep in talk amongst each other to notice his arrival until he was too close for them to easy avoid him.

"Well met brother?" The preacher called out to them, still a little unsure whether things truly were well or not. "Is something wrong?" As he spoke Widower Bartholomew waved his hand around the large open area of the square, which on most of his visits would've been lined with stalls trading homemade pottery, fish, handwoven baskets, fish, rustic artwork, fish, and fish.

Shuffling their feet, as if trying to find a way to scurry off in the same manner the other villagers had, the elders glanced at each other uncertainly for several long moments. After the uncomfortably long pause one of the men, an elder of a full thirty-five years who Bartholomew knew as Prickedfinger, finally stepped forwards. Or more accurately all his compatriots stepped back, leaving the man standing at their lead.

"The thing is..." the elder began, pausing and drawing out each word as he shuffled what he knew and what he could tell an outsider around inside his head, "...there's been an incident."

Around him the other elders all nodded their heads, muttering "incident" in deep, sagely tones, as if that explained everything.

"An incident, you say?" Widower Bartholomew replied, adding the same grave tone to his own voice as Prickedfinger had used to present the news. "I can understand how that could be upsetting." Watching the group's response carefully the preacher could tell they seemed to be impressed by his grasp of the situation, even though in reality all the man was doing was echoing their own thoughts back to them.

In his years of experience, the Widower had learnt that often this was the best way to gain a person's trust. Letting them think they were the ones leading the conversation when really he was guiding them to give him exactly what he wanted to hear. "I trust no-one was badly hurt, or in need of aid at all?"

"No-one local," piped up one of the other elders, a scruffier looking fellow Bartholomew recognised as Snappednet, only to be shushed down by the others. The preacher tried not to smile at the slip, now knowing far more about the situation than he had before.

Based on what he could observe from their behaviour, and the inferences he could make from those observation, the locals had found someone not from their community injured and now were wondering how to deal with him without alerting their less than friendly neighbours of their presence. While they could have just left the person to die, that wasn't something the kind-hearted folk would likely do, so the person was most likely being housed somewhere in the small village. Their wounds would be seen to by the local healers, but this would either lead to the man's recovery, which would then place the village in danger, or it would end with his far more likely death from his injuries.

If that were to happen the disposal of the body would need to be arranged, and since the tribe used their fish farms as a way of returning the body of their deceased to the tribe by allowing the fish to feed upon it over the course of weeks or months, if anyone were to find the body in that state they may not appreciate the loving care to be quite as soothing as a member of the tribe would.

"I understand your dilemma, my friend," Widower Bartholomew said in a gentle, soothing tone, "The customs of others can be strange, especially when it comes to dealing with the deceased." The reaction from the small crowd was mixed, with some eying the preacher suspiciously, but most seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at finally having someone else to pass the responsibility of the decision onto. "We wouldn't want to offend them, would we?"

"That was very much our thinking on the matter, Widower," spoke up Snappednet once more, although this time the crowd murmured their agreement with his statement, rather than trying to stop him from talking. "The man's a stranger here, and although we can do what we can for him, it's likely he’ll not see another tide."

Seeing his opportunity, Bartholomew allowed himself to smile this time, using the genuine emotion blur with his intentions to help carry his argument forward. "As you know I'm a well-travelled man. Perhaps if I could speak with him I might be able to recognise his people and be able to advise you on a course to set?"

The group began shuffling their feet again, murmuring together as they discussed their options. Bartholomew simply waited nearby patiently. He'd done all he could to influence the tides, and now it was simply a matter of waiting until they washed him to shore. As he thought over the matter the preacher noticed the nautical metaphors which had begun to slip into his thought patterns, and for a moment worried that perhaps he'd spent too much time with these simple savages.

His self-reflection was stymied as Prickedfinger stepped forwards once more, this time far more confidently than his last approach. "There's no harm in trying, we suppose," he announced in a less than overwhelmingly positive manner. Bartholomew couldn't care less about the nuances of the man's speech however, since he'd gotten what he wanted from the man regardless of his feelings.

Following the man between the sunken houses Bartholomew soon found himself on the outskirts of the rustic settlement, which made sense as the home looked recently built and so was probably intended for a young couple who had yet to take up residence, minimising the impact of the stranger's stay on the locals. Waving his thanks to Prickedfinger in a way which inferred that the preacher would prefer to speak with the man alone, Bartholomew crouched down and slipped inside the hovel closing the door behind him with a finality sure to dismiss the local elder more assuredly.

It took a few moments for the Widower's eyes to become accustomed to the dim light conditions. The only natural light came from two small windows in the front of the house, and both had been covered with thick cloth either to make the visitor's stay more comfortable or to prevent curious prying eyes from peeking inside. The only other light sources were oil burning lanterns, but from the look of them no-one had filled their reservoirs for some time, and Bartholomew wouldn't be surprised if they had yet to be used at all. The locals may be caring when it came to saving lives, but they were also frugal with their limited supplies.

When he could finally see clearly the preacher looked across the room to where a man lay resting on a small cot. He'd been stripped of his clothing and bandaged as best as the locals could manage with seaweed wraps, but it was clear from the absence of bulges beneath the sheets that both his legs were gone, along with an arm. The man was certainly dying, and Bartholomew was surprised he'd survived this long given the standards of the local healers.

Moving closer Bartholomew spotted the man's clothes piled neatly at the foot of the bed. His keen eyes recognised various styles in the clothing, but predominant were the Northmarch fashions common amongst sailors. If he were to guess the preacher would say the man was a trader of some sort, and given the mixture of clothing a low ranking crewman aboard a long distance vessel which put to port all along the northern coast.

Kneeling beside the bed the Widower leaned in close over the man, close enough to ensure his whispered breaths would be heard by him. "Brother, you're safe now. The raiders are gone and we'll soon be making port." The deception was a risk, if the man was lucid and sane he might already know that he wasn't still at sea, but the ploy could be worthwhile given the man's condition and was the most expedient way to learn more about him.

Springing to life the man grabbed at Bartholomew’s clothes, lifting himself up off the sheets. "We're safe? What about the girl?"

"The girl?" The preacher replied, confused at the sailor's words and wondering if they weren't just the insane ramblings of an addled mind. "What girl would that be, Brother?"

"The Captain's girl! The one we were told to protect at all costs." The seaman was becoming frantic now, his crippled body rocking on the cot as she tried to lift himself higher.

As the sheets feel away Bartholomew saw that the man's wounds were even worse than he'd first thought. The entire lower portion of the sailor's body was simply gone, and the tissue around the critical wound was marred by the tell-tale marks of shark bites. Whatever this man had gone through it was a miracle he was still alive at all, let alone as coherent as he was. Keeping him alive like this wasn't mercy, it was torture.

"Don't worry Brother, she's safe with the Captain. We know how important she is." As he spoke Bartholomew reached inside his robe and pulled out his dagger. "Now let me ease your suffering." Placing his hand against the back of the sailor's head, lowering it down onto his shoulder, the preacher plunged the blade up between his ribs and into his heart. For several long seconds neither man moved, until finally the sailor collapsed into Bartholomew’s arms with one final relieved sigh, his body falling limp and lifeless.

Taking a moment to clean his blade, Bartholomew quickly tucked it back away inside his robe before heading out of the hovel. Ducking through the doorway he blinked a few times in the bright sunlight until he saw Prickedfinger still standing where the preacher had left him.

"He's finally passed," Widower Bartholomew said in a sombre tone, "but I know his people. Take his body out into the ocean, weigh it down and drop it into the depths. Let him re-join his crew in death, so they may sail together for eternity. There is no greater peace you could give to him."

Not waiting to see the man's acknowledgement the Widower turned away and began to make his long march home. Things were afoot in the north and the Brides of Daigon needed to know about it before mysteries and whispers became something darker and deadly. A dark feeling settled over Bartholomew as he pondered on the sailor's last words, hoping someone in his order knew where the ship carrying a precious girl had sailed from, and who the child might be.

Across the world, when the moon rises people go inside. They go to sleep or wait out the night to see the day. A few stalwart defenders of the light may wander the roads. Armed with torches to push away the dark. But eventually, the pale moon wins, the long shadows rule and everything is calm and peaceful. Not so in the Sanguine Alliance. Where the vampires of the cities were rising up from their slumber. On the countryside, most people closed their windows and locked their door. Many prayed to the Widows or Justinian to deliver them from their existence.

As Lord Garkeron rushed his steed through a small, countryside village he found such beliefs baffling and arrogant. No light would save them. No widow would free them. The night, the land, their blood, it was all the vampires. They were mere blood bags, cattle that should be happy to even be alive. He guessed it was just natural for something as short living as a human to pray for a simple higher power to save them. Alas, he would continue to let his mind wander if he did not arrive at his destination.

The estate of Lord Ersten was a massive, black, walled place. It was once a large farm though the Lord saw it fit to renovate and uplift the place. Now it was one of few estates to grace the western bank of the Black Water. Garkeron dismounted his steed after he galloped onto the main square, where a handful of servants took the fierce steed to the stables. Garkeron noticed that all of them were human, not fledglings. Then the large, main, heavy oaken door burst open. Revealing the Lord of the estate. Lord Ersten was a comely man. Untouched by diseases even in his mortal life. Now his white, long hair stood as a testament of his age. It wouldn’t take long now. A century at the most, before he was asked to become an Ascendant. “Lord Garkeron! My ward! What a pleasure it is to welcome you home!” the white-haired vampire greeted, as he waved his free hand. In the other, he held a rather large goblet. “A pleasure as always.” Garkeron shook his guardian’s hand as he greeted him. Both then went inside. Where several other vampires were gathered.

“What would you have. I got a wonderful vintage. A Castello Vigiroso. Year 8596. Absolutely wonderful. Are you familiar with Castello’s stories?” Ersten asked excitingly. Several Lords and Ladies rolled their eyes. Most probably heard the story several times already. Though not Garkeron. “No, I’m afraid I have not.” He said as he let Ersten pour a new goblet and hand it to him. He took a quick sip. The vintage’s taste exploded in his mouth. A fire was unleashed from the crimson liquid as he traveled the vampire’s throat. “A fierce vintage, I must say. This must have been difficult to acquire naturally from any human.”

“It was, it was!” Ersten said as he poured a glass for himself. “Castello Vigiroso prided itself in making very fiery humans. Lord Vigir produced a very interesting taste by letting his humans fight. Sometimes to the death just to keep that edge in.” Unlike most, Garkeron was listening attentively. “Obviously arming the cattle is a rather risky thing to do. One thing led to another and in the year 8595 a human revolted. Him and a few more fled into the nearby woods. Lord Vigir needed a year and all his people to find the band, as they torched the vineyards and freed more and more people. When they caught them, Lord Vigir ordered them to be drained immediately to maintain that precious taste.” Ersten held up the bottle to look at the emblem, letting out a content sigh. “Such a perfect taste. You can taste the viciousness. The human’s name is forgotten, obviously. Martyrdom makes for poor vines. But that human’s blood is something to remember forever.” The old Lord mused, before putting the bottle away and sat on the last chair of the circle. “But enough musing about wine and martyrs. Ladies and gentlemen. The fledglings are growing a bit weary of playing servant all the time. Many voices have risen, all saying the same thing. They want a raid.”

A Lady rose from her seat. “The Fledglings can say what they want. They have no voice, no age. We should not bend at their will!” she sneered. A few nodded in agreement. Ersten extended his hand towards her and lowered it. The lady, respectfully, sat down again. “I quite agree. Fledglings should not get a habit of demanding things of their elders.” He continued. “However, I do agree that the last few decades have been rather… dull.” Several others nodded in agreement now. “A raid would cull the weaker younglings. Allowing stronger vampires to rise up. Who here did not participate in a Rotwatch raid?” A few did raise their hands. Garkeron too. “Ah, a pity. Well, I do propose we hold one. For various reasons. To show that the Sanguine Alliance is still very much alive. To steal away those lush and plump Justinians and to weed out the weakest amongst us.”

“Aye, I agree.” One lord vocally offered his support. “Me too.” Another joined in. “I will join too.” A lady said. More and more joined in. First the youngest, who have not yet participated in a Rotwatch raid. Then the older ones too. First Ersten smiled, but his smile collapsed for only a second when he saw more support.

After the meeting Garkonen, who had also offered to join, approached the Lord in his garden, looking west towards the sinking moon. “A lot of Lords and Ladies are joining. It is unexpected.” He opened, as he took a seat next to his Guardian. Ersten nodded, though said nothing. “Too many?” Garkonen offered. Ersten remained silent for a moment. “There is a painful truth I have realized over the years.” He eventually said. “Justinian grew large and powerful on the other side of the mountains. Oh, there were such lush lands. Green fields and huge woods and herbs that would make the blood so sweet. Have you ever drunk the blood of a Hersian noblewoman, Garkonen? Oh, such elegant taste. It waltzes in your mouth.” The old vampire mused nostalgically as he moved his goblet through the air. As if he was dancing with it. “Now the supposed God of light holds that land. We are not so strong as we would like to believe, my little ward.”

“You fear we would not win at Rotwatch?” Garkonen asked rather surprised. If history was to repeat itself, and it always did, then they would win at Rotwatch. After the victory, they would triple the garrison for a few years. Then slowly it would bleed from greedy generals and the inevitability of shifting wars.

“Oh no. I fear Justinian’s inescapable wrath.”

Ozgad's Folly

"Not here?" he asked. His tone was mild, but there was murder in his eyes, "What do you mean? Has she gone to the market, perhaps?"

"N-no," Dreska was a tough old bird- you'd have to be to run a brothel in a place like the Folly. She could face down a raging orc or a drunken Akagi swordhand without blinking, but this cowled stranger set her nerves on edge. He had some glamour about him, she was sure. No street magician with tricks for the slow eyed or half-witted, this.

"Then what do you mean, sister?" he asked in his conversational way. He spoke Nagathi with a strong Imperial accent, which added to Dreska's unease. Not that she didn't have plenty of experience with Justinians- the Folly was home to its share of imperial outlaws, renegades, adventurers and merchants, but they almost always came by sea... This'un had ridden overland. Survived the ashlands and the beastkin and Daigon knew what else and there was hardly a scratch on him. Now here he stood, deep in the slums of the meanest city this side of Daigon Zul, calm and confident as you please, like he was the master of the place.

Dreska stepped out from the crooked wooden doorway of the Silk House, making room for Gaznug, the hulking greenskin she paid to break skulls when the customers got too rough with the girls, to loom into view.

"What I mean is," she said, more confident with the orc backing her, "She ain't in the Folly no more. Sent her off with a sailing ship week before last, I did. Imperials, or at least Marchers, I took them for."

"You were paid," said the stranger, "to keep her here. Your instructions were perfectly clear. Keep her safe, keep her away from prying eyes. Wait for someone- that would be me- to arrive for her."

"Well that was more'n a year ago, weren't it? And anyways, them sailors from the Ushtobal came around askin' for her same as you, like they knew the arrangement. Now I don't need to stand here in the mud taking guff from from strange men."

Gaznug growled menacingly.

"The Ushtobal," said the stranger quietly, completely unfazed by the scarred orc circling to his left, "Alright sister. I'll leave you in peace."

He jangled a small pouch of coins, "One question, where was this ship headed?"

"Captain was rather mum on that score," said Dreska, "but sailors blabbed in their cups and to the girls. Nailbite, in Northmarch. They was none to happy 'bout having to round the Arm. I s'pose you know why that is. Reavers there don't serve no Khan. Serve other things."

The stranger spat into the mud and spun on his heel. Gaznug stepped into his path.

"How 'bout those coins," said Dreska, "I upheld my end of the bargain, didn't I?"

The stranger glanced up at the orc, meeting the monster's gaze. "Oh, sister, you'll get paid."

Gaznug's face went suddenly blank, he pushed past the stranger, lunging at Dreska, who stood there looking puzzled as the greenskin's powerful hands closed around her head.

The stranger walked away, black cloak billowing out behind him. He was out of sight by the time the brothel owner stopped screaming.

It is said that the older a vampire becomes, the more tempered they become. After their fledgling phase, they fully understand what it is to be a vampire. After that, they may have their bouts of animalistic feeding or overly human-like compassion. But it often balances out. Not so with Mirabella. A True Vampire of high renown, she is known as the Savage Princess to some. She never lost the fighting spirit some say she had long before she became a vampire. Though she herself could not say if this is true or not. Alas, it did not matter as she was riding with haste towards her own fortress. Unlike many other vampires, she had not given in to the vainglory of age. Instead of a massive mansion casting it’s long shadow all the way to their governed villages and vineyards, Mirabella kept to strong walls and an open courtyard. Where a handful of Fledglings and Neophytes were training. They were part of the Order of Fangs and direct disciples of Great Knight Mirabella. “My lady.” A servant approached her as she dismounted her black steed. The vampires of the Sanguine Alliance have long been proud vampires and rarely shared their blood with any creature. However, the horses here were fierce and loyal. And thus they were given the gift of the blood.

“Hesarim. Gather everyone in the main hall. I have an announcement.” She said as she removed her riding gloves in a delicate manner. “An announcement, madam?” Hesarim asked with a slight tone of delight in his voice. A shine came in his eyes the likes Mirabella hadn’t seen in years. “Yes. It would seem that the higher Lords are finally listening to the lessers’ pleas. Gather the people.” She repeated as she passed him and walked towards the keep’s main door. An hour later she sat in her chambers. Not dressed in her crimson, silk dress but in pitch-black armor. With her helmet on a stand next to her mirror. Armor or not, she did like looking pretty. It confused her enemies. So she sat there, quietly brushing her long, blonde hairs in the mirror. They flowed over her shoulders, putting the accents on all the right places. When you have lived several human lifetimes, you learn to master a few things. When she was happy with the result, she stood up, took her helmet under her arm and walked towards the door leading to the main hall. Though when she opened it, she did not stand on the same ground as the lessers she was ruling over. No, she was on a balcony. Right looking over her kindreds as her most trusted and oldest advisors stood next to her. Elevated amongst the common dredges of the bloodsuckers. “My children!” she began. Her voice echoing through the hall. Demanding all attention. “I bring joyous news.” Even her oldest friends hung on every word she spoke. “My guardian and mentor, Lord Ersten, has deemed it necessary to show the world once again that we exist. That we are not some fleeting annoyance. No, he wants to show that we are eternal!” The entire hall erupted in a roar. Mirabella basked for a moment in the uproar, delighted that her dutiful minions were so happy to die for her. For obviously, a lot of them would perish. However, after a minute she wanted to continue. She only had to raise a hand and the entire room fell silent. “Soon we will march upon the fortress of Rotwatch. Which guards the lands to the south, as well as Justinian’s ground. Shall we remind them why they fear the night!?” Again the roar and cheer broke out. Though this time it was silent a lot faster by the Lady. “My kin, I bid you. Write your friends and make them join us. Write your sire and make them lead us. Write your enemy and challenge them! This raid will be a chance for all of you to prove yourself! To feast upon human blood and indulge in the spoils of war! Now drink, feast, fight! For tomorrow the preparations begin.” The hall below broke into chaos as everyone did as their lady bid them to do. Above it the older vampire merely whispers. No doubt gossiping as a court loves to do. She turned to Hesarim again: “Prepare the Fallen Keep crow. I have more duties to attend to.” She ordered. Though Hesarim was hesitant. “The Sanguine Alliance does not correspond with the supposed brides of Daigon.” He remarked, trying to divine a reason why she wanted the crow prepared. “Well, I am not acting as the Sanguine Alliance. I am acting as Lady of the Order of Fangs.” Hesarim gave her a curt nod and went on his way.

---

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Elizabeth could believe her eyes when the local burgermeister read the letter to her. A raid!? Against Rotwatch!? Humans were not used to war. It was the one blessing of living around the Black Water. They were blood bags and blood bags worked best when alive and reproducing. Sure, there were sacrifices. But war was rarely one of them. Still, the local vampire Lady had demanded that a third of all boys above 18 were to present themselves within the next 3 weeks at her court. She also decreed that all normal activities for those boys were to seize and they would, henceforth, start training. Sure, Elizabeth was somewhat ready for a war. She had her makeshift armor. Made from all the gifts every blacksmith of every village she visited gave her. The pieces didn’t fit together as well as a vampire crafted piece of armor. But it offered more protection than any other human could beg for. Though she was not asked by name, she knew she would have to show up for this raid. If only to lead the humans. She was their hero after all.

Elizabeth fell back on her wooden chair, looking out the window at the full moon sinking. She was living more and more like a vampire these days. Awake at night, sleeping during the day. She had to, if she wanted to represent the humans in a council populated by almost only creatures of the night. In a way, she hated the job. The tyrants would never listen and the people believed she could bring change. Still, it was better than the farm life she lived a few years back. “My lady. The lads have a request.” Diedrick said as he entered her room. Several men, no boys, walked into her room with their hats in their hands. “Mi’lady-“ but Elizabeth was already up and held up her hand to stop them: “I am not a lady. And whatever you will ask, I am afraid I will have to refuse. I have matters to attend to.” But the guys were steadfast. “Mi’- Miss. We heard the rumors. A march for Rotwatch. We would ask you to stay here for a bit longer. ‘Tis closer here to Rotwatch. We’ve already received ravens from nearby villages. Our humble settlement would serve as a gathering point for the people.” Elizabeth remained silent for a moment. She was supposed to go eastwards. Yet still, what vampire would really hate it if she wasn’t coming? “Very well, I’m staying. And I suppose you want me to train you?” She said. The boys just nodded, all at the same time. She had figured as much. She and her warband were one of the few humans who could actually fight. And fight was a big word. Ever since she killed the Accursed, her and her people were permitted to slash hay with a sword. Still, it was more experience than most others had. “Tell the men to make shields from lose planks and grab strong sticks from the woods. It will do for the training of today.” The two lads she looked at nodded and vanished. Then she turned to several others: “Tell the smith to start forging axes. As many as he can and then some more.” A few more lads vanished. “I want hay dummies up before daybreak.” The last of the guys went to work. When they were out the door, Elizabeth collapsed on her bed again. “You think they stand a chance?” Diedrick asked. “Not at all.” Elizabeth admitted, looking at her pile of armor in the corner. “They’ll be slaughtered like pigs. The best I can do is make sure they might actually die with a sense of glory.” But Diedrick looked rather grim at her. “There is no glory in dying. No matter how many you take with you. When you see your blood make mud under your boots, glory is a far away thing.” Elizabeth, tired, closed her eyes. “I know, Diedrick. I know. It’s just, it’s the best I can offer.”