Tonight the streets of Whiterun would be littered with the bodies of her people. The guards who came first were easily dealt with, 18 vampires against the half dozen guards active on the streets at this hour? Dead men walking amongst the walking dead. The Borba and her crew made short work of the ill-prepared guards who had rushed out of the guard tower at the sounds of distress. These vampires however were newblood, barely a few months old as they were recruited in the forests of Falkreath by Lucan and Borba. Out of the miscreants of society, the bandits, sell-swords and mercenaries, anyone who sought to take what they thought were owed in life by force. Befitting of the blood of Borba who infected them with the dark gift. But not all vampires were made equal.
Some, like Lucan, bore the bloodline of the Volkihar, an ancient court of vampires, sourced from Lord Harkon, blessed by Molag Bal himself to take the form within them. A truly monstrous amount of power which lesser vampires were considered to be nothing more than half-breeds who were blessed by only a sliver of what a vampire was. But Lucan hated this form, the bestial essence which made them more akin to flying rodents than the cultured humanoids they were. Power at the cost of humanity, not that Lucan had not traded his for his own survival over five hundred years ago. But what humanity he had, Lucan clung to, keeping his sanity and bloodlust in balance to keep the hunger contained. They all became monsters, driven by their goals and ends. Some worshiped blood, others money, some glory, and the rest power. Lucan simply craved experiences.
Returning to the battle, the fold of destruction as the flaming arrows fell upon the vampires, one of which began to catch flame and in panic ran across towards the archers coming down from the Cloud District now alert. It was safe to say the flaming pincushion was not much of a loss for this sheer stupidity. Again proving Lucan's thoughts on vampires, how weak their wills were should they surrender to the hunger. The newblood who so willingly join the ranks of the undead thought themselves foolishly immortal. How laughable, no the best vampires are tasted in the potions of the best alchemist. The uses of vampire dust was after all quite interesting.
It had seemed the Jarl was not about to let his people die, and would rather watch them burn than possibly rise up again as a creature of the night. But this mission was not about ransacking the city, as much as Borba thought it was, for the orc was never told the true reason why she was paired with Lucan for this task. While the brute was killing off everything in her path, the men who had bravely set out into the city to join the melee amongst the guards, the beggars in the streets, or the women and children who were being pulled out of their homes by the thieves in the night and slaughtered. Lucan tutted, this was highly unprofessional of the orc, there was no glory in killing the innocent. But they did tell her to send a strong message to the city, and the killing of these was a necessary evil.
"Oculus Magnus" A whispered spell, in silent tones spoken. A call to warp Mundus to his will, as his golden eyes shimmered with the all-sight of the gods. For that which had life, the spark of the soul, would be known to him, as the universe revealed the secrets of the living before his sight. And the dead, or undying would appeared without the sparks which the living bore like blue candles in the darkness of the universe which symbolize the presence of their souls. For the undead were merely empty vessels, existing and moving from will rather than true spirit, and the ghosts were all but spirits, vampires were somewhere in between caught between separation of the spirit and rising as the mindless undead. Twice-blessed, and Thrice-cursed.
The dead were filling the streets, a bloodbath beneath him as Lucan straddled the central post of the Inn. Perched like a crow, watching the tides of battle begin, shifting as the guards and militia pushed forward only to be pushed back by the vampires. He smiled at the presence of two living sparks amidst the piles of the dead, a woman and her daughter, facedown and pretending to be expired. They would survive tonight by feigning death, not that the vampires would care to check, their orders were to reduce the population and mainly target the Graymanes. For in this political maneuvering, should Lucan fail in his task tonight, the vampires could at least glean some support from the Battleborns through intimidation, bribes and a knowing nod that it was convenient that the vampires would remove their clan enemies from the city.
They had yet to draw him out however, Lucan's target, the captain of the guard. And so he would have to watch and wait before the night was through. Though he could hear those dogs barking at the walls, encroaching upon the battle. So the Companions have come at last, Borba and her goons should have washed before walking downwind. But wait, what was this? Lucan's mystical eyes looked down between his legs to watch a figure rush out of the Bannered Mare. This one had no life, though was neither spirit nor shambling undead. One of them? Had the elders of Harkon's Court sent an observer to observe the observer? Did they not trust Lucan to seduce the Captain with his charms? In this brutal distraction, ensuring a man inside the city would allow them to take the city when they came around again. To make the Captain his thrall was crucial... So who was this?
You've perked my interest. Lucan thought to himself, as the leapt down from the rooftop and landed like a black cat, crouched on all fours before rising. He watched the stranger from behind, his movements mimiced the stalking cat, striding up and sauntering casually as if all was well. Who was this long-haired vampire? Certainly a vampire by the lack of spark appearing before Lucan's vision, but not one of their numbers. And his swords, glass swords, elegant and deadly, wickedly serrated and spectacularly transparent. A man of good taste, and perhaps of good taste as Lucan licked his upper lip. It was his attempt at eating a vampire which had made him one, although that would be another story for another time. For now, this stranger was more interesting to ponder over than to wait out for the yellow Captain.
With a slight movement of his palm, and the focus of his will into manifesting the pull, the tip of Mithias' blade would feel the sharp jerk in his hand towards the left. As if something had grabbed a hold of the end began to tug it away from his grip. A telekinetic spell, toying with the boy from a far, sitting atop the town well to perhaps make him pause for a moment from the eager pursuit of joining the battle below. The werewolves would come in soon enough, and then Borba would have to take an assault from both ends. And frankly, Lucan was unsure if the orc could handle it all without needing some backup.
..the world eater...peace in Tamriel was short lived...a war broke out and unfortunately, mankind got caught in the middle of it..a war between two rival bloodlines...a war between..
..vampires and werewolves...like the battle between the empire and the stormcloaks it was a battle that stirred much in the world and it was spreading. The Vampires seek to consume and use Tamriel as a spot to harvest Mortals as food. The werewolves want to rid Tamriel of the vampire threat. So now the wild werewolves joined with the companions and trained to save Tamriel from destruction. But somewhere in the midst of it all. Is the silver hand. Monster slayers who have lost much because of both monsters. Loved ones, Homes and more.
