Scattered reports have popped up across the known world, rumors of beings which vanish in the sun and drink blood. Heads of guilds, advisors, and great heroes true to their heart, have come forth to warn that this heralds the start of a crisis. Beings which seek nothing but to bleed every nation and its people, seeking nothing but chaos and evil, Vampires. Resolute these men stand together, rallying against the dark dragon, rejecting its evil. “The Sun League” rises!
A winged boy who awoke in a pit of clay, a red headed girl from a family of lumberjacks, a young world treading hatted man, a student of the martial arts, and a well tested mercenary sat together in a room. A room of radiant treated wood of yellow coloring, each and every table and cabinet and wall filled with paper (Most spilling across the floor in each and every direction). A room situated in a newly raised blockhouse in a land of old wood. This blockhouse, this outpost, belongs to an infantile organization by the name of “The Sun League”, as do the individuals in this room.
The red headed girl by the name of Carrie Straka broke a rib. It smelled wrong, sweet and savory, some sort of bitterness stinging with it. Her plate was loaded and she was satisfied, those flanking her thinking she bit off more than she could chew. She directed a question towards the older close to balding man in the front.
“Not to be impatient or nothin’, but did you invite us just to chit chat or are we gonna get down to business?”
The young man in the wide-brimmed hat by the name of Myer shot a close to indignant look at the girl. Left hand firmly holding to their meal as if a king's scepter, right hand pointed straight towards the girl in front of him.
“Hey now slow down! Some of us are still eating, and I don’t exactly wanna get indigestion from hearing about some shitty business!”
The beast man by the name of Tracker, who sat to Myers right, shifted his attention to him. Seated or standing their head stood taller than all others here, a head whose top was crowned with a bleached white skull and antlers as if a mask. They wore a black cloak, hiding ashy black fur underneath. He faced the hatted man, rapping nails across the table.
“Three meals and a cot is nothing to scoff at, far more than what a lot of others are willing to offer.”
The child by the name of Jorgen Kreese sat close to their fellow beast man (Though the child was a noticeably different breed, one of feathered serpents). As Myer and Tracker began to butt heads, arguing about the intent in and behind Myers' statement, Jorgen began to tug at the white fur of the white wolf he sat next to.
“Mr! Mr! What was your name?”
The young winged werewolf which Jorgen tugged on, a bit dazed by the arguments and conversation around him, was snapped back to their seat by the inquisition. He takes a second to gather himself, remembering, and speaking plainly.
“Uhhh, my name is Rere-”
“Alright! Settle down now, settle down!” The man at the head of the table exclaimed.
This man was a bit thick and aged, a elve with thin blonde hair quickly turning silver, wearing a soot colored nobleman's attire. They raised their hands as if a conductor, shaking them lower, the voices of the room obeying. He continued with the room's attention.
“Thank you… You might have heard of me, I am Sir Saul, the regional director of Sun League operations in this, err, region. Now, I believe I have talked to each of you individually about your histories and abilities, and have determined that they are best assembled together- in this group. Would you like to introduce yourselves to each other?”
Carrie takes initiative, reaching under her chair, pulling out a double headed ax. It was a simple construct, red wood and dark iron, a family crest stamped at the handle’s base. Proudly, she lays it at the center of the table between plates of food and vases of drink, lifting herself up to a stand in her chair. She sets one hand on her hip and one on her breast, announcing herself:
“I am Carrie Straka, daughter of Paul Straka, a proud member of the Clan of the Ax! Now, I will not lie, I am… New to this sort of work, however, I will refuse to be a burden and will do all that I can to support the Sun League!”
Under her nose Myer slithers across the table, pulling out a booklet bound in golden dyed leather, flipping through several pages and pressing them against the base of the ax. Yellow pages filled with red wax seals slip by the base until Carrie turns her nose down. She sees a dirty young man with greasy mud stained clothes pressing their grubby hands against one of her three most prized possessions. She jumps down from her seat, setting both hands on her ax, firmly grasping it, pulling it upwards and off the table.
Too engrossed in his book and thoroughly tuning the woman out, Myer inched his nose closer and closer to the ax, flicking from base to book, from seal to seal. They flick to a page towards the center of the book, a seal two lumber axes stood next to each other (Each facing opposite directions), a wreath encircling them, something like a skull at its center -
The knob of the ax had pulled skyward, carelessly ignoring Myer’s nose, striking it with a fair degree of force. Instinctively he threw his head back, grasping his nose with both hands, feeling a liquid begin to run from it. He staggered back for half a second, throwing his entire body to the floor, rolling and writhing from their back to their chest then back to their back and onto their chest like a wriggling worm. Carrie clasped her mouth in horror of what she had done, Tracker leaned forwards simply letting their eyes follow, Jorgen pulled themself and their chair backwards silently thinking about how much of a wuss Myer was, Rere stared at the display without giving a single hint as to a single thought sparking in their head, and Sir Saul set their arms on the table and touched their forehead to their hands as if in prayer.
Carrie would exclaim “I am so- so- sorry! I was only trying to get the ax away, I didn’t mean to break your nose!”
Myer would respond with an indiscernible mess of noise, grumblings and cussing flowing together to create a strange babble.
Tracker would pull a handkerchief from their cloak, tossing it across the table, letting it flutter down to Myers' clasped face. He would raise his voice, enough so that he spoke over the ambient grunting though refraining from yelling “Apologies if I’m skipping over this man’s… Introduction. Just call me Tracker. As the name may imply I am a professional Tracker - man and beast alike. Though I can hold my own in a fight if needed - ”
“Have you killed anyone before?” The child, Jorgen, asked.
Tracker turned their head, slowly, down towards the child sitting next to him. His gaze was not filled with malice nor misunderstanding the question, just a slight befuddlement. He asked “Have you?”.
Without hesitation or pause Jorgen responded “Nope”.
“That's good, keep up the good work.”
Tracker reached across the table, setting his hand on Jorgens head, patting them like a dog. Jorgen struggled, thrashing in their seat, throwing his hands up trying to dispel the assault, expelling “Blehs!” and “No!”. No matter their efforts Tracker pressed on, forcing Jorgen to up their efforts. Jorgen grappled both of Trackers' hovering hands with a surprising degree of force, set both of their clawed feet on the table's edge, pushing. The table's edge was sent straight into Tracker's stomach, hitting hard and scattering close to half of the diningware onto the floor. Tracker was thoroughly winded by the assault. Jorgen let go of his hands, allowing him to arc backwards, setting both hands on his head as he caught his breath.
“Wooooh… I was not expecting that sort of force from a child… Takes a damn good amount of strength to do that, what’s your name?”
“Oh yeah! Uhh, lemme figure out how to do this…”
Mimicking Carrie (Who was now up and about, attempting to help Myer up off the floor, though finding it hard as he was under the impression the floor was “safer”) Jorgen jumped up to a stand in their seat. At this point his head could now meet a leveled gaze with the others sitting in the room (With the exception of Tracker and Rere, who still had a height advantage over him). Aimlessly he swung and looked across the room, beginning their speech.
“Uhh hello! I am Jorgen. As a baby I was taken to the ‘Dojo of the Empty Fist’. There I trained there under the guidance of Mr Kreese. As the top student, Mr Kreese decided that some ‘real world’ experience would help so he sent me to The Sun League to help! I’m, uhhh, not quite sure what else I should say.”
Carrie, abandoning the helpless Myer, made her way back to her seat, swiping off the refuse which had taken her place sitting on it. She asked “Aren’t you a, uhh, a bit young for these sorts of things?”
Confidently, Jorgen assuages all her fears “I can handle it, I'm now Eight.”
Sir Saul interjects, bypassing the introduction of Myer, wanting to snuff out the chaos of the room “Now I believe we only have one introduction left… We have a bit of a, uhh, special situation. Our remaining friend here, Rere, was discovered by a traveling mage. He appears to be having memory issues, amnesia she called it. Though she left before we could ask anything else. Her apprentice mentioned something about traveling East so we will be sending a courier to find the both of them, though in the meantime please just keep an eye on him. Rere, would you like to say anything?”
Almost sheepishly, he threw up a waving paw, lightly muttering “Hello…”. The others turned towards him and fell silent. Carrie and Jorgen turned with curiosity tinged with confusion, unfamiliar with both the status of amnesia and their foreign form. Myer lifted himself off the floor and onto his seat, hoping he didn’t make too big of a scene, scanning the room and turning towards Rere to mimic the others. Tracker thoughts turned towards their past and experiences, they liked to think they were well traveled and cultured, he knew he was well accustomed to the forms of the major races of the world, though he sat alongside the others aware of their own ignorance.
Sir Saul carries on “Now that you are all acquainted, and presumably finished with your meals…”. He took a second to lean ever so slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of the floor now covered with scattered food and dining ware from Jorgen’s moment (Myer unashamedly reaching down to add the fallen food to their plate), before catching his thoughts and continuing.
“Let us talk business. I have a nice and easy mission for you all… We have been running low on fresh supplies here. The North is lush, plenty of forests, hills, and beasts. Take a day and night to hunt, bringing back something nice for us…”
Slowly Sir Saul lifted himself from his seat, slowly stepping towards the wall sat behind him, one with a large map pasted from corner to corner across the wall, running his finger across the pins and pasted notes to a small star. He continues his speech “I understand that some of you are firebrands, but just stick with me here please, bigger missions will come if you can prove yourself. Until then I wish you the best of luck!”.
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This land here looks more like a crumpled bed sheet, wrinkles forming soft valleys and hills. Lush green woven into every corner and crack, specklings of orange and brown starting to emerge. Trickles and streams carve themselves into the low points, converging upon the East. A temperate dampness coats this land, each step in crumbling leaves leaving the feet moist. Cold whispers begin to flutter about, brought in by the wind. The forest is starting to yield to the winter winds. This land was quite unremarkable, not holding anything or anyone of particularly important or special nature, with a single possible exception.
A veil of cooled blackened coals and wine envelop the land, only letting through the filtered light of the stars and moon. Though even darkness does not stop the forests’ life under the reign of night. The wind rustles the leaves, whisking them away from their parents. Droplets of moisture condense on every twig and leaves tip, passively dripping, leaving soft echoes of movement in the air. Solitary beasts sleuth through the forest, leaving the sounds of trampled undergrowth, thickets and shrubs rustling with their passage. Running water bubbles and gurgles like a perpetual exhale. Hums and chirps of bugs and small critters serenade the open sky. A cacophony of sounds intertwining themselves with one another, a breath of life in the night.
Within this orchestra of darkness a single spark glimmers. A glade is open on a hillside, like someone peeled away a part of the forest revealing a grassy base. A fire glows at its center, orbiting around it is a rudimentary campsite composed of five tents and five figures. Orbiting close to the fire are two of the five figures, Myer and Rere. Both sit around it silently, staring into the flames. Closer to the edge of the forest, at the edge of the fires light, orbit the other three. Tracker has a rope held with both hands, knotting and weaving it as Jorgen and Carrie tentatively watch in silence. Tracker breaks the silence, still keeping focused on the task at hand.
“Shoo, go away, I’m working right now.”
Carrie asks “Shouldn’t we be helping?”
“Is the camp fully set up?”
She retorts with “Aye. Just helped Myer pitch the last of the tents, he’s tending to the fire. Nothing much more to do there.”
“Then you can help by being quiet.”
“Are you sure you don’t need help with your trap thingy there?”
With that Tracker slowly pulls himself away from his work. A basic trap, a rope snare with berries as bait. Nothing particularly impressive, nor something that they thought would give a worthwhile return, though it was something to occupy idle hands. Eyes still locked on the trap, he states “If you want to help you can test it.”.
Jorgen without hesitation reaches for the bait. With a snap their palm plummets for the bait, stopped at the wrist by Tracker. To Carrie it was almost like sleight of hand, both breaking from a relaxed sit to lunging and leaning, she blinked and she missed all that was in between. Tracker plainly exclaims, keeping a steady level voice, only the faintest hint of surprise “You’re fast kid, but I’m fast.”.
Jorgen huffs, whining “I would’ve been faster if I knew this was a test!”
Carrie chuckles, leaning back against one of the trees at her back interjecting “Was a test, just not one that you were expecting, now was it~?”
Tracker cuts back in “No, you’re both wrong, I was being sarcastic.”
Jorgen mumbles “I don’t like big words.”
Carrie assures him “Big words ain’t so bad, they take a bit to say but say a lot in return, just gotta learn them first… And if you were wondering, sarcasm is like saying the opposite- errrrr, it’s like when you’re playing with someone by saying the wrong thing.”
Jorgen firmly states “I know what sarcasm is.”
He, in fact, did not know what sarcasm is. Carrie, in fact, knew that Jorgen did not know. She would promptly give him an example, yelling over to Myer “Myer! I’m sure you can handle yourself when pissing tonight, and you won’t get yourself snagged and flipped upside down over here!”
Fire poking stick in hand, rattling it and their fist in the air, Myer shouts back “You vulgar, vulgar, girl! I will have you know that I am very aware of my surroundings!”
Sparks flicking from the sticks fiery end, he slashes it like a conductor's wand, perhaps even a sword, as if a display of prowess and power. In his orchestra of embers he throws his hand back, stick slipping from his hand, jetting towards Rere’s chest. They do not react until it meets their fur and flesh, stinging. For what might be the first time since setting up camp they’ve made a sound, yelping.
Myer spins, immediately succumbing to panic, devoling to kneeling position, placating and groveling “Oh no- no- no- no- NO! I am so- so- SO sorry! I really should have been more aware, I really should have! I’m- uh- I’m a bit of a clutz ya see. I was just tending to the fire and had an accident, shit happens, right? Happens to the best of us? I’m sure you know how it is, you’re fucking, uh, jamming the firepoker down into the firepit and it just slides out and you’re trying to stop it but you don’t wanna burn yourself and- Yeah I’m sure you get it but yeah I am really sorry and- uhhh… Yeah, I guess that’s kinda it. Like- Yeah…”
Myer finally works his eyes up from the ground, scanning the winged werewolf. First the legs. They’re still sitting, no different than before. They shift their eyes up a bit further. Stomach, flat and thin. A bit more. Chest, a bit weak looking, they see a small black mark centered on their left pec right above the heart, where the poker had left its ashy mark. A bit higher up. Shoulders, nothing impressive. A bit higher. He can see Reres' head cocked downwards, looking at him. Finally he meets him eye to eye. Nothing, just a blank, listless, look.
Myer shuffles to a stand, taking a gaze behind him, seeing the three others staring in confusion. He shudders, turning his eyes back to the ground, shuffling around Rere to the opposite side of the camp. He places himself right between where the fires light meets the foliage of the forest. Simultaneously he throws both arms out to his side, keeping them horizontally outstretched, making himself as large of a target as possible. He announces “The rules are the rules, I hurt you so you can hurt me, fair is fair…”
Rere continues to stare. Nothing more.
Myer mumbles out “You can throw a stone at me, or something…”
Rere gives a few blinks in response, eyes set on Myer though seemingly disinterested, as if staring past him.
Mere, arms still outstretched, points to a pile of stones scattered about Reres' side “Just, well, throw one of those at me I don’t know what you want…”
Rere shifts his neck down at the stones, then back towards Myer, back to the stones, back to Myer… Slowly, almost cautiously, he picks both himself and a stone up. Carrie, Tracker, and Jorgen have thoroughly had their attention swept up by Myer. Tracker was caught by the incessant noise, waiting for Myer to settle down from the role of a fool. Jorgen was caught by the humorous prospect of seeing Myer crushed by a massive boulder, or that is at least what their imagination illustrates. Carrie was caught up in the silliness, she had never quite met a man like Myer. He was not particularly pleasant; loud and obnoxious, an aura of filth orbiting him at all times, someone who came close to passing as a wild animal. Despite all these flaws, he is at least interesting to be around.
Carrie cups her hands over her mouth, shouting to Rere “Come on, don’t be shy about it! Stone him, he is literally asking for it!”.
Myer silently turns his face to the floor, still holding his stance, cringing at what hes done to himself, bracing for whatever comes next.
Jorgen joins Carrie in the cheers “Get the biggest stone you can! Throw it hard or I’ll have to throw it for you!”
Tracker joins, directing Rere “Make sure you aim right for the forehead, I wanna see what you can do.”
Rere, facing the outstretched Myer, arcs their right arm back, stone in hand. His form is awkward, stiff, and generally novice-like in all aspects. His arm is cocked back, primed to the best of his ability carrying a stone which nicely fits their palm. He shifts his gaze back to the three behind them, all of them staring, waiting. Jorgen and Carrie are bent forwards, fully leaning into the sight opposed to the more relaxed Tracker. Rere turns his face back towards Myer.
Something whizzes through the air, audibly planting itself in something soft, a horrid screech quickly following. Myers head snaps to his right, eyes trained on the depths of the forest, feet slowly twisting and shuffling backwards. The only thing he felt from the stone was the trail it left in the air, skidding past his good cheek. Though it most definitely, clearly, hit something that was not him. The others were clear on the situation as well, seeing him recoil not from the stone but the echoing noise, well aware of the screeches and yelps he was accustomed to making at this point.
“Wa- Was that an animal?” Asked Carrie, to no one in particular.
“That was no animal, that was a man.” Answered Tracker, the first to lift himself upwards and approach the outskirts of the camp.
Both Carrie and Jorgen were more cautious, rising to a stand, taking deliberate steps forwards, almost in the footprints of Tracker. Myer would keep his front to the forest and back to the others, shadowed figures gaining form. He was quick, almost carelessly, shuffling backwards towards the camp. Rere kept his position, moving neither forwards or backwards, acting as a sort of anchor in which Myer, Jorgen, and Carrie would align themselves with.
Tracker would move until their shadow stretched into the forest. Here his nose would catch a scent, unmistakably blood. Then his ears would perk up, angered mumbling and chatter. Then his eyes would trace a growing outline. Three men, all Elves, One of them larger by a good margin than the other three. One of them, the shortest of the three, was hunched over. His hands covered his mouth, he was wobbling. The last of the three, caught between the others in size, walked at a slant. It was as if he walked with a limp or bad back, this one would break away from the other two.
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“Didn’t expect any others out here… It appears you have bloodied the nose of my comrade.”
With this said, the figure would step fully out of the shadows, where the light of the camp meets the dark of the forest. It was a young man, neither tall nor short, and through their well fitting clothes their definition was clear. Their clothes amounted to a tan linen wrapped around their chest, stomach, and legs. These pieces were kept in place by a red cloth wrapped tightly around the waist, crossed over their chest and around one shoulder. They wore no shoes, only muddied bandages around the ankles.
Of their appearance, two things caught the eye of Tracker. The first, more minor, of the things were his teeth. Sat across his bottom lip were a pair of snaggly, shrap, teeth. Reminiscent of snakes. The second, more significant, of the two was his collar. The wrapping around his collar, from one edge of his neck to the other, stretching to the center of his chest, was soaked in dried blood. Tracker spoke:
“It appears? You are the bloody one.”
The figure continues approaching, stopped by- “Halt! What's your purpose here! Are you a Vampire?”
Carrie keeps her chest puffed up, proud with her resolve to speak up. She keeps her ax close to her chest. Tracker swivels, flicking two fingers downwards at her, gesturing for her to pipe down. Once his sight returned to the figure, Tracker saw him flabbergasted. The figure spat out:
“How do you… Wait… You’re a part of those Sun League people we’ve heard so much about?”
Tracker responds “We are.”
The figure whistles, yelling over his shoulder into the forest “Up ‘ere with me, you two! Take the others and I’ll take this soldier!”
The smaller and larger figures walk into the light. The largers’ head was caught in the trees branches, perpetually weaving in between them. Though despite their efforts, leaves and twigs still got caught in their bowl cut hair. Across his shoulder he carried a spear, matching his height with length. The smaller of the two was far more well dressed than the other two. His shoes, thoroughly muddied and scraped, were not built for the outdoors. His pants were much the same, thick and sewn together with skill, scrapes and cuts now zigzagged across it. He wore a light white undershirt, a heavy half buttoned overcoat laying on it. Around his collar was a white strip of cloth, now bloodied from the nose he grasped.
The larger of the two took the lead, stepping into the camp. As he walked past Tracker, neither of them turned their heads. The smaller adversary kept close behind his friend. Both approached the combined group of Carrie, Myer, Rere, and Jorgen. All stood still, not approaching to engage, but not giving ground. The larger of the adversaries grumbled something, swatting at the man behind him, in turn the smaller would move, slowly sidestepping to the group’s flank where Jorgen stood. He would reach into his jacket, pulling out a small dagger. It was well made, ornate designs pasted across the handle, glistening like gold in the fire’s light.
Myer, panicked, screaming “Oh my goodness gracious he has a knife! Jorgen, run!”
Calmly, Jorgen turns, walking away. Shakily, the smaller of the Vampiric trio would jog, planting himself in front of Jorgen. He clutched the dagger in a fist, holding it in a reverse grip, holding out his free hand in front of himself. Jorgen would walk up to and around the dagger wielding man, straight towards Tracker (Still staring down the Vampire standing before him). The Vampire kept his pose, staring straight ahead as Jorgen walked behind and away.
Myer, slowly, approached the dagger wielding vampire. He mimicked the Vampire, reaching into his own jacket, pulling out a dagger just as ornate as the Vampires. He took a similar stance, shaking, opting to keep the blade pointed forwards. Both would drench themselves in silence. Their blades quivered. Their stance unchanging. Myer spoke:
“Y- You got a nice knife there…”
The Vampire sputtered out “A- As do you…”
Both returned to silence. The Vampire began to shift his stance, taking a step to his right, two to his left. Myer would do the same, keeping his eyes locked. A step to his left, two to his right. The Vampire would take a step forwards, Myer would take a step back. Myer would deliberate, putting a foot forwards, shakily drawing it back midstep. The Vampire would take another large step, Myer falling back a similar distance, both keeping to this dance.
Shakily, halfheartedly, the Vampire took a great half leap forwards, knife dragging in the air behind his knuckles. With this Myer would break their stance, fold their ground, turning tail and sprinting.
The Vampires shaking would calm, not disappear, but grow weaker. As Myers back met the darkness of the edge of the camp, the Vampire would take a few stumbling steps forwards, breaking into their own sprint. Carrie, Rere, and the largest of the Vampiric trio would stare on at this spectacle, disgust and confusion split among them equally.
Carrie gave a shove to Reres' back, yelling “Go give chase! I’ll handle things here!”
Rere stumbled around and while trying to keep balance, head bouncing between Carrie and the trails of dust kicked up by Myer. Without a word they would slowly begin to walk towards the fleeing duo, accelerating, giving chase.
Carrie took her ax with both hands, neck exposed as she turned her head skyward to face the Vampire with the spear. The Vampire took a few hefty steps back, letting the spear fall from his shoulder, taking it by both hands.
Jorgen would run up behind and around Tracker towards the Vampire they faced. As Jorgen attempts to pass, Tracker would set his hands on his chest and push backwards. He would fall to his ass, rolling backwards, jumping right back up to a sprint. Tracker would extend their hand once more, blocking passage, turning around to scold:
“Not now, I’m working, do what your friend said and run.”
With this, the unarmed Vampire would lunge at them both.
…
The forest air was thick, stagnant, choked out of any flowing air and sound. All Myer could hear was his own panting, gasping, huffing and puffing- The snapping of leaves and twigs under foot- A echo behind him growing louder, closer. Despite the chill his brow was still sweating, pushing himself to weave between tree trunks and bushes. His gaze was set straight ahead, never turning backwards, avoidant of any possible danger.
It had been no more than a minute and a half of a full sprint as he threw himself deeper and deeper into the forest, gradually setting more space between himself and the camp. He began to slow, feeling content with the distance, the crunching and leaves and twigs beneath his feet slowing. He took heavy breaths, still facing forwards, ears sharpening to the night around them. The forest had fallen silent; any breeze had fallen dead, the buzz of bugs had gone, no echoes from the forests depths. He could not hear anything from the camp, perhaps maybe the whisper of a grunt or yell but not much more. Though something became apparent, a wheezing creeping into realization. A whisper split by a cough, rolling into a squeak split by a grunt, rolling into thumping hiss.
As the noise rose in strength, Myer picked up his pace. He forced himself from a shuffle to a walk to a sprint. He once again returned to speed, doing his best to hop over ledges and brush, ducking under branches and misshapen trunks. He felt confidence; confident that he had enough speed, confident that the others would give up, confident that he could run away-
He found his face in the dirt, arms flat against the ground ahead of him. He pushed up and forwards, left foot refusing to move. He flipped himself up and spun onto his side; ankle giving no ground. He pulled his hands down to his foot, frantically shaking and sensing. He found something- Some vine or branch or something he didn’t know he didn’t care he just wanted out. He strangled the organic tendril snaring him pulling and thrusting and thrashing- He fell still.
The crunching of leaves, not his own but the one trailing him, had stopped. He pulled his torso up and off the ground, scrying some misshapen shadow standing in the distance. Through the moonlight he saw not a face- Just a short and stout silhouette, grasping something in their hand with such intensity that it was shaking (Whether from fear or adrenaline Myer couldn’t discern). Myer spat out:
“N-Now now! W-We can talk this out, c-can’t we?”
The stout silhouette gave a response; a crunch of leaves under a foot moved forwards.
“L-Listen! Is it money you want? I-I got money! Not on me but I got it!”
Another lumbering step is taken forwards. Then another. And another. No matter how many words Myer could produce, he would not stop. As the distance closed he couldn’t untangle his foot, only beg and plead up till it stood above him. Myer took a good, long silent gaze. He saw the figures' thick hair and fine jacket laid over their plump figure, the knife in their hand swaying back and forth. The figure took one, large, fumbling step, planting his foot next to Myers locked foot. Myer prepared, pooling together one last burst of stamina-
A thumping came from behind the two, not quite fast but not quite slow. The two turn to find the approaching figure- The winged Werewolf. The stout Vampire takes a jump backwards, landing flat on their back and rolling. As the Vampire falls Rere stumbles, sliding into a bush throwing themselves face first into a tree. Myer, Rere, and the Vampire now all found themselves on the ground. Myer’s gaze jitters between the both the fallen figures, a yell breaking away from them:
“Don’t worry about me Rere! Just get outta here and save your own skin!”
Myer braces himself against the ground, pulling with all their might, feeling the foliage knot around their ankle. Slowly his knee begins to bend, gaining ground, a snapping slowly winding up. With a grunt and a cuss he pulls, freeing his foot and uprooting his snare. Quickly, he lifts himself off the ground, dusting the dirt and leaves off, gesturing towards Rere once more.
“Go!”
Rere grunts, grappling the tree and pulling himself up, almost climbing up the tree. They stumble backwards into a stand, not moving, just looking around. The stout Vampire wriggles and writhes around on the ground, crawling away from both Myer and Rere, before flopping forwards. Their hands sift through the dirt in the dark, carelessly looking for their knife.
Myer sighs, yelling to Rere “Just stay back and follow me!”
Myer reaches down, pulling a branch from the ground. It fit nicely in their palm, had a good weight, though would likely snap with its first strike as a bludgeon. He half heartedly turns, holding the branch with both hands in the air, a ring of roots around their ankle with blocks of first trailing behind. He took a few fleeting steps forwards, each growing in speed and distance, Rere beginning to follow, Myer letting loose a rising scream.
“Aaaaaaa-yaaa-yaAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”
The stout Vampire jumped to their feet once more, running, running back towards the camp with Myer and Rere in pursuit.
…
Carrie had just sent Rere away, facing down her opponent. She had never seen any Vampires before, only ever the shadow of one. She had never even known the word “Vampire” until recently, only introduced to it by the Sun League. Her knowledge of what a Vampire was ended with the name and her history with them. She wasn’t sure what to think; the man while large was normal looking, he was ugly though no uglier than the average man, mean looking but not particularly monstrous. Carrie’s voice picked up:
“S-So… You’re a Vampire?”
In a deep grunt he responded “Yes.”
Both paused, neither throwing any questions or insults or comments. Seconds of vacant air would pass, neither speaking or moving. The spear wielding Vampire would tighten their grip around the spear, shuffling towards Carrie. Carrie would dance, keeping her ax at her chest, taking large steps back (Barely keeping pace with the lethargic hunk of flesh). The Vampire would raise the spear in the air with no particular grace, bringing it down in attempt to kiss its head against Carrie's skull. She threw herself to the side, keeping herself facing the danger and feet planted on the ground, letting the armament dig itself into the ground. The Vampire would draw the spear back with force, keeping the spear parallel with the ground and pointed towards Carrie.
Carrie would keep her distance, never letting the spear threaten to strike her. Though she would let the ax split from her chest, her grip becoming more natural and fluid. With this the spearman Vampire would take short jabs, once for their arm, once for their leg, twice for the heart. With each Carrie would slide back, evading the strike. With the last strike, as he was with drawing back his spear, she would attempt to run up, alongside it, winding up a strike- The Vampire sets his foot on her chest, throwing her back the full distance of the spear (And then some). Carrie is winded, thrown onto her butt, still holding her ax. Another jab is taken by the Vampire, though once again she weaves away, only to have the pole slammed against her face. She's rolled into one of the tents, tarp flipping over and falling across her entire body like a blanket.
The Vampire takes a few steps back, throwing the spear onto their shoulder once more. They watch as the tent and tarp shake, hands wildly revealing and disappearing in the fray. A few seconds, perhaps a half minute pass, Carrie tearing through the tent and revealing herself, leaving tattered tarp around her. A streak of blood runs down the side of her head, and she slightly staggers while getting up. The Vampire chuckles with a low grumble. Carrie backs up, squating, running her hand through the tatters to pull out a leather pack. She tucks her ax under one arm and begins to rapidly rummage through it, eyes darting between the pack the opponent before her. Still amused the Vampire takes a few heavy steps and prepares for another strike, but is forced to give pause-
Carrie pulls out a bottle, a dark green glass, thick, half full by her assessment. The Vampire slowly pulls back, asking with a crack:
“Ya trying to buy me off with a drink?”
Carrie flips the bottle in her hand, taking it by the neck and winding it back “Fuck right off.”
The butt of the bottle meets with the forehead of the Vampire. Droplets of glass and blood rain to the ground. The Vampire takes a step back, pressing their hand to their aching forehead. Carrie jumps forwards, seeing the staggered foe, almost envisioning the mark that she needs to make. She sprints, winding her ax back, and- A row of knuckles grace the open wound on the side of her face. She is thrown off course, back onto the ground, her wound now ripped wide. Her back is forced flat against the ground, though her hand is glued to her ax, she takes a second to breathe. The Vampire drops their armament, stepping forwards and dropping their knee right besides her chest. She attempts to lift herself up, forced back down with an arm laid flat against her neck, given no room to breathe.
…
The beastman Tracker laid his right arm flat against the child Jorgens chest, blocking the heel of the slant-walking Vampires heel with his left palm. He’d push his palm forward, propelling the Vampire backwards, easily landing in a squat while keeping only his soles and heels connected to the ground. With this Jorgen would vault over his arm, quickly taken by the collar and pulled back and out of the way.
Swaggering forwards Tracker slid his hand through the neck of the cloak, throwing it backwards onto the approaching Jorgen (Now tumbling onto the ground). The Vampire let himself stand from his squat, eyeing tracker up and down, giving a grimace while giving ground with several steps back. With a chord of concern the Vampire asked:
“I didn’t think you came so… Prepared… You’ll be trouble.”
The chest of Tracker was painted with light grey ash, stripes and zigzags painted across his dark fur. A necklace of beasts teeth- Some ivory white, some yellowing, black and sickly, crimson red- strange rolls of paper paced between every few sets, stretching down to the center of his chest. He wore simple cloth pants dyed a deep green, They were held up by a heavy belt of leather, ordained with scratches and scars. Flanking his sides and strapped to his belt were several wooden cylinders, strapped to his back were several coiled red wires, and at his front was a short sheathed blade which ran as long as his forearm. Tracker responded to the Vampire, setting his hand on the blade’s hilt:
“Right, I’ll make sure of it.”
Still ensnared by the cloak but free enough to sprint, Jorgen passed Tracker. With a flick of his hand which was set on his sword Tracker grabbed the cloak's corner, yanking it and Jorgen backwards once more, letting them tumble backwards and into a hopefully tighter bind. Tracker turned his head back to scold him, silenced before any word could escape- In a second the Vampire leapt across the full space which separated him from Tracker, driving his heel into the jaw of Tracker. Tracker kept his footing, orienting himself despite the shock. He leaned his shoulder into the Vampire’s chest, grappling and attempting to drive his foe into the nearest tree trunk. A half dozen feet from having their back broken against the nearest tree the Vampire drove his heels into the ground, set his left palm on the beastman’s chest, and right on the hilt of his blade.
The Vampire’s grip on the grip left him feeling a foreign material, familiar like woven plant fiber, but not anything from the valleys and forests he stands in. He drew the blade, a dull glint sparked to life through the blaze of the campfire, growing inch by inch. A force choked his wrist, the hand of Tracker, both like two deer locking antlers together. Behind both was Jorgen, now free of the cloak, looking on without rushing in.
…
Three orbits circled around the central fire. Farthest from it was Rere and Myer chasing their foe in circles, a sort of gravity slowly pulling them towards the light. Spinning on the outskirts of the camp with the light of the fire meets the shadows of the forest spun Jorgen, Tracker, and the foe locked into combat with them. Closest to the fire, a distance short enough to force beads of sweat, Carrie lay on the ground with an arm locked against her neck.
Her mind traced its way home again. She had been no stranger to roughing about. Her village was small, only a dozen children. All the other girls had been too old or young to play with on an equal standing. She’d instead rough house with the boys, chasing each other with sticks in the woods or throwing rocks in the mud, it had been great fun despite the scratches. On occasion one party would go too far, throwing a punch that landed a bit too hard, or striking someone with a branch which was a bit too full. She had never been in this position, though. No matter the strength she could conjure up, the arm lay locked, no chance of moving. She could almost feel her consciousness trickling out of the wound on her faces side.
She could contort her body, just enough to catch a glimpse of the ground beside her side. Close to the knees of the Vampire lay bloody shards of glass from her thrown bottle. Her hands were still free, she ran her fingers through the grass away from her face, though they failed to reach. Her fingers tips could tickle the glasses edge, enough to flick away yet not enough to pull closer. She just needs a bit more breathing room-
Crashing through the forest's edge and back into camp came the shortest of the Vampires. The heavy breathes and leaf crushing steps had been snuffed out under one great sound, a stuttering and indistinct scream, shouted words that crashed together to remove any possibility of traditional language. He bisected the camp with his great wobbling sprint, all parties staring in awe as he nearly escaped, only foiled by a single snag. A snare caught the Vampires ankle, truthfully the trap had not enough strength to topple him in any capacity (His shortness and weight balancing each other out in equal parts), but had enough kick to kill off his remaining balance. He threw himself forwards, arms kept to his side, forehead meeting with a stone embedded in the ground.
The Vampire sat on Carrie kept his eyes on his friend, he let himself lift himself just enough to get a better look. Carrie couldn’t see any expression on his face, but could feel his arm shift just enough. Her hand threw itself onto a large shard of glass, it fit in her palm and ran long enough to cut. Her grip was tight, her upper palm being split from her lower palm by a spilling red. She threw her hand upwards, the green shard now thoroughly painted red. The glass had been lodged into the Vampire’s neck, now finding itself ripping down spilling blood across the chest of Carrie.
The Vampire let loose a gurgling roar, throwing himself backwards off of Carrie. He let his gaze fall to the ground, he slashed at his own neck with his hand, drawing out the glass and filling his palm with blood. His leg shakes, sole of his foot planting itself in the ground. The other foot establishes itself, his shake fading as he rises to a stand. He raises his fists ready to keep on fighting, raising his head towards the Elven girl.
He saw her already up, ax still in her hands, never leaving. He saw that in the time he had taken to get up and reoriented, she had bridged the distance between him and her. He saw her not winding up a strike, but the dark head of the ax spinning towards his side. He saw a sort of fire in her eyes.
He felt a thin pain split into his waist, immediately chased by a strange heat. It was like boiling, rushing through the pain and down across his thighs. He turned his head down, finding his clothes at his waist ripped and staining red, the ax head deeply embedded in his usually cold flesh. He could hear a hissing and smell iron, bubbling blood spilling from the wound. He ripped himself away from Carrie and her ax, letting it take whatever flesh it wanted as a final toll, taking hearty stumbles backwards. The spilling viscera began to taper off, a hard black mass growing across the torn side. He could feel his head spinning, each pain echoing throughout his body, each discomfort magnifying, the heat growing too heavy no matter the blood and sweat.
…
Tracker, his foe, and Jorgen caught their eyes following the running Vampire. The trance was only broken as the Vampire’s head met the ground. With it, Tracker breaks his grapple, allowing his fist to meet the Vampire’s chin. He could feel the slant-walking Vampire's teeth meet each other, his body not giving ground but giving up the grip on the hilt. He was dazed- Tracker slipped to the side and to the Vampire’s back. He pushed his arms past the Vampire’s sides, gripped his wrists as he began to awaken from his daze, and forced them skyward. He called out to Jorgen, a strain of frustration carried in his tone:
“Alright, here’s you go, get one hit in so I can go back to doing my job.”
“Got it!”
Immediately, Jorgen let his stance tense up, drawing his arms to his side. Tracker kept the Vampire grappled, watching Jorgen all the while. He thought him too young for this, though he was clearly trained in the fundamentals of martial arts- The stance he entered was rudimentary though clearly very deliberate; his balance was solid, he kept himself straight, eyes on the target. Though a single stance did not give Tracker enough room to comment on anything more. Tracker saw him walk forwards- Not in a rushing run, just simple steps at a fair pace. The Vampire was quick to notice and comment.
“Don’t think you’re gonna shake me- I’ll give you a shot then I’ll make sure to serve one back!”
Jorgen stopped, planting himself right before the restrained Vampire. He saw a shift in his clothes- The tensing of muscles. A scowl was sent down to Jorgen. He turned a open palm into a fist, drawing it back to his side. He let his solid upright stance break, flowing into something more natural, bending with his fist. He let the fist sit at his side for a second, shifting it forwards into a pu-
Tracker was thrown off balance, the Vampire thrown right back into him. He let go; the body rolling across the forest floor till his face was flat against it. Tracker turned himself back to Jorgen who had already pulled himself back into his original stance. Though as their eyes locked Jorgen immediately let the stance break, returning a smile and asking:
“Did I do good?!”
Tracker turned back to the Vampire. He had now lifted himself off the ground, somewhat. He had formed an arch; only his toes and forearms were flat against the ground. His entire body was struggling and shaking, pushing itself to keep itself off the ground. He was violently coughing, the fit regularly interrupted by him spewing a red gunk onto the ground. Tracker could smell blood. He began to walk over, stopping once stood over him. He turned back to Jorgen.
“You did good.”
The sole of a foot met Tracker's chin. He shuffled backwards, grabbing it. The Vampire set the shorter of his two legs on the ground, wildly winding to his side and entering a sprint. He ran past Tracker while winding up a fist- Straight towards Jorgen. Jorgen kept himself still, letting the Vampire come towards him-
Jorgen jumped to the side, letting the Vampire’s fist and body fly by. With a shift of momentum the Vampire stopped, pivoting into a low kick towards Jorgens head. Jorgen caught the force with his forearm, shrugging it off and pushing it back. The Vampire reset both feet on the ground, throwing an open palm without an arc forwards. Jorgen deflected with a palm of his own, throwing a fist into the Vampire’s side. His strike found itself in the Vampire’s waist, forcing his body to begin to fold once more.
In these seconds of strife Tracker threw his glance forwards and focused it, drawing his blade. He was surprised to see the Vampire and Jorgen fighting, keeping himself still to watch for a fair second, then breaking into an approach. He drew his blade closer to his waist, pointed towards his Vampire- He saw the Vampire grab Jorgen’s arm. He broke into a lunge, letting his grip turn to iron- He saw the Vampire raise Jorgen’s arm. He drove his blade forwards, seconds and feet too late-
Jorgen felt the Vampire tug on his arm, pulling it up and his entire body forwards. A sinking feeling washed throughout his body as something sunk into his arm. He felt two points of pain followed by a numbness. He tried pulling his arm away but there was a weakness, he felt his fingers slowing and his muscles wouldn’t flex. He saw the glitter of a driven blade turned dark; Trackers’ blade made a smooth entrance and exit through the Vampire's neck. The blade didn’t stay long, as soon as its bloodied tip revealed itself, it was withdrawn.
The Vampire let his jaw fall limp, letting go of Jorgens arm. He stumbled backwards, setting a single hand on their neck. His limp grew in severity as they began to shamble away from Jorgen and Tracker. His mouth shifted and lips parted, a guttural sound escaping, no words though. Red bled through his fingers, a steady stream drawing lines on the grass beneath his feet. He circled around the two, both keeping their distance, until he reached his unconscious friend. He leaned down, taking his friend by the collar.
“We’ll get lost, I’ll give y’all that.”
The Vampire’s voice sounded strained, though was clear enough to understand. The blood has stopped running through his fingers, he let his hand fall away. He pulled up on his short friend, throwing him across his shoulder with a grunt. The largest of the Vampire’s backed away from Carrie (Who has taken a few steps away herself), keeping both hands on his black wound, keeping his front facing Carrie. The slant-walking Vampire snapped his eyes to the largest Vampire’s waist.
“Gonna have to get that checked out, hmph. Cmon, let's go.”
The three Vampire’s return to the forest, darkness washing over them, becoming figures and becoming lost. Carrie, Myer, Rere, Jorgen, and Tracker approached the edge of the forest side by side, watching them go. Carrie was the first to break the silence.
“Jorgen, are you hurt?!”
Jorgen pulling his arm up and letting it fall to his side spoke “I don’t think so, though my arm is funny… Did we win though?”
Tracker answered “You know what, I think we did.”
Jorgen threw his good fist up in the air “YEAH!”
Myer; tired, exasperated, overstimulated, still panting and catching his breath throws his head back and both hands in the air “Oh thank you- Yes!”
Carrie used her ax to prop herself up, hollering into the air “Let’s go!”
Rere threw both hands in the air and howled.
Tracker set his hands on his hips and called into the night “What a nice warmup for this little war we have!”