Ergonia: A prosperous land in the far west of Pheraxis, primary exports (for there was often a surplus of food and supplies) being grain, furs, and more grain (a very cultivated land, but with little variety in what is grown). Foreigners are regarded with a suspicious eye, but all are welcome in the many taverns and inns that dot the peninsula. The Ivory Inquisition is practically nonexistent in Ergonia, and magic practitioners are welcomed with open arms, many recruited by the mysterious lord of the land for various purposes, though rarely is he actually seen by them. The public, while quite happy and somewhat friendly, tell terrifying stories of monsters that roam the land freely, how scores have disappeared over the years. When asked what a traveler should do for safety in such a land, the only advice received is always the same: "Don't go out after dark..."
Vanessa's shoes pounded against the cobbled streets, a continuous click click click. She banged on doors as she passed, hoping, praying to whatever God she didn't believe in that one person, just one, would take pity on her. But who would dare interfere with the hunt? With every street corner, with every alley, she could hear the sounds getting closer. The thuds of furred paws and hands racing across the cobbles just behind her, shingles clattering to the streets below as the beast leaped across rooftops, and the horrible growls and bellows that echoed through the empty air, rattling windows and making mothers hug their children tight, praying it wouldn't come for them tonight. She turned the corner, practically slamming into the door of the shoemaker Ivan Strauss. He had taken pity on her before, such a poor young girl, forced to the lowest position women could fall to. He had not bought her particular services, Heaven's no, but had given her some money to buy a meal (something his wife chastised him for. "We need that money for ourselves, you dolt!" she'd said). He was a kind man, known for his generosity when he had so little. And it just so happened that the old man had just come home. "Mr. Strauss!" She banged her fist on the door. "Mr. Strauss, please open up!" On the other side the poor shoemaker fastened the lock and bolt, gesturing for his wife to blow out the lights and get him his rifle. It wouldn't do too well against what was out there, but it would serve to give the young ones hope. "Please, sir! Please! Open the door!" The children huddled in the corner, away from the windows, while gun in hand Ivan waited for the inevitable. It happened week after retched week. Vanessa was sobbing now, back to the door. The banging had ceased. "Please..." She thought a shadow flitted across the road, disappearing into a side street. Not a moment later a horrible, wet growl rumbled from what seemed to be every direction. And suddenly it stopped. No noises, no monster in front of her. Maybe it gave up. A taloned hand latched onto her face from above, the thick fur muffling her screams as she was pulled up. Strauss heard a soft thud on the roof, a slam in front of the door, and the sound of a body being dragged across stone. It didn't turn around, didn't crash through the door. It didn't take his family. More screams echoed through the streets, accompanied by a series of victorious howls, pained yowls, and enraged human yells. But it didn't matter. The Strauss' were safe... For another night.
It was a cozy domicile, warm, well-lit, plenty of books to read, not too large but large enough for his needs, plenty of servants to cater to what needs the owner still had. And situated in a place so rich with food that Sitis had almost become fat over the years. On this particular night, lit by the light of a wonderful harvest moon, the master himself walked the halls freely, dancing in the former altar to a music no one could hear or even remember. To anyone else who didn't know him, he could have been happy. But all the human servants knew. Tonight, the master was angrier than ever. Tonight, he was hungrier than ever. The Pack had gone out hours before, and by now were quite late. Sitis did not appreciate this. It was everything he could do not to ravage the throats of the few maids left in the house (the rest of the servant force having gone down to their cells). Too little blood, too little flesh. Instead, he devoted his energies and anger to less productive but more distracting exercises. It was another hour or so before a soul-splitting howl announced the arrival of his faithful hunters. He calmly strolled out of the converted cathedral, floated over the grass like a ghost, and confronted the group of lycanthropes that occupied his lawn. Seven. There were always seven retrievers. Most black or brown of fur, snarling and each gripping two panicking men and women. Some walked on their hind legs, dragging their catch behind them. Others had the prey pinned on the ground or carried them unconscious on their backs while they walked on all fours. But at the head of them all was a significantly larger animal, fur with the color of mingled salt and pepper, his back the purest of silver. He walked with the air of a leader, the two kicking and screaming women dragged behind him by their hair, both silenced with a roar. The finest specimen of them all. Romulus. Another bark quieted the growls of the others. The alpha kneeled before the well-dressed and calm, grinning vampire. "Romulus, my child. If you would, please?" The voice was smooth, gentle as a breeze, soft as silk. But there was an unmistakable edge to it, an edge that could slit the throat of the Devil himself. The alpha did not flinch. With not a moment's hesitation, he grunted in pain as his body reshaped itself. His fur shed rapidly, as if a sudden sickness had struck him. Bones broke, reformed, and shifted into new positions. His lengthy snout retreated back into his skull, his ears shrank, and his eyes cooled from a bright yellow to a dark brown. He rose again, cracking his neck, as a middle-aged, tanned, and thickly muscled man dressed only in ragged leather trousers, his hair the color of the alpha's fur. Throughout the process (particularly painful, if the information given to Sitis was to be trusted) he had not lost his grip on his prey. "Of course, master." A snarl that no human should be able to produce commanded that the others drop their prey. None of the captives dared move. As if they could run.
"You are late, Romulus." It was an unacceptable crime, but Sitis' smooth smile did not fade. The man looked up at him. "It was... Particularly bad tonight, master. Some dared to oppose us. One of our number was struck." He gestured to one beast, bleeding out of a wound in his shoulder. "Silver sword. We know not where the commoners could have acquired such a weapon. It slowed us. The leader was thoroughly punished for it." The same wounded lycan bared a toothy grin (if such a face could grin) at one of his prisoners, who was weeping blood out of deep claw marks. The smell was as intoxicating as the taste. "We understand our crime, and accept our punishment. But we have brought you a greater gift."
"I can see them. I can smell them. Fourteen. I only asked for seven. Seven wolves, seven victims. You have doubled the latter. I am pleased, Romulus." He was a loyal dog. One of the greatest. Hardly an asset to waste with pain. "There will be no punishment. Not for you." He glanced at the miserable looking man who had dared challenge the lord of this land. "Bring him."
It was a special chamber, perhaps the only new part of the structure. No windows, brightly lit purely by torchlight. The floor was stainless onyx, the purest of shadow. The walls were adorned with images of death and torture, pale faces twisted by pure agony. Red paint was applied generously up and down the walls, pouring from gaping wounds carved into the thread flesh of the tormented. A figure, skin pale as the moon, eyes red as fresh blood, bare-handed and bare-chested faced down legions of soldiers. Runes danced around the edges of the weavings, ancient symbols that were illegible to many scholars. Runes of a forgotten land and a forgotten time. Epics transcribed in image, ghost stories written in blood. And at the center of it all, an altar of obsidian, the cornerstone in this temple of the damned. The altar itself was a massive thing, filling much of the 20x20 foot room, shaped much like a bat, the two great wings stretching out into theair, intricate and esoteric symbols carved deeply into the stone, the two hind claws holding open an ancient tome from a forgotten past, full of ritual and sorrow. The face of the demonic monster was wrinkled and grimacing, eyes squinted, ears back, and mouth open in a wretched snarl. And rising from that gaping, toothed slit was a statue. A statue that depicted a demon's nightmare, the Fallen One's own spawn, and that which made men fear the dark. It posed itself in a victorious roar, pale tentacles groping at the air, each of the six misshapen arms raising their seven proboscis-like phalanges (for there were no hands. Simply smaller, hollow bone spikes coated in a thin layer of flesh that stretched far out from the stumps of the spiked limbs) in triumph. No legs were visible beneath the kilt of squirming serpents that flowed across the tongue of the large altar beneath it, yet the creature stood tall and proud. Four tattered wings, similar to those of the bat, stretched out from behind it. The stomach had caved in, the skin leftover stretched across a bare ribcage while the scarred and torn chest heaved with what would have been deep breaths of tainted air. Six eyes, glowing green embers, burned in the bulbous head. And almost hidden in the mass of tentacles, a bulging mouthful of lengthy fangs, ready to grip and drag whatever flesh happened to stray too close. Flesh a sickening purple, like a massive bruise. It was an age-old nightmare, a long-feared but long-forgotten god of the ancients. A god of blood and nightmares, death and corruption. An Old One. Sitis was not one to pray to any god, but he heard the tales of great power bestowed on those who pleased these dark ones. Heard of the necromancer who sacrificed his own parents, and was granted great skill and knowledge by the Old Ones. But the tome he read was older than he, in a tongue far more ancient than any he had come to know in his eternity. Thus it was slow for Sitis to read through it, and had taken decades already to decipher certain portions of the ritual necessary before actually doing what he wished to do: Summon an Old One, or at least offer a sacrifice to receive power from one. The statue depicted what an old civilization called Camar'Axosaz, the God of Blood. After years of searching, Sitis had confirmed that it was simply a different name for the divinity, that it was indeed an Old One. And it did indeed favor blood. Just the deity Sitis wanted to see. This place had been built over the decades in accordance with what the tome demanded. And so far much was completed: The deeds of the summoner (woven onto the walls around them) to prove their worth to the god; An altar in dedication to the god (carved in the shape of the favored animal of Camar'Axosaz, the bat); The spells needed for the actual summoning needed to be on hand and prepared (thus carved into the altar itself, where they were easily visible); A focus for the god to appear through (the statue of Camar'Axosaz, as described by the old civilization); and a sacrifice for the god. This last one was far more difficult to acquire, and if it were any god other than Camar'Axosaz, practically impossible to acquire. It had taken years, but mere feet in front of the altar was a pit, six men deep with a diameter half that length. And it was filled almost to the top with blood. Fresh blood, red blood, clotted blood, blood of inhuman creatures (for variety and flavor, you see). All churned daily to keep it from sticking to the walls and preserved with raw magic. The mere sight of it made Sitis quiver with hunger as he entered the massive room, followed by his entourage of werewolves and prisoners. "Leave us." All the lycans but Romulus left the room, stalking off into a far corridor leading to the cells beneath the cathedral. The tired and terrified humans gazed upon the grotesque glory of the altar, eyes struggling to comprehend the sights in front of them. Most were fixed on the 12 foot high bat and the 7 foot god in the center of the room. A few stared in awe at the tapestries, trying to understand the stories told within them. And the select few screamed at the sight of the almost hidden blood pit in front of the statues. No matter. It wouldn't matter soon. "If you have any last prayers to offer, you are in the presence of a god." Of who Sitis spoke, no one knew. Five of the captives fell to the ground, spasming in agony as blood erupted up through their flesh, emptying their veins. The effect was clearly visible, the husks shriveling and collapsing in their final death rattles, color draining from their skin, eyes popping out of their sockets. The blood flowed across the floor, rising into the air and rapidly covering Sitis' flesh. He groaned in the throes of ecstasy as the life-blood entered his body directly through the pores in his skin, rushing through his system faster than if he drank from the victims. It refreshed and empowered him, strength beyond men returning to his body twice-over. It was rare that he could indulge so much with this practice. He was pleased with Romulus indeed. But while it empowered him, it did not fill him. He moved to the next five victims, watching with a sick interest the way blood flowed through the arteries, seeing things no man could see with the bare eye. With an unnatural speed his fangs sank into the throat of the first meal, draining the poor girl in seconds. The other two were gone just as swiftly, but the final two were savored far more, the fear mixing in with the blood and making it that much sweeter. He licked his bloodied chin and lips as he finished. Not a drop would be wasted. He rose, eyes ablaze with a new and revitalized crimson light, a low growl emanating from his thg. The final four (among them the lead instigator who had dared harm one of Sitis' dogs) shivered in fear, and it was all Sitis could do not to move on to them. They clearly thought he would. "No. You have a greater purpose." He bared the silver talons he had kept behind his back the whole time, slashing the throats of the first two in one sweep, letting the blood pour out over and into the pit. He lifted them upside down, making sure to get every pint out of them, casting aside the husks. He repeated the process with the third. But trouble arose when he moved on to the fourth. A pretty young brunette, dressed in humble but exposing and sexually appealing clothing. A whore. Who just so happened to be carrying a stake hidden in her pocket. A pitiful thing, made of weak and rotting timber, but still sharp. She lunged at Sitis, under his guard and plunged the stake down through the air and into his chest. Only to shatter with a pathetic crash against the steel hidden under Sitis' fine clothes. Lifting her up by her lengthy hair despite her screams and kicks, Sitis laughed the deep, ugly laugh of the evil. "This one has spunk, doesn't she Romulus?" The lycanthrope grinned in genuine agreement. It was an admirable quality. But useless against Sitis. The wolf waited for the inevitable. A single silver claw stroked the girl's cheek, tracing the shape of her jaw. He spoke in his soft and bladed voice. "So beautiful. So fragile. You have an even greater fate child." He released her as she flew into the wall, falling to the ground in a crumpled heap. "There is an empty cell in the Wolf Quarters?"
"Yes master." This was an unexpected turn of events.
"Throw her there. Keep the dogs away. I take it they're hungry?" He gestured towards the deceased bodies. "I think two per wolf will do."
"They will be grateful, master." They ought to be.
"Take a holiday Romulus. Take Remus and Lupa out into the nearest town, enjoy a drink, hunt a few deer." The werewolf halted mid-lift, dropping a corpse back to the floor. "M-master?"
"You heard me. Take. A. Vacation. Bring your brother and sister with you." Sitis turned and started walking down the main corridor, away from the altar and the tapestries, away from the bodies and werewolf, and away from that girl. The girl he decided would live. He stopped halfway down the hall, turning back towards his servant. "And watch the Lich while you're at it. You'll be my eyes and ears. It's wise to be prepared for treachery." The vampire continued, and soon his footsteps could no longer be heard. Of course. Never a vacation without work involved. Sighing, the alpha hefted the body over his shoulder, strolled down the side hall and shouted "Dinner time, boys!"