The following are some simple threads I've found of interest from the writing forum here on the NG BBS.

Discussions on Writing

Using Sex in Writing
Importance of Historical Accuracy
Fights and Battles in Writing
How do you Create your Characters?
Good Hooks
How do you feel about sucking?

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NG Poetry Battles
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Poetry + Flash Fic Workshop

So this I did up as a quick exercise for myself. I simply sat down and wrote, just to see what came out. The following has some basis in personal experiences though it is just a fictional account before anyone asks. Hopefully I'll have the next chapter in War of the Damned up soon.
Also to note, I wrote this up on Canada Day, which is July 1st. So belated Happy Canada Day to those Canadians that grace this page. And stay safe to all the soldiers of NATO serving overseas.

Story Archives

Contact Right

The blazing heat of the desert sun beat down on me. I could feel sweat down my back, making the tan undershirt beneath my armour stick to my skin. My feet kicked up clouds of dust as I walked along a simple path alongside a grape field, my eyes scanning the village that surrounded the platoon. In the distance I could see our LAVs awaiting out return from the settlement, guns scanning the area looking for any hostiles.
The fingers of my gloved hands curled around both the pistol grip and forward grip of my C7A2 assault rifle, the safety flicked on, but my thumb nestled nearby, ready in case anything happened. My TCCC bag, full of medical supplies, slapped lightly against my upper leg with each step, more sweat running down my neck.
I reached up to my shoulder, grasping the hose of my camelbak, and took a quick drink, feeling the refreshing water splash down my throat, rinsing away the dust collected there. A thought buzzed through my mind, of friends back home in Canada who wouldn't drink water. It was too tasteless they had told me, yet here I was treating it like a gift from whatever Gods were watching down over us this day.
As I let the hose drop back down against my tactical vest, laden down with ammunition, weapon cleaning supplies, map, compass, ration packs and even a small little toilet kit, the thought vanished, replaced only by vigilence. I had to keep an eye out, had to keep watching lest the enemy get the drop on us.
I was looking to the left when I heard it. A distinctive snap, and a whiz that made me think of an angry wasp rushing past my ear.
"Contact Right," my section mate in front of me yelled out, dropping to a knee behind the mud wall and raising his C9 LMG. His safety was off, and his finger squeezed the trigger. A burst of hot lead spewed from the barrel, bright red tracer rounds soaring over the desert sands. Over mud walls and through the alleys between compounds towards where he had seen the enemy.
"Where the fuck are they?" the sergeant yelled to the machine gunner, moving down the line, as I brought my rifle into my shoulder, thumb flicking the safety off, finger settling on the trigger.
"Right to my 12 O'Clock, in and around those grapehuts with the holes in the sides," came the answer, and I looked down my optical sight, searching for the enemy.
These bastards were like fighting ghosts, ambushing from no where, and vanishing into the daylight without a trace they had ever been there. I saw a muzzle flash inside one of the huts, and the machine gunner responded with a few more bursts. I saw the bullets smack against the structure raising small clouds of dust with each impact, and as I watched a man emerged from the side, an AK-47 clutched in his hands.
I squeezed my trigger, felt the bolt in my weapon kick back, the empty casing spit out the side of my rifle. I fired again, and again. My second two shots hit the man, I could see a spray of crimson against the harsh sunlight behind him as he collapsed to the ground.
The sergeant was talking on the radio, calling in artillery to help us with the bastards still entrenched in the hut. The rest of the platoon was firing, and the enemy was returning it. Tracers zipped across the fields between us, and I saw one bounce off the wall just in front of the machine gunner beside me, flicking up and pinging off his helmet. Out of reflex he jumped back, grasping at his throat, before pulling his hands away and looking down at his glooves.
"Holy shit," he muttered realizing he was still alive, glancing over at me in utter surprise, his eyes wide. I couldn't help but crack a smile at his fortune, just as something hit my chest with all the force of a sledgehammer.
All the air blasted out of my lungs, making me gasp desperately for oxygen as I fell off the raised walkway and into the grape field, smashing my helmet against the ground. For a moment I struggled for breath, hearing someone yell out my name, saying I was down. My eyes flicked back and forth taking in the sky, the clear blue of its expanse, the deadly glare of the yellow sun. I broke into a coughing fit, struggling to me feet.
"She's alive, hit the plates," I heard the sergeant say, before he fired a few rounds over the wall, and moved along the section, making sure everyone was okay. Suddenly he stopped, ducking down and putting a hand to his ear.
"Incoming arty, heads fucking down!" he yelled out, and I just stayed where I was, leaning against the edge of the walkway as I heard one hundred and fifty five milimetre rounds whistling through the sky overhead, streaking towards the enemy.
I heard the impact, heard the platoon cheering, and yelling at the enemy. I sat where I was for the moment, as what sounded like a very old truck shot over my head and landed somewhere in the grapefield. I cracked a smile, shrapnel had such an odd and out of place sound. As everything seemed to settle down, I could hear the sergeant talking on the personal radio to the platoon commander, passing on the information. I heard my name mentioned briefly. They were going to cut the patrol short, my plates had been compromised doing what they were designed to do, and I had to get new ones.
I started to climb up, the machine gunner offering me a hand up. With my feet on solid ground I cracked my neck.
"How you feeling?" he asked, while everyone else watched around us, keeping an eye out for any follow up attacks.
"Hurts like a mother fucker," I said, reaching into what should have been a map pouch on my vest and pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
The machine gunner chuckled, crouching again and I leaned back against the mud wall, watching in the opposite direction for a flank. With a smoke clamped between my lips I quickly lit it, feeling the smoke burn down my throat and swirl in my lungs.
"All right, we're moving, back to the boats," the Sarge said, walking past us.
I took another haul of my smoke and started walking again, following the sergeant.
Just another day on the job.
Just another day in the fucking sandbox.

End

This chapter came up a bit earlier than planned. I was aiming to have it up middle of next week. In other news I have entered another contest, the June MWC which is focusing on "Cinematic Action". My entered piece is a sci-fi war short, which I will be posting up here for easy findings once the contest has been judged, which will probably be late July, going into August. The contest itself ends July 1st. Good ol' Canada Day. Speaking of, I may enter in another "Blood of the Damned" Special for Canada day. It'll be fun to write another zombie piece, and this one, if done in time, will focus on events in Canada. Don't actually expect it as I'm still not sure if I'll do it or not.

Would also like to point out that this chapter contains a lesbian sex scene. It's rather brief, but for those not into sex, or don't like reading about any homosexual pairings, just skip the first sub-section of the chapter. Enjoy.

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Chapter 8: The Council

The heat of her skin was intoxicating. The rise and fall of her breasts as she let her breath in and out slowly was enchanting. The sheets fell over her hips gracefully, hiding her legs from view, but Gwenhwyfar had been between them not fifteen minutes earlier.

Arya smiled sweetly, turning over onto her side, blonde hair framing her soft features, blue eyes looking at the noble woman she shared a bed with. Gwenhwyfar returned smile, running fingers down the servant's neck and over her breasts. Arya's lips parted gently, eyes fluttering closed as Gwenhwyfar soaked in every second of this intimate moment.

Cupping the servant's breast, Gwenhwyfar sidled closer to her feeling a shiver run up her spine as the other woman let out a soft moan. Arya pressed herself against the vampire, lips tracing a soft trail down the noble woman's neck to the gentle slope of her shoulder. Gwenhwyfar bit her lower lip, feeling hands run over her flanks, kisses rolling over the swell of her breast before teeth trap a sensitive nipple.

As Gwenhwyfar let a moan of lust spill out into the room, Arya flicked her tongue over the bud clamped in her mouth feeling it stiffen under the attention. With a smile Gwenhwyfar couldn't see through closed eyes, Arya moved further down, fingertips ghosting over cool skin, warm kissed running over the noble's flat stomach, over a scar gained centuries before. With fingers running through the servant's hair, Gwenhwyfar eased Arya further down, her legs parting gently as the other woman settled between them, the kisses sinking her further down.

As Arya's tongue gently ran along Gwenhwyfar's womanhood, the vampire arched her back, letting out another low moan, a hand running along her own body as she was explored most intimately. Arya began to hungrily lick at the vampire's sex, drawing more moans of lust.

The chamber door opened, as Elishka walked in without warning. Arya let out a yelp, jumping up and grabbing at the sheets to conceal her nudity. Cut off unexpectedly from her euphoria, Gwenhwyfar gave the intruder an irritated glare, before noting the bundle tucked under Elishka's arms, as Arya huddled at the edge of the bed, sheets pulled up over her breasts.

"What do you want?" Gwenhwyfar demanded.

"The council has been called together, your attendance is expected. Here put something decent on," Elishka said, tossing the bundle onto the bed, revealing it to be a rather expensive looking dress of black and crimson.

Gwenhwyfar lifted the dress, feeling the soft dyed linen beneath her fingers, before coming to portion that covered her torso, and finding it made of firm leather with crimson laces running up the back. Despite herself, Gwenhwyfar raised an eyebrow and looked up at Elishka, whilst behind her Arya pulled on her own clothing to hide herself a look of confusion of her face, unable to understand the English words.

"It's a style some tailor made in France. It never caught on, but Lord Kessler seems to think you may like it," Elishka said simply as Gwenhwyfar pulled the dress on, slipping her arms down the loose sleeves, her hands completely free in the wide cuffs. Elishka moved up behind Gwenhwyfar and grasped the lacings.

"The most unfortunate part of this horrid design, is that you require another to get behind you and tighten it," Elishka said, pulling the garment tight, pushing Gwenhwyfar's breasts together. Arya glanced over, and the corner of her lips twisted up.

Gwenhwyfar frowned, adjusting her breasts beneath the dress until she was comfortable.

"That thing seems such a mockery of modesty. There's hardly anything I can't see. Regardless, we're wanted down in the council chambers," Elishka said in disgust before turning and moving back towards the door.

Gwenhwyfar turned to look at Arya, giving her a coy smirk before entering the hallway and closing the door behind her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The two descended into the cold darkness beneath the castle. Cracked stone walls were covered in ice, and torches set in iron sconces flickered faintly, so close to extinguishing. Elishka walked before Gwenhwyfar, neither speaking as they approached the doors nestled in this underworld. Both could feel the unnatural chill in the air, could feel ice on their skin.

Elishka pushed the doors open, and the two women stepped inside a round chamber ringed with stone chairs carved into the wall, all looking in towards a large pit of blue flame. Facing the door was a large throne, wolf heads carved into the arm rests and the back, arching over a solitary figure clad in thin robes.

Elder Asgier stared at the two newcomers with unblinking eyes, his leathery skin drawn tight against his bones, ears elongated and pointed. He raised a skeletal hand, and gestured to two empty seats with pointed claws without a word, the fire flaring as he moved.

Both Gwenhwyfar and Elishka bowed before the elder before taking their seats, the fire calming as Asgier's hand fell back to the armrest. Gwenhwyfar's eyes darted about the room, finding herself in the company of about ten other vampires of her clan. She noticed Jurgen amongst the gathered, and recognized others as warriors of some form. So this was to be a council of war.

A well dressed man stepped out before the council, bowing to the elder. Gwenhwyfar noticed Elishka twitch slightly at the man's appearance; this must be her maker, Lord Von Kessler. His oiled and tied blonde hair, and perfectly trimmed beard instantly reminded Gwenhwyfar of her own maker, and she instantly despised the man. She also hated wearing this dress knowing it came from him.

"Fellow knights of the Wolf. We are gathered here to discuss grave matters," Von Kessler began, and again Gwenhwyfar glanced over to Elishka, wondering when she had gained the title of knight.

"In the east, as the humans fight over land and Gods, the Rose is becoming a weed that must be plucked out. They are toying with the very nature of our kind and calling it science," he continued, and someone stood up with a bow towards Asgier before speaking.

"Science should be left to the ever curious humans. What do they hope to claim through questioning our gift?" the noble man said before sitting once more.

"That is the question. They are converting humans into ghoulish monstrosities. Shadows of our own kind who seek only to tear and rend and do their bidding and feast on flesh. They are poised to strike against the kingdoms of humanity, and stake their own claim and set themselves as Gods with an army of blood thirsty angels at their beck and call," Von Kessler said, punctuating each word with a gesture of his hand.

At this, Asgier lifted his hand, gesturing towards Von Kessler's empty seat. The lord bowed deeply, moving back to his chair, before the elder rose slowly, the flames in the pit flaring brightly.

"What Von Kessler says is truth. Already, outside the walls of Antioch, one called Lancelot du Lac is turning crusading soldiers into a monstrous army, using the war and hate to move amongst them unrevealed. It will not be long before he makes his move on the holy cities, using their dead against them. I have called this council to wage the first war between clans since the era of the Romans," Asgier said, his voice like gravel as it left his lips, but everyone heard it like silk passing over their brains.

As he spoke though, Gwenhwyfar's back stiffened at the mention of Lancelot; her maker. The one who pulled her from the path of honour. The one who took advantage of her love for the kingdom, and in the end her act of betrayal had torn Arthur's heart asunder, and the kingdom had fallen to the Saxons. Still she listened to the elder, unable to escape his words that wormed inside her skull.

The elder went on, speaking of raising troops on the journey east, of attacking the castles and fortresses of the Clan of the Rose. While he spoke, he hardly moved, save small gestures of his head. Finally he stopped, his eyes turning to face Gwenhwyfar, seeming to bore into her soul.

"And you, lady Gwenhwyfar, shall strike against Lancelot in the holy land. Strike him down, get your revenge. Regain your honour," he said, all eyes of the council turning in her direction.

"Yes my lord," Gwenhwyfar stated as calmly as she could.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alan walked carefully amongst the dead, holding his sword tightly in his fist. His helmet lay abandoned somewhere in the sand as he shuffled amongst the mutilated corpses, all of them wearing the uniform of the Lionheart. There were no others, none of Du Lac's men, no Saracens. Even most of the column was missing rather than laying desecrated in the desert. Curtis bent by each body, trying to see if any still lived, despite the very obvious state of death. The scout commander took daggers and swords from the fallen, strapping them to the horse that followed him obediently.

"My God," Alan muttered, eyes flicking from one torn body to the next, and finally settled on a spear driven into the ground, Garret's head impaled on the blade, blood running down the shaft. A buzzard had already landed on the knight's head and was picking at his eye.

"Get away from him," Alan yelled swinging his sword at the vulture. The bird let out a squawk and took off into the air, circling above the massacre with his fellow carrion eaters.

Falling to his knees, sword falling from his hands, Alan pounded on the ground, sorrow and rage clashing within him. Before him, the decapitated body of another friend was slumped against the spear. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looking up, saw Salaam standing above him.

"Now is not the time to grieve. Now is the time to take up arms and destroy the evil which is doing this to both your people and mine," the Saracen warrior said calmly.

He moved to stand before the desecrated body of Garret, blocking it from Alan's view, and held out his hand. Alan clasped it firmly, letting this man who should have been his sworn enemy, help him to his feet.

"Together then," Alan said, pulling back his shoulders and not releasing Salaam's hand.

"Together, we shall fight the true holy war," the Saracen said.

Next Chapter

Another chapter of the growing tale. More characters, more blood, and leading ever closer to all out war. Do enjoy.
Picture from Victoria Francis

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Chapter 7: Scarlet Snow, Crimson Sand

The room Gwenhwyfar stepped into was fairly small, but lavishly furnished. Kicked off her boots near the door, her feet padded across thick, plush carpets the colour of a rich wine. She pulled off her cloak and tossed it onto the large bed covered in dark goose down blankets and pillows. She moved to her bags, carefully set in the far corner of the room beside a sturdy chest of ash wood.

She began to pull out blackened pieces of plate armour, setting them aside for later, before finally finding what she wanted. An old set of leather armour she taken care of over the long years since she'd worn it when she was a scout in her father's army, fighting against the Saxons. It was light, and didn't cover much skin, but it allowed her freedom of movement.

Peeling off her travelling clothes, tossing them without a care towards the bed, she began to pull on the tight leather, sliding up over her thighs, when the door softly opened. Gwenhwyfar turned her head to notice a pretty young woman in a simple wool dress with a gray scarf wrapped around her neck walk cautiously into the room. She kept her eyes towards the floor, nervous, though Gwenhwyfar wondered if it was because she was a vampire, or because she was half naked.

She began to speak in Norwegian, but Gwenhwyfar had never learned the language and said simply: "I don't understand."

"I am sorry my lady. I should have awaited your summons to enter," she said in French then, apparently not understanding Gwenhwyfar's English.

"Who sent you up here?" the former queen asked.

"Elder Asgier my lady. He wishes to welcome you back to the clan home, and offers me for your needs," the woman said softly, removing the scarf from her neck and opening a few buttons that ran down the front of her dress.

Gwenhwyfar licked her lips at the show of cleavage, but also the gentle slope of the woman's slender neck, covered in faint pink scars from previous feedings. Reaching out, the vampire gently ran her fingers over the woman's cheek, a gasp at the cool touch escaped her lips. Gwenhwyfar smiled, standing so very close to the woman, whose breath washed over the bared skin of her chest. Leaning in the vampire could smell the salt on her skin, the blood coursing through her veins. The woman's heart pounded in her breast, a moan spilling forth as she felt Gwenhwyfar's fangs brush against her flesh.

Without warning, Gwenhwyfar pulled away, moving back to her belongings. The woman stood where she was for a moment, before sitting herself on the bed, her face flushed. Looking about the room in confusion for a moment, her eyes finally settled on the noble woman kneeling half naked in the corner, pulling a glass decanter from a bag.

Inside was a thick blue paste, and despite the swift rejection, the woman stared in curiosity as Gwenhwyfar opened the bottled and poured some across her open palm. Slowly, she began to draw swirls and designs across her pale skin. The woman didn't recognize any of the elegant blue markings, but she didn't ask, afraid to interrupt the ritual.

When she finished, Gwenhwyfar replaced the top on the decanter, and smeared the remaining woad dye across her breasts. She stood and held out her arms, now almost barbaric with the blue swirls running up her flesh. Feeling it dry, as the woman watched, Gwenhwyfar didn't move an inch.

After a few minutes the woman started to get up, thinking that the noble would stay like that the rest of the night. Her sudden movement to pull on her surprisingly revealing leather cuirass actually startled the woman, who stood stock still, watching the vampire slip a quiver full of arrows over her shoulder and pick up a bow.

"The Welsh make some of the best bows in the world. Certainly the best longbows," Gwenhwyfar said, running her fingertips over the smooth wood before tying a string to either tip of the weapon, and pulling it back slightly to test it. A toothy grin spread across her face, and the servant licked her dry lips.

Wrapping a belt around her waist, Caledfwlch now sheathed at her hip, Gwenhwyfar finally turned to regard her guest, and moved over to her, dark hair framing her features as she eased the woman down onto the bed, straddling her clad in war gear.

"Wait here for me dear, and I'll give you a night to remember," the noble said, leaning down and slowly running her tongue over the woman's neck.

As suddenly as it had all happened, Gwenhwyfar was leaving the door, leaving the woman laying alone on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Through the shadows of the trees and over the white powdery snow, the two moved like wolves in the night. The true beasts ran along with them, sensing a meal to come as the famine of winter closed in tighter with each passing day.

Their feet made no sound as they ran, their weapons sheathed, hiding the glimmer of steel from the bright face of the moon.

Without warning, Gwenhwyfar stopped, holding up a tight fist holding her longbow against the ground. Jurgen kneeled beside her, following her gaze through the trees to the vibrant glow of a fire, pushing back the darkness of the night. Voices drifted on the wind, as shadows flickered across the forest.

The two vampires exchanged a quick glance, but said not a word as they moved closer, each with an arrow laid against their bows. Carefully they approached the camp, centuries of experience making them as phantoms.

Around the fire sat five men wearing light leather armour adorned with heavy fur to stave off the bitter cold. Only one had a sword, sheathed at his hip and sticking into the snow, their spears leaned against the logs they sat on and their shields rested against their bodies painted with a red rose. Two more men were already resting in crude deer skin tents, opened towards the fire, their gear nestled by their heads.

Their apparent leader with the sword raised his eyes from the fire and stared into the forest towards Gwenhwyfar and Jurgen, and lifted his lip in a snarl. Even at this distance, Gwenhwyfar could see the fangs set in his jaws, and stuck her arrow in the snow, careful not to make a sound as she drew a specially crafted silver arrow from a sheath in her boot. There was a slight groove carved into the arrowhead, with nestled carefully in it, secured with thin cord, was a small vial of pure garlic.

Raising her bow as the Rose Clan vampire began to stand, Jurgen drew his own bow back. The two kneeled in shadows, unseen, the strings of their bows brushing their ears. The scouts in the camp were starting to get restless, nervousness plain on their features as they saw the unease in their leader.

Gwenhwyfar released the arrow, shortly before Jurgen. The first arrow struck the vampire in the chest, slicing through leather and flesh before piercing his heart. He let out an unholy scream of pain as the garlic vial was crushed by his own body, coursing through his blood. The second arrow hit one of the scouts through the neck severing the arteries within and poking through the flesh.

"God protect us," one of them yelled as the survivors scrambled for their gear while the vampire tore the arrow from his chest, gasping in agony as blood spurted from the wound. He soon joined his human follower face down in the snow, no longer holding the gift of undeath.

Two more arrows cut through the night, striking down another two men who grasped at the arrows sticking from their flesh, blood weeping around the wooden shafts. The final woken man stood by the fire with shield and spear in hand, whirling around trying to find the source of the arrows, while the two sleeping men stirred in their cots disturbed by the short screams.

The final standing man was cut down as an arrow cut into his chest, and another through his eye. Without a sound he slumped to the scarlet stained snow, and was still.

The two sleeping scouts emerged from their tents, grasping short swords as they looked at the bloodbath before them. Fear filled their eyes, and they startled at the sound of wolves howling in the forest, coming from all about them. Dark eyes watched them from between the trees, as mist poured from beastly maws. One of the creatures emerged from the wood line, moving with the grace of a predator, watching the two survivors as it approached the corpses of their friends.

He heard his friend let out a muffled scream, and turning saw a blonde man grasping him, biting deep into his neck, trails of blood running over the exposed skin and under his armour.

"God have mercy," one muttered, before he felt cold hands grasp him, and soft lips brush against his ear.

"You'll find out soon enough," Gwenhwyfar whispered, before her fangs sank deep into his flesh, and his blood filled her mouth.

The predators feasted well beneath the light of the moon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Beneath the dark sky filled with millions of shimmering stars, the sand almost looked white, like bones ground into a fine dust. Alan could believe though, that the sand was indeed the skeletons of the warriors who had fought and died in these cursed lands. He had difficulty seeing what was so holy about this place, it seemed God had forsaken it. Those thoughts never left his lips, he had no wish to be condemned by the mortals who claimed to speak for the heavenly father.

A rider trotted up next to Garret and Alan, wearing the light leather of a scout, but Alan recognized him as Curtis, the scout commander. Without his helmet Alan could see the beard growing across his jaw. Guiding his mount in close to the two knights Curtis leaned in to Garret, though Alan was able to hear every word.

"Rearward scouts spotted some Saracens behind us. Not many, about ten or so, not bothering to hide themselves. One was carrying a white banner. I think they want to talk," he informed them.

The light of the desert moon was bright enough that Alan could see Garret's frown clearly. He lifted the visor of his helmet and scratched at his chin out of habit. Pale eyes turned towards Alan, and he gestured with his head, not taking his gauntleted hands from the reins.

"Alan, take some men and go check it out. We'll continue towards the rendezvous with Du Lac," he said.

Alan nodded, and turned his horse around, pointing out a few men-at-arms on horseback who pulled out from the column to join him. As the rest of the soldiers continued their march, Alan quickly explained the situation as Curtis moved to join them, looking back towards where his scouts awaited.

With hooves kicking up small clouds of dust, Alan, Curtis and the six soldiers rode back. It wasn't long before the rest of the soldiers were fading into the distance, and Alan noted a scout standing on the dune running beside them to make himself visible to his fellow Christians.

Not far ahead, a small group of men silhouetted against the sky. The shape of their helmets gave them away instantly as Saracens. One stood before the others, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, another beside him holding a white banner above their heads, clearly seen.

"I don't like this," Curtis said, spitting into the sand.

"No, but let's see what they have to say. Your scouts have weapons trained on them?" Alan asked, glancing over to the scout commanded.

"They have crossbows, and if they've not had their throats slit on the other side of these dunes, then yes, they'll have weapons trained on these men," Curtis replied.

"Then lets hope this isn't a trap," Alan said, digging his heels into his horse's flanks and starting forward.

As he got close enough to start seeing the faces of his enemy, Alan noted that they all carried spears, but none had a shield. This meeting was not an ambush, they really did want to talk. With a frown, Alan dismounted his horse, and stepped towards the man standing in front.

"So what would a heathen like you, want with an infidel like me?" Alan said, holding back a smirk at the discomfort he saw in the others at his blunt words. He was surprised they could all understand him. Still, the man before him merely smiled in response.

"Survival. It is plain as that. I am called Abdul-Salaam," the man said, nodding his head ever so slightly.

"Sir Alan Winterfeld... what is this about survival?"

"I am sure you are aware Sir Winterfeld, that a certain lord within your ranks is not entirely as he seems. I'm sure you know the name Du Lac," Abdul-Salaam said quietly, and the words sent a chill through Alan's blood.

"What do you know?" Alan demanded.

"He is an unholy monstrosity, sent here by neither your God, nor mine. Even now he plans on destroying your column of soldiers. There was no caravan, it's a trap to gain him more followers from the corpses of the slain."

Alan looked back at the mounted soldiers, and waved Curtis forward. The scout uneasily moved closer to the Saracens, and kept his gaze on Alan.

"Go back to the column, warn Sir Garret that it's a trick. We've been betrayed."

"My lord... can we trust them?" Curtis asked, flicking his gaze towards Salaam.

Alan shook his head gently, then shrugged. He looked back at Salaam and pointed at him with a chainmail clad finger.

"Should I find you were lying to us, I will hunt you down," Alan promised.

"No need my friend. He will find us first, if you have any desire to save your comrades, ride now," the Saracen bid, and Curtis let out a long breath before turning and galloping back towards the column.

"We must unite my friend, against a common foe that would drain all holiness from this land," Salaam said, and Alan was reminded of his own musings earlier in the night.

Even as the screams reached his ears from across the desert.

Next Chapter

Apologies for the very late chapter. It's been over an entire month. Still, I have a stronger idea with where I'm going, and setting up some interesting sequences. Hope you all enjoy.
In related news, the earlier short story "Secrets Under Sun" and "Secrets Under Blood" won 5th place in the contest I entered.

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Chapter 6: Keep of Wolves

Gwenhwyfar looked over her shoulder to watch the ship sail off into the distance, the crew in a hurry to leave her behind in their memories. Glancing up towards the bright moon, Gwenhwyfar started moving down the dock towards the small village of Narvik, letting Adara follow closely behind.

A single man holding a torch waited at the end of the dock, wrapped in thick furs to protect him from the falling snow. He bowed as Gwenhwyfar approached.

"My lady, allow me to escort you to the castle," he said in a thick Norse accent, already seeming to know who this visitor was. His breath came out in thick mist through the scarf he had wrapped around his face.

"Very well," Gwenhwyfar stated.

The man turned and started to walk, followed by the vampire and her horse. They moved through the small village of Narvik, the snow crunching beneath their steps. A few faces looked out from windows at the passing pair before quickly closing and a man holding a crossbow at his side leaned in the doorway of the local blacksmith, but that was the only sign of life this late into the night.

They left the village behind and moved along a path which was shown only by the snow drifts on either side and the partially filled footprints along its length. With thick forest on either side of them the pair moved without a word, the only sound their feet and the occasional whinny from Adara.

Gwenhwyfar saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and turning her head slightly noticed a few wolves trailing quietly through the snow, watching the travellers with hungry eyes. The guide put a hand to a sword sheathed at his hip as he noticed the hunters himself, a shiver of nervousness running through his form.

A soft growl came from the forest on the other side, and lowering the hood of her cloak, Gwenhwyfar turned her gaze to see more of the pack stalking them. Dark figures flickering through the shadows between the trees, the glint of inhuman eyes looking for food in the cold of the quickly settling winter.

"They will not attack. It is not deep enough into winter for them to be starving enough yet," the Guide said after a few moments, and Gwenhwyfar nodded, pulling her hand away from Caledfwlch's grip.

Eventually they emerged from the forest, leaving the wolves behind while before them loomed a seemingly abandoned castle. The walls were crumbling and covered in moss killed by the winter cold, and the iron portcullis had fallen apart, its pieces scattered on the gatehouse floor, rusting amidst the snow strewn stone. Passing into the courtyard, snowflakes gathering in her black hair, Gwenhwyfar noted the footprints in the fresh fallen powder gather about her. The tracks had all bled together into a single path, moving through the ill kempt courtyard and past the aging well, and into the surprisingly well kept, but forebodingly windowless keep.

Moving towards a set of high oaken doors, with the likeness of wolves carved into either one, the guide raised his empty fist and hammered on the entrance. Adara shuffled in the snow, while Gwenhwyfar simply stood with arms at her sides.

The doors swung inwards, and the smell of horse rushed out to greet them. Two men, clad in simple leather and furs, had pushed the doors open and ushered the travellers within. Once within the guide began to rub his arms revelling in the warmth as the gatekeepers closed the doors.

"We will take your horse to the stables my lady. You are expected in the great hall, you belongings will be taken to your room immediately," one of the gatekeepers said at a nod from the guide.

The respect and manners reminded Gwenhwyfar of a time long past. She closed her eyes for a moment in memory, but quickly crushed them down before they took hold. There would be time for that later.

Gwenhwyfar nodded, and proceeded further into the keep, past the entrance hall that led to the Stables and servants quarters, and to the large doors that led into the great hall of the Clan of the Wolf. The doors were more ornate than the ones leading into the keep itself, made of oak and strengthened with gold rather than steel or iron. It would have made even some of these modern kings, or even the old Romans blush.

Pushing them open, Gwenhwyfar stepped into a long room lit by torches sit in iron sconces on the walls, and chandeliers dangled from the ceiling. Two long table ran most of the room's length, joined at the end by a much shorter, but nearly identical copy. Chairs were settled alongside, all empty. Dust covered most of the surfaces, save some spaces used by the human servants of the keep.

At the far end of the hall stood a man in rich red, long blonde hair tied back in a pony tail, goblet held lightly in his hand as he looked up at one of the many tapestries that hung from the walls of the room, this particular one of a wolf biting the head off a rose, a few streaks of blood dripping from where the beast had been pricked by the rose's thorns.

"I do wonder if this was meant as a warning, or a reminder," Amadeo Castrogiovanni said loud enough to be heard across the hall, bringing his goblet to his lips.

"More than likely it's both," Gwenhwyfar said sharply, walking past the tables, travelling boots tapping on the stone.

Amadeo turned, and gave an extravagant bow for his fellow vampire once she was close. Standing once more, his cape falling over the one shoulder it was pinned to, obscuring some of the fine workmanship of his tailor. Gwenhwyfar simply nodded in return.

"A pleasure as always to see you my lady," Amadeo said with a charming smile.

"That silver tongue of yours spins lies as thick as pig shit. You hate me and would only be up here in Narvik if you were threatened or you could turn a profit. The question remains however, why do you wish to speak with me?" Gwenhwyfar asked of the Italian merchant.

"Always to the point, and never one to wear a mask. Perhaps you should have," Amadeo said acidly, his smile growing as Gwenhwyfar stiffened, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Did you call me here just to insult me then vulture?" Gwenhwyfar demanded.

"Why would I wish to ever speak with you, even to insult you?" Amadeo said, baring his fangs.

"That's enough," A harsh Germanic voice called out, causing both vampires to turn, seeing a tall muscular man wearing a simple cloth tunic and breeches, walk through one of the side doors. An axe hung from a simple loop on his belt on either hip, his blonde hair tied in two braids that laid over his shoulders, the tuft of a beard growing on his chin and upper lip.

Blue eyes narrowed at the merchant, who sighed and turned, walking towards one of the doors, muttering 'Whore Queen' under his breath, making Gwenhwyfar ball her hands into tight fists.

"He is not worth the anger Gwenhwyfar. Best to save the fury for the battlefield," the German said, leaning against the table and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Thank you Jurgen, now can I assume it was you that wished to meet with me here?" Gwenhwyfar said, after taking a moment to relax.

Jurgen Backenstede simply nodded, before reaching down to a rolled up piece of paper stuck in his boot. Spreading it out on the table, Gwenhwyfar could see it was a map of the local area, drawn in black charcoal. The keep was a square, and the village was a simple 'X', while the forests were mostly shaded in. However, it got the point across, and Jurgen jabbed his finger at a circle drawn overtop one of the spots in the forest.

"Some of our scouts have found soldiers searching the woods, their shields bearing the mark of the Rose. Their clan has always known we were around here, but never exactly where. Nor have they cared. The fact that they are scouting us has some worry on the council," Jurgen informed his friend.

"Where are our soldiers, why have these scouts not been dealt with?" Gwenhwyfar demanded.

"Much has changed since you have left. We have very little human forces loyal to our clan, and our clan itself grows weaker. To the East, the Rose grows. To the south, the Dragon is spreading. And us, here in the north, pull back into the tundra, our knights scattered across the nations. A proper council has not been held in fifty years," Jurgen told her, and Gwenhwyfar let out a long breath, digesting the information with a frown.

"I will deal with these scouts then. How long until dawn?" Gwenhwyfar asked, examining the map closely to get her bearings.

"A few hours yet. I'll go with you, I know this area well enough, and together we'll still be able to move quick enough to get back before sunrise," Jurgen said.

"Agreed. Meet here with a half hour."

Jurgen smiled, and clapped his fellow warrior on the back before moving towards his room. Gwenhwyfar returned the smile, it would be good to feed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alan watched as the French marched out of the city, their banners sagging without any breeze to display the colours proudly. The soldiers did not march to war, but instead followed their king, on the road home. The body of Reynard amongst them.

Drinking deep from the water of his wineskin, Alan stood on the walls of Acre, and finally turned his back on the retreating Christians. Talk of assassins, and traitors within Acre had everyone on edge, the discovery of Reynard's mutilated body had been the tipping point that drove the French away.

Attaching his wineskin back to his belt, Alan walked along the walls, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his hauberk. As he looked down into the stables, he saw soldiers dressed in Lord du Lac's heraldry, and the English knight frowned.

Du Lac was not leaving, nor his silent soldiers. Alan wasn't sure what to make of it, seeing as the Lord's king was currently astride a horse moving back home. Perhaps it was because most of his soldiers seemed to be English these days, though it was hard to tell with them all wearing helmets, and never speaking. Word was that all who entered Du Lac's service had a vision from God, and all became holy warriors.

Alan knew it wasn't true, just barracks rumours. There was something sinister behind this army growing with each battle, and Reynard had gotten close. That's what Alan believed, but with so many eyes and ears about, he wasn't able to say anything, or investigate on his own.

"Alan?" a hearty voice called out from along the battlements.

Alan looked up, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, to see his friend, Sir Garret Thomas, fully armoured moving towards him.

"I'll never get used to this fucking heat... Alan, we're heading out tonight. Get your men together, we're going out to strike at a Saracen caravan," Garret said, a smirk across his face.

"Who else is going?" Alan asked, and the smiled dropped from Garret's face.

"We're supporting Du Lac's forces," Garret said solemnly, betraying his own thoughts on the mysterious French lord.

"He killed Reynard Garret, I'm sure of it," Alan whispered, and for a moment, he thought the other knight was going to punch him.

"You shut you're fucking mouth, because if you're right, you'll be joining him. We'll talk about this on the road," Garret said, and with that promptly turned and left Alan standing alone on the wall.

Next Chapter

Sorry it took so long to come out with this latest chapter. Life has its moments no? Still, hope you all enjoy the story.

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Chapter 5: Promises and Fealty

The waves of the sea rocked the ship gently beneath the blue skies and the bright sun that resided there. Wind filled the sails, and men moved about the boat, standing ready for orders. Captain Nathanial stood at the helm, looking out over leagues of open water to the horizon. There was no land in sight, and he felt free. Lifting back his head, the wind breathed over his face and through the full beard he wore in pride. It felt like a lover's caress welcoming him home, and just as well. Despite all the women he had taken to his bed, and all the promises he whispered during sweat filled nights, he always came back to his mistress.

"Captain," came the voice of Erik, the first mate, pulling Nathanial from the attention of his wife.

"What is it?" he asked, opening his eyes still not seeing any sign of land.

"The passenger. She still refuses any food. We are two days into the journey and still she does not eat," Erik said.

"Her eating habits are not my concern, only that I drop her at Narvik. I suggest you ignore her, and pass that along to the men as well," Nathanial said looking down at the deck at the men he commanded.

"I would, except that at night she comes up on the deck. Her presence is making the men nervous."

Nathanial threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. Erik shook his head and a few of the sailors looked up at the captain before turning back to their own business.

"A woman is making them quake? A woman? Perhaps I should start recruiting again," Nathanial finally said after a moment, a wide smile across his face.

"The men are not thinking she is a woman captain. But a demon from the depths."

Nathanial's humour dissipated, and looking over to his first mate, a man who took very little stock in the words of old tales and superstitions. A man who at the moment did look afraid. Nathanial slapped the wheel before him.

"Take the helm. I'll talk to our guest, and remind her of her place," Nathanial said, stepping back.

Erik quickly took his position, while the captain tapped the hilt of the sword hanging at his belt, and moved down the short flight of stairs to the deck. Sailors nodded in respect at his passing, while he moved to the double doors settled just beneath the helm. Pushing the portals open and stepping inside the small hall Nathanial took a breath, and moved to the room on his right, the guest's quarters.

Inside the woman was kneeling in the centre of the room, a sword laid across her palms as she whispered in an unfamiliar language. The blankets from the bed had been draped across the windows, cutting off the sunlight and plunging the room into the darkness of night. Nathanial frowned and closed the doors behind him, but Gwenhwyfar did not stir.

Moving around her, Nathanial grasped one of the sheets in a tight fist.

"Remove that sheet, and I will kill you," Gwenhwyfar said between tight lips.

"You can try. You should learn that you are a guest on my boat. I will not tolerate any black magic that brings the eyes of demons upon us," Nathanial said angrily, and tore the blanket down.

Sunlight poured in on the salt tinged air that poured through the openings to the outside world. Gwenhwyfar hissed and sprung away from the light, smoke coming from her skin. She spun to the captain and bared her fangs, sword now clutched in her hand, ready to strike. Nathanial stared at her, sunlight framing him in the window as he grasped the second sheet.

"So little you understand. The sun may kill me, but not before I cut your head from your shoulders," Gwenhwyfar snarled.

Nathanial let his hand drop away from the sheet, and move to his sword. He was no stranger to combat, for life at sea was a dangerous one and pirates roamed free in waters that kingdoms could not control with their mighty armies.

"What are you creature?" Nathanial demanded.

"That does not matter. You fulfill your part of the bargain, and you will be rid of me," Gwenhwyfar said tightly.

"I made no deal with you. That letter you carried with you was from the guard captain of Kirkwall, not you. I have a suspicion that if you were to perish out here, MacDonald would not mind in the least," Nathanial said, pulling his blade free, readying himself for combat.

"And in turn his oath does not carry out here to the seas," Gwenhwyfar shot back, standing to her full height. Nathanial licked his lips, feeling nervousness in his gut.

Seeing the smoke still rising from Gwenhwyfar's back, Nathanial raised his arm to the sheet once more. Gwenhwyfar sprung forward, Caledfwlch's point piercing through his arm. He let out a scream as his hand went limp. He could hear shouting above decks, but knew that for the next moment, his life was in his own hands.

He brought his blade around in a wide swing, and Gwenhwyfar jumped back, pulling her own bloodied sword with her, freeing the captain. She stood tall, holding the gleaming blade before her, obviously a warrior trained. Pressing his wounded limb against his side, Nathanial went on the offensive, stabbing forward, but Gwenhwyfar deflected it to the side and followed through with a vicious kick. Nathanial rolled out of the way, biting back a scream as his wounded arm hit the floor.

Quickly rebounding to his feet he glanced once at Gwenhwyfar, then slashed at the blanket nearest him. The blade pulled it from the window, bringing in more sun, which caused Gwenhwyfar to pull back further into the darkness, hiding behind the single sheet remaining, a thin beam of sunlight pushing through the hole she herself had made.

The door smashed open, Erik stood there bewildered, holding a small axe in either hand. He looked between the woman standing in darkness, and his captain. Erik let out a roar and charged towards Gwenhwyfar, moving for a quick kill.

The vampire deftly avoided the first strike, and swung for the following second. Blade met flesh, and blood sprayed across the room as Erik's left hand landed on the floor. Gwenhwyfar kicked him squarely in the chest, knocking him back into the bed. Stumbling, the first mate fell back and rolled onto the floor, grasping at his stump as more sailors rushed in.

Hissing at them Gwenhwyfar stood her ground, grasping the first hand that came towards her, and plunging her blade into the owner's stomach. She dropped him gurgling to the floor, but not before a crossbow bolt plunged into her chest. Pain flared through her, and she lurched backwards.

"Enough!" Nathanial roared, and the sailors stopped, but not before taking a few steps backwards.

Gwenhwyfar quickly pulled the bolt from her flesh and dropped it to the ground and stared at each of the sailors facing her.

"We'll get you to Narvik creature, as the letter said, but never again will you step foot on this ship," Nathanial told her coldly.

"Very well. Now please leave this room, anyone who enters here for the remainder of the trip does so forfeits their own life," Gwenhwyfar replied rather calmly.

Nathanial grunted and moved out of the room, his men dragging both Erik and the gutted sailor out, leaving behind twin trails of blood in their wake. Nathanial slammed the door shut behind him, closing the vampire into her own room.

"Captain, we could have taken her. Why did ye call us off?" one of the sailors asked.

"Perhaps we could have, but at what cost. I have no desire to be captain of a dead crew out here. If you value your life, or your position on my crew you will do as you are told, and leave this room alone," Nathanial barked.

"Yes captain," came the sullen reply before he stalked off.

Nathanial let out a long sigh as he looked at the blood smeared across the floor boards, and then back at the door to Gwenhwyfar's quarters. It was going to be a long journey to Narvik, and he simply hoped that most of his men survived it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reynard stepped into his private chambers, slamming the door behind him, and grasping the vase full of rich wine off the table beside him. Bringing the clay container to his lips, the French knight drank deep, washing down the dust of Acre. Dropping the vase to shatter across the stone floor, Reynard looked over to his bed in the shadows of the room.

Lying on red silk sheets, was a pale skinned woman, eyes closed, painted lips open. Her blonde hair pooled across the pillows and her dark nipples stood in contrast against the soft curves of her breasts. Licking his lips, Reynard moved towards the bed, unbuckling his belt and letting it fall to the floor, the sword attached clanging against the stone. Pulling off his tunic, the French knight started to climb over the bed, hovering over the naked woman.

His hand slid in something wet, and with a frown, Reynard looked at his palm, now smeared with crimson. Eyes widening and flicking back to the woman, he noticed the hole in the side of her neck, almost blending in with the sheets.

"God in Heaven," he yelped, stumbling out of the bed, landing on his back on the floor.

"I'm afraid Reynard, that even here, in this holy land, you are beyond his help. Perhaps he never did care," a soft voice said from the shadows, touched with arrogance.

Lord du Lac stepped from the shadows, sword held carefully in his hand, blood running over his lips and dripping from his chin. He smiled, it was cold and showed his fangs. Reynard felt a shiver crawl like a spider up his spine as he moved away from the unholy creature standing before him, hand searching desperately for his sword.

"Now, normally I wouldn't feed on a noble. Attracts too much attention you see. However you've been trying to get too close to me my dear friend, and I simply can not have you ruining my plans now," Du Lac said.

"You are no friend of mine demon," Reynard said, fingers finally grasping the hilt of his sword. Before he was able to use it however, Du Lac moved with an unholy speed and a grace not of this world. The creature's foot clamped down on Reynard's wrist, trapping it, and that vicious sword descended.

Reynard screamed in agony as his hand came free, blood gushing from the wound, mixing with the droplets of wine he had dropped. Du Lac merely smiled, and cocked his head.

"Scream, and get their attention. You're death will only help me move things along," he said, and plunged his sword through Reynard's neck.

Next Chapter

And here is chapter 4 of my tale. For those worried about it, I will not include too much European politics in the story. Some will come through, but not so much as to override the plot. I do hope you enjoy.

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Chapter 4: Kirkwall

The large stone walls of Kirkwall loomed before Gwenhwyfar, torches lit along the ramparts silhouetted patrolling soldiers, the large oaken gates open wide with guards standing on either side, fists clenching long spears, fur capes draped over their shoulders to protect from the cold. Gwenhwyfar approached with no words, Adara snorting gently sending out plumes of misty breath into the night air. A heavy cloak was pulled tightly around her, though the cold of the Scottish wind did little to affect her, it would help to keep eyes off of her. No one would notice another cloaked traveller amongst the many that came through this port city.

The guards stood straighter as Gwenhwyfar came ever closer, peering through the darkness, at horse and rider. Gwenhwyfar sniffed the air, smelt the blood stirring in the two men's veins. She felt the ache in her fangs, the salvia that wet her mouth, but held it back. The guards eyed the bow tied down atop her saddlebags, and the sword hanging from her hip. The one on the right looked into Adara's eyes, and jumped back a little noting the dull red of those orbs.

"Will there be trouble?" asked the guard on the left, ignoring his partner's reaction.

"I seek passage, that is all," Gwenhwyfar said, pulling back her hood so that the guard may see her face, and the guard squinted into the night.

"Indeed," the guard said eyes glancing to the horse, before reaching up and removing his helmet. In the faint torchlight Gwenhwyfar could see the grey hairs starting to overrule the brown. He nodded to his comrade who gladly took a few steps back.

"I was told you would pass this way. Captain MacDonald wishes to speak with you," he said, before gesturing for her to pass through the gates.

Gwenhwyfar nodded, replacing her hood as she pressed in with her heels and Adara's hooves beat against the dirt path and soon clacked against cobblestone roads. The second guard averted his eyes, leaning away from the passing figure. The city had not changed much in the hundred years since Gwenhwyfar had last stepped foot within her walls. The hovels were still in poor condition and smelt of shit and mildew, the streets strewn with rotten straw, and the noise of a nearby inn overflowing into the streets sounded of drunken sailors and whores. She pressed on, moving past the empty market towards the barracks.

It was made up of three interconnected structures, with an iron fence and gate closing off the central drill square from the remainder of the town. A wooden shack stood just to the side of the gate proper within the small compound, a single guard standing before it, gauntlets tucked under his arm while he warmed his hands over a flickering brazier. As Adara whinnied, the man looked up, and frowned.

"Who are you?" he asked, quickly pulling his gauntlets back on and grasping the spear he had leaning against his shoulder.

"I was told that Captain MacDonald wished to speak with me."

"Still doesn't answer who you are," the guard said, lowering his weapon so the point jutted between two bars of the fence.

"My name is Gwenhwyfar."

The guard stared at her for a moment, then rapped a bell hidden within the shack with his spear. Nothing happened, but the soldier stepped forward and opened the gate, grunting with effort as he pushed wide. Gwenhwyfar nodded to him as she walked within, before noting the archer standing atop the barracks, bow held in one hand whilst the other slipped an arrow back into the quiver on his back.

Adara stopped in the middle of the parade square, and Gwenhwyfar gracefully slid off, feet gently tapping against the roughly laid cobblestone. Her eyes darted between the three buildings. Neither had any distinction as to which was which, it had been a long time since she'd been to any barracks, and armies changed with the ages. She decided the central building, the northern wing, was the dormitories. A single square tower rose up from the roof, a small window looking down across the city, with a faint light struggling to be seen through the glass.

"Stay here. I do not think this will be long," she said to Adara, before stepping off, boots tapping against the ground.

Like a phantom she slipped through the door, silent, moving down the short hall and the closed doors, ignoring the gentle snores coming from within each one. A spiralling staircase awaited her, going up into the tower. Fingertips trailed over a wooden banister, admiring the craftsmanship, before she stepped into a surprisingly large chamber. It instantly reminded her of home, except the bed was smaller and less comforting, a chest laying at its foot. An armour stand stood beside the desk perched beneath the window, a flickering candle sat upon that desk, a man with nearly white hair leaned over parchment as his quill danced, leaving trails of ink in its wake.

Gwenhwyfar made sure to press her foot down with each step to ensure the aging man could hear her, but he did not respond. The vampire began to wonder if the man was deaf, but why would he be up here if he were?

"There has not been one of your kind in Kirkwall for many years now," the man said, his voice was raspy and rough. His head turned slightly, revealing the mottled flesh from scars that only flames could leave.

"Captain MacDonald I presume. You knew I was coming," Gwenhwyfar said stepping closer, even as the man turned his attention back to whatever he was writing.

"I am, and I did. I keep my ear to the ground when it comes to the clans. This town used to thrive with the undead. Until my predecessors drove them out. Still, it has been passed down to each captain, the news of your home in the north of the island," MacDonald said, picking up his quill and wiping the excess ink off the tip, and pushing a stopper into the ink well.

"So then why do you wish to speak with me?"

MacDonald carefully folded the letter he was writing. Silence built in the room as he dribbled hot red wax across the folded over edge, and pressed a stick down on the sticky puddle. The seal of Kirkwall looked up at the captain as he pushed the letter to the side, and finally stood. With some difficulty Gwenhwyfar noted to herself.

"Because you are a vampire, and when vampires are about, people disappear."

"I am simply passing through. I am here for a boat only."

"To Norway. There is a single merchant ship heading that way tomorrow morning. It will not dock at Narvik, but you may be able to convince the captain to drop you off there beyond nightfall. Take this, it will secure your passage," Captain MacDonald said, picking up the freshly sealed letter, and holding it out in crooked hands. The man was nearing retirement.

"Why are you helping me. I could have secured my own passage," Gwenhwyfar said, taking the letter, holding it crisply in her hand.

"Politics. I do not want you in my city. If it were not for your clan, I would have you killed and burned. As it is, I have the safety of the people here to watch out for. Should anyone been found slain by you, and I will know, I will hunt you down creature."

Gwenhwyfar held back a smile at the thought of this old man trying to strike her down, but instead simply nodded and turned, walking back towards the stairs. MacDonald watched her descend, and when she was gone, he sat himself down and let out a long breath of relief.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sir Alan Winterfeld watched Lord du Lac ride in through the main gates of Acre, face hidden from the sunlight by that black helmet of his. Most of his soldiers wore garb to cover their faces as well, whether stifling helmets or simple rags wrapped about the face.

"You ever seen him out of his armour? He looks pale as snow," Sir Reynard Laroque said with a laugh.

"I have not. I have however seen how troops sent to fight for him vanish. Our forces shrink ever so slightly with each raid he commits, and his grow," Alan remarked, taking a long swig from the water skin hanging from his belt.

"You are not the only one to notice such things my friend. There are dark rumours floating about Du Lac, and my King is not pleased. He is threatening to pull his support from this crusade," Reynard said, stroking his beard.

"And if he does return to France, will you go with him?" Alan said, turning his attention away from the small parade of soldiers under Du Lac's command.

"I have not yet decided. The priests tell me that I should stay, the lords and advisors say I should leave. After the things we've seen and done here my friend, I am not so sure God cares what I do," Reynard said somberly.

"It is difficult to wash away sins with blood," Alan said with a snort, before spitting into the dust of the city's streets.

"Do not let too many hear you utter those words. I may be able to protect you from Saracen blades, but against the stab of tongues, I have no shield. This is Acre, these walls have ears," Reynard warned, and Alan nodded, thankful for the advice.

"Regardless, something must be done of Du Lac. His power grows, even as kings grow suspicious. If your Philippe leaves, Du Lac may as well, with a good number of English soldiers," Alan said.

"If not my king, then with Leopold. Richard has slighted the man, and Du Lac apparently has ties to Lithuania. If the Germans depart, then Du Lac may take the opportunity to as well. He does not seem like a religious sort."

"He's up to something, I know he is."

Reynard smiled, and looked about, before stopping his friend. His words were hushed, and deadly serious.

"These walls may have ears, but I have eyes in my purse. We can discover what Du Lac is plotting, even if the kings are too busy squabbling amongst each other to notice," he said.

"Then do it. I move to ensure no more of my men are transferred to Du Lac's command. Meet with me when you have learned something, until then my friend, be at peace," Alan said, clasping hands with his fellow knight.

"It is a shame that we must fight amongst ourselves so, while the Muslims are united against us," Reynard said, breaking the shake, and moving off down the road to the French quarter.

Alan watched him go, and turned his eyes back to where Lord du Lac's men still marched towards some shelter and water. There was something very off about them, and it chilled Alan's soul.

Next Chapter

And yet another chapter arrives. The plot is unfolding much slower than in Blood, but I don't think that's a bad thing. I'm having more fun writing this, as I've been able to expand my scope much more and can include some more interesting characters and events. Hope you enjoy.
Picture from Medieval_Vampire121 from deviantart. Great artist.

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Chapter 3: Departure

Robert Donaldson walked up the hill towards Gwenhwyfar's hall, holding the reins of her beastly horse in one hand. Even Katelyn who had a suspiciously close relationship with the vampire seemed afraid of the creature and walked with Robert between her and the horse. The beast snorted, tugging on the reins slightly as it saw the hall up ahead, and its red eyes seemed to glow with anticipation. The horse had been stabled in the village even before Robert himself was born, and was fed the raw flesh of slaughtered sheep twice a day, rather than the hay kept for the other horses. It was completely unnatural. Rumours said it was centuries old, and every time he saw the thing, Robert could not bring himself to even doubt those words.

A shudder ran up Robert's spine as the black furred monster pulled, even as he struggled to hold it firm. On the horizon, the sky glared in brilliant reds and purples as the sun hid from the oncoming night. Stars were already starting to twinkle in the sky, and Robert had to force his fear down. He never liked the night, always did his business by day; night was for criminals and demons. He was neither.

His father was the village elder, and David would have come up the hill himself if it weren't the fever that had been plaguing him the past week. Whispers were already spreading through the village that within the month, Robert would take his father's place in formality, as he already had in practicality.

The horse snorted again, and looking over, Robert could see a smile spreading across Katelyn's features. They were close to the hall now, and Gwenhwyfar awaited them, dressed in black breeches, and a light brown tunic, in the open doors with arms crossed over her chest, sword sheathed at her hip. Saddle bags, already full lay on the ground by her feet. Robert swallowed, he had never liked dealing with the vampire.

"Adara," Gwenhwyfar called out cheerfully.

The horse pushed ahead, the reins slipping from Robert's hands, though he was happy to be free of the creature. He watched as nearly white hands ran over black fur, and quiet whispers passed from rider to horse. Katelyn ran ahead, almost jumping on Gwenhwyfar, but hanging away because of Adara.

"What if the Vikings attack again?" Robert demanded of the woman who had defended these shores for as long as anyone in the village could remember.

"You will be on your own whilst I'm gone. Set out watches on the coast, request soldiers from Kirkwall," Gwenhwyfar told him, as she lifted a saddle and threw it over the horse's back, earning another nostril born snort.

Robert ran a hand through his thinning gray hair and looked down the hill towards his home. A few torches were lit, beckoning back to his home, where his children slept soundly, and his wife awaited his return. As he looked back towards the vampire, she had finished securing the saddle in place and was tying down the saddlebags, strapping a Welsh longbow and a quiver of arrows to the soft leather. She tugged on them, and nodded when she was satisfied, before turning her gaze back to Robert.

"I expect nothing to happen to Katelyn in my absence. It would be regrettable for you all if her choices should bring unwanted attention her way," Gwenhwyfar informed him.

"I cannot be accountable for the actions of others," he said, knowing full well the mistrust the others held of the woman. Besides the scars left by a monster adorning her neck, there were also the rumours of the unholy affair the two had.

"Oh but you are Robert Donaldson. This is your village, and the lives of everyone within are your responsibility. Even should you deem Katelyn's life not worth while to defend, think of my vengeance when I return. I will ensure blood flows in rivers, while you watch," Gwenhwyfar snarled, stepping forward so her lover could not see her lips pull back, showing off her fangs.

Robert blanched, and dumbly nodded as an answer.

"Then your business here in concluded. Go home to your family," Gwenhwyfar said, and the elder's son did as he was told at a run. Gwenhwyfar and Katelyn watched him go, before turning to each other, whilst Adara let out a whinny of impatience.

"Take me with you. Please," Katelyn pleaded, wrapping her arms around the undead woman, comforted as the embrace was returned.

"I would not put you through that danger. Even if you do not think it now, my road is much more dangerous than awaiting here," Gwenhwyfar said, and bent her head to kiss Katelyn's lips.

Cool fingers ran through chestnut brown hair, and warm hands moved down the muscles of Gwenhwyfar's back. Lips touching, eyes closed, both women enjoyed the intimacy of the moment. Gwenhwyfar broke the moment, and stepped out of Katelyn's arms before moving to Adara, setting one foot in a stirrup.

"I love you," Katelyn said as the vampire hoisted herself into the saddle.

Gwenhwyfar sighed, and cast the woman a sad look. The look alone brought tears to Katelyn's eyes, and her lips trembled as she braced for the words she knew were coming.

"It was lust Katelyn, nothing more," Gwenhwyfar said, before pressing her feet into Adara's flanks. Mount and rider took off at a gallop to the south.

Katelyn was left behind, watching the woman disappearing into the distance as tears began to run down her cheeks.

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"Let him go heathen," the half drunken soldier demanded, a sword pointed towards Elishka and the choking man she had hostage. The tip wavered as he struggled to retain focus.

"I've told you fool. I am Christian," Elishka said calmly, despite the rope she held that dug into the man's neck, cutting off his breathing. His fingers desperately attempted to free himself. She was very much regretting her decision to remove her mask in this inn. All she had wanted was some wine for the road.

"But ye got the look of a Muslim about you," the first soldier said, taking a step forward.

"John has got himself beaten by a woman," a third guard said with a loud laugh, sword tip digging into the boards of the inn. He thrust his hips forward suggestively, and Elishka rolled her eyes.

"Very well then," Elishka said, and let go of the rope.

The man took a deep gasp of air, but hands quickly grasped the top of his head and his chin. With widening eyes he knew there was nothing he could do to stop his own doom. Elishka snapped his neck, and let the body flop to the floor. The other two soldiers looked down, dumbfounded, unable to completely grasp what just happened as their vision swam.

Elishka pulled out the dagger beneath her cloak in the small of her back, and stepped onto a table and leapt from the wooden platform. The third soldier looked up in time to be tackled to the ground, steel piercing the flesh of his throat. He tried to scream, but could only let out a choked gurgle as blood ran from his mouth and pumped out of the wound in his neck.

Elishka quickly licked her lips, before she snapped her head forward and sank her fangs deep into the wound. Blood washed over her tongue and splashed down her throat and she revelled in the flavour as she felt the guard bleed out beneath her.

"Bitch," the first guard yelled, and Elishka felt a sword plunge through her stomach.

She gasped in intense pain, before a foot to the back send her collapsing to the ground, blade pulling free from her flesh. Quickly rolling to her feet, dark blood staining her clothes, skin and muscle began to quickly knit itself back together before the drunken soldier's astonished eyes.

"Demon! Get back!" he yelled, starting to back away from the creature before him, his comrade's blood running over her lips and down her chin. The other patrons who had only been watching, now screamed in fear. Some ran for the door, fleeing into the night.

Elishka shook her head sadly, and picked up the dead soldiers sword.

"You had your chance to walk away and live. You've sealed your fate," she said, almost without emotion.

The soldier stumbled over a chair, falling to the ground. Elishka pounced, jumping into the air, and pointing the tip of the sword towards the man's chest. Blade punched through chainmail armour and cleaved the man's heart and lung. Elishka pulled the sword free with a spurt of crimson. Blood bubbled from under his armour as the man struggled to breath in his last precious seconds of life.

Elishka watched as the soul left his eyes, before scanning the inn. The only one who remained was the inn keeper, who leaned against the far wall, face pale, eyes wide.

"I do apologize for the mess. I had only intended to drink some wine, but after all this violence I'm in need of something with more... substance," she said, pulling back her lips to reveal blood stained fangs.

The innkeeper screamed as he turned to run, but Elishka hopped over the counter and grasped him before he could make it to the back door. Swinging the heavy set man around, the vampire courier smashed the man's fat face against the counter top. He was almost sobbing now as he spat out blood and broken teeth. Elishka held him against the counter and ran her tongue over his neck.

"Do not be troubled. This will hurt," she said, before tearing viciously into his flesh and drinking deep.

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Stepping out of the roadside tavern, Elishka looked either way down the road. In the distance she could see the lights of Dublin gleaming in the night, where her next contact waited. Bringing her dagger to her mouth, she licked the English soldier's blood from the steel.

"I really hate English," she said to the night, before going to the small stable beside the inn to retrieve her horse.

Next Chapter

The second chapter. I'm already noticing this story is going to be much longer than Blood of the Damned. Wheras that was about 600-800 words per chapter, Chapter 1 of war was 1000 words, whilst this chapter is 2200 words long. Anyways... enjoy.
Oh, and for those wondering, Caledfwlch is Welsh for Excalibur.

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Chapter 2: The Clan of the Rose

A noise pierced the darkness of sleep, and Gwenhwyfar's eyes snapped open. As awareness came over her mind, she noted the daylight struggling and failing to get through the curtains, meaning whoever was making the noise downstairs was not supposed to be there.

Katelyn shifted, pulling herself into wakefulness, and Gwen placed a gentle finger against her lips warning her to be quiet. With a nod for an answer, the vampire crawled out of bed, and quickly pulled on a simple white dress from her chest. Making not a sound, and ignoring the wide eyed fear in her lover's face, she moved to the stand of armour, and pulled the sword free of its scabbard on the stand.

Caledfwlch, the ancient sword wielded by Arthur. The leather Gwenhwyfar had wrapped around the hilt had been replaced many times over the centuries, but the blade, so keen and bright when Arthur lived, had not been tampered with and still it gleamed in the dim light of the room. Grasping it firmly, Gwen looked over her shoulder to where Katelyn was holding the sheets of the bed over her breasts in a moment of modesty. There were no words shared between them as Gwenhwyfar moved to the stairs.

Descending into the hall, feet making not a sound with each step on the old stairs, Gwen could hear the sounds of a crackling fire. The glow reached up the walls, and Gwen felt exposed in the light. The fire pits hadn't been used for some time. Who was here? Villagers finally thinking the price of protection was not worth their freedom? Or perhaps a vampire hunter had finally found Gwen's home. Whatever the case, Caledfwlch was ready to spill blood this day, and Gwenhwyfar was more than ready to quench the steel's thirst.

Reaching the foot of the stairs her eyes flicked into the shadows first, looking for hidden attackers; there were none. With gaze flicking towards the source of light, she saw a cloaked figure sitting at one of the tables, looking into the orange and yellow flames, sparks popping into the air and floating about them. Gwenhwyfar raised Caledfwlch, poised to strike down the invader.

"I do not remember your manners being so horrible as this Gwen," a familiar voice said, thick with an accent from the east.

"Elishka?" Gwen asked, lowering the sword so the point touched the ground.

The woman turned and pulled back the hood of her cloak, black hair spilling free. Brown eyes holding a smile still concealed by the cloth wrapped around her face, and her hands resting comfortably on her knees.

"Indeed. The road here is rather long and I needed to sit for awhile. Besides, I did not want to wake you. It is day after all," Elishka said, untying the mask she wore and slipping it into her pocket. Her skin was still a gentle bronze hue, despite the state of undeath she was in. It seemed the touch of being born in the Holy Lands would not leave, even beyond death.

"Wake me you did. Now tell me why you have come courier. I do not recall you ever having made a social visit," Gwenhwyfar said, setting Caledfwlch on the table opposite Elishka, before seating herself on the bench.

"Never in this part of the world. The council is sending out a call for the Clan's Knights. You are one of those knights Gwen, unless you've forgotten in your loneliness. Even if you have, you made the vows, and the council remembers," Elishka said, forming a steeple before her with her fingers.

Gwenhwyfar snorted; she had broken many vows in her days amongst the living. Elishka had only brought up her more recent ones as a sting, and though she didn't let it show, it had hurt.

"I remember. Why are we being summoned?"

"I'm not fully sure myself. The Clan of the Rose is rising in power once more, and are trying to make a claim for land. They are breaking the secret of the Clans. We are already seeing the result, hunters are growing in number and strength. Not to mention that the Church is starting to fund some of these hunters themselves. Vampires everywhere are in danger, and the council is amassing an army to remove the threat of the Rose," Elishka explained carefully, slowly, as if trying to remember all the details. Gwenhwyfar frowned, if the council had not told one of their best couriers the full message, then the need for secrecy must be dire indeed.

Gwenhwyfar knew though, that secrets caused only trouble, and violence.

"Hopefully we can defeat them for good this time," she said after a moment of silence. Despite her words, she knew it would be difficult. She had been reborn into undeath as a member of the Clan of the Rose, as a princess even. As she journeyed through their political world, she discovered horrors and evil. Joining the Clan of the Wolf was the second set of vows she had broken.

"Hopefully. You have two weeks to get to Narvik. I shall see you there... or perhaps not," Elishka said, and with said, donned her cloth covering, and pulled up her hood. With a bow to Gwenhwyfar, she left, walking out into the sunlight. Gwen watched her go with a frown, before looking back at the sword sitting on the table.

Perhaps it would get its blood after all.

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Peter Hook let out a long breath and closed his eyes for a moment. The chill wind blowing across the sands caressed his skin, almost frigid against the sweat on his face. Pulling at the chainmail around his neck, and would have sighed in pleasure at the cool air washing across his chest, if it weren't for the reek that coiled out from under his armour links and white hauberk.

Still, Peter loved the desert nights; the heat was cut away as the sun hid, and it reminded him of his home in Europe. The wide green fields, and the almost mystical forests. He missed it, mostly because it wasn't so fucking hot there.

Turning his head to look along the lines of Christian Crusaders, all dressed in the same white hauberk with the red cross imprinted on the front, chainmail hoods covering their heads for those who could not afford helmets. They hid behind a sand dune, while a few men peaked over top to watch the Saracens in their encampment. The only one in full armour, was Lord du Lac, who stood just beneath the lip of the dune, visor of his helmet pulled down to hide his face. With one hand he leaned on his sword, while the other held a rose before his face. Peter could only assume that the nobleman was looking at it, examining it. After a moment, he wrapped the plant in a cloth and shoved it beneath his breast plate, even as one of the scouts slid down the dune.

"The commanders have all entered the central tend my lord. They have only a handful of sentries," the man said, his face twisting weirdly with each word due to the scar that had ruined most of his mouth.

Du Lac lifted his sword into the air, the moonlight glinted off the steel, and he began to climb over the dune. Silently, the Crusaders followed him, and Peter went with them. His sword tapped against his leg with each step up the dune, fingers of his right hand gripping his spear tightly, knuckles going white beneath the leather of his gauntlet. The straps of his shield were firm around his forearm, hand open to paw at the sand as he moved over the dune.

There was still no war cry, no challenges, just simple movement. Metal scratching against metal, hundreds of feet shifting through the sand. Moonlight glinting off spear tips and helmets. Peter was looking straight at one of the sentries, not so far away. Was the man blind, or simply dumbfounded at the sight of this raiding party.

Then a yell burst out into the night in the Saracen tongue. A sense of alarm spread through the camp as tired soldiers were awakened from their slumber. This was when the Crusaders charged. Peter yelled as loud as he could, kicking up sand behind him as he lowered his spear and ran towards the heathen bastards.

Archers armed with longbows stood atop the dune and lit their arrows with fire. Their first volley soared through the air, raining fiery death upon the confused Saracens. Fabrics caught alight, horses panicked and struggled against the binds that kept them in place. A few men ran screaming from one tent, their clothing blazing before they jumped into the sand.

Still, soldiers managed to get weapons, and some armour on, moving to defend the encampment. Archers fired quick shots back, but without organization, lacked the lethal effectiveness of the Welsh longbows.

A man beside people let out a choking gurgle, grasping the projectile in his throat and trying to stop the blood spurting around the wooden shaft, but collapsing to the desert sands instead. Peter rushed on, there was nothing that could be done for the man.

The Saracens came at them with spears and those wicked curved swords. They shouted something in their foreign tongue, and it sounded like a heathen prayer. The words only stirred the anger in Peter's soul as the two forces clashed. His spear sank into a man's belly, the crimson blood running down the haft looked black as pitch under the night sky.

Peter pushed the man to the ground, watching him cough up his own life essence as he crashed his booted foot into the man's throat, whilst the spear passed through flesh and into the ground beneath. Pushing down with his foot, he pulled on the spear, opening the man's stomach further, spilling entrails across the ground.

Around him, Crusaders slaughtered the unprepared Saracen soldiers. Blood flowed from corpses left in their wake as they moved through the camp, killing everyone who didn't wear the red cross. Servants and serving women were laid low in a splash of gore by Crusader spears and swords.

Peter ducked a high thrust from a spear, battering it aside with his shield, and stabbing upwards into the attacker's chest. The man screamed, and with a crack the spear broke in Peter's hand, another body falling to the blood stained sands. Pulling his sword free he moved on, grabbing a servant girl as she tried to free. His hand had grasped her breast, and he snickered, squeezing. The girl screamed, and scratched at his bared face. Peter screamed as a fingernail raked his eyeball. Half the world seemed to go dark, and his sword plunged through her flesh.

"Rot in Hell heathen bitch," he screamed, kicking her lifeless corpse to the ground. He brought a hand to his face, feeling the blood there, not all of it his. Pain throbbed in his head, like a dull hammer, and all around him, men died.

"Peter... you've looked better," a soldier said with a hoarse voice. All around him the battle had ended, and the Crusaders moved amongst the dead, looting, finishing off the wounded.

"I suppose I have," Peter said, looking up to see his friend Davis.

That wasn't possible, Davis had been killed two weeks ago. Gaze moving all around him, Davis saw Crusader soldiers bending down to feed from the blood of the dead, drinking deep. They were all scarred, and battered, hauberks stained in the blood. Peter recognized some of the faces, men who were all supposed to be dead.

Davis laughed, and Peter backed away, before the sound of clashing steel distracted him. One Crusader was defending himself against one of the dead ones.

"Back devil. Back to Hell where you belong," he yelled, before another came up behind with a mace, and hit the back of the man's skull. Blood and gore burst out everywhere, and the mockeries of Crusader soldiers descended upon him.

"You'll be amongst us soon Peter," Davis growled, and Peter turned to run.

Pain knifed his brain, fear grasped his guts, but he still ran, pulling his sword free. A damned thing jumped from a tent, face smeared with the blood it had been drinking, and growled angrily as Peter, who simply swung his sword at its neck, severing its head clean from its shoulders. Dark blood sprayed from the wound, but Peter kept running, back from where had come.

A vicious fist hit him in the chest, the force knocking him onto his back, sword flying from his grasp. Laying in the sand, looking up at the stars and moon glaring brightly in the sky, Peter gasped for breath, as Lord du Lac stepped above him, visor raised.

Cold eyes stared down from that pale face, and he wore a smile that revealed fangs not unlike that of a serpent. The demon who had tricked all these men here, who had led them all into bloodshed raised his sword.

"May God strike you down demon," Peter said, coughing as breath came back into his lungs.

Du Lac looked into the sky, as if waiting, before he shrugged, and brought his sword down.

Next Chapter

Gather round and let me tell you a tale. Let me make the disclaimer now that while 'War of the Damned' takes place during the middle ages, it is by no means 100% accurate. I will be bending the timeline set down by history books slightly, but for the most part I'm going to try and remain faithful to the period. So here begins another tale from Sin. I do hope you enjoy.

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Chapter 1: Once a Queen

The wind howled in from over the great dark expanse of the ocean, as the waves crashed upon the rocks below. The water looked inky black, even beneath the glow of the half moon in the sky above. Atop the cliff, with pale green eyes staring out over the seemingly endless expanse of treacherous water, stood a solitary woman, black hair snapping behind her in the night air, skirts waving around her like a phantom. Thin lips pressed together almost in a frown.

She could feel the chill of the harsh wind on her deathly pale skin, but it did not sink in. One amongst the living would have been shivering, with chattering teeth, but she simply stood on the edge of the cliff, still as if carved from marble.

This northern island of Scotland was not a place she ever expected to find herself. Once a princess, once the High Queen of the kingdoms of Breton to the south, the harsh highlands of Scotland had never been inviting to her. Here she stood however, alone now, while everyone she had loved rotted in centuries old graves and tombs. Most even faded from fact into the songs of legend and the fogs of myth. She couldn't help but wonder if they had forgiven her actions in the afterlife, or if they have forgotten her in death, as she could not forget them in her mockery of life.

Gwenhwyfar turned from the sea and began to walk barefoot across the cool grass towards the large house sitting atop a gently slopping hill. The once rich wood of the old mead hall was turning to gray in its age perched above the ocean, as it looked down upon the single village on the island. While Gwenhwyfar's home was dark, there were a few spots of torchlight emanating from the village. In the fields surrounding the small mostly thatch homes, white sheep wandered almost aimlessly, contrasting against the darkness of night.

Though the villagers were Christian, they accepted Gwenhwyfar's presence, on the account that she protected them from Norwegian invaders whilst the sparse Scottish military could not. In return they occasionally sent someone up for her to feed upon. It was a good deal, and in a way, Gwenhwyfar felt like she was queen of this little island.

Pushing the doors to her home open, the smell of incense washed out over her. Off to her left was the staircase that led to her bedroom and study. Yawning out before her was the main hall. Old tables were aligned down its full length with a throne for the hall's master set on a dais at the far end. A fire pit, unused for year sat in a sorrowful pile of ashes in the room's centre, whilst two doors on either side of the throne led to the cellars and kitchens. It did not compare to Arthur's castle, but this was her home, and it suited her well. When the village below used to be Pagan, great feasts had been held in here, and despite Gwenhwyfar's nature, they accepted her.

The spreading of the White Christ changed all that, and now for the most part, the vampire lived alone. Save the occasional offering of the flesh from the village.

She moved up the stairs, hand running over the wolf's head carved at the foot of the banister as she passed it. Her steps were soft, gentle, but she moved quickly, and silently opened the door to her personal quarters.

She had brought what she could from her home by heavy cart and boat. It was her vanity, a sin according to the Christians. A beautiful oaken desk, covered in parchment with an inkwell and quill laying to the side was pushed against the far side of the room, opposite the large bed pushed against the wall and centred off. Bookshelves stood proud, filled with dusty tomes that Gwenhwyfar hardly touched anymore. Books of songs and stories. Books of history and ancient rituals.

A large chest, holding all of her old dresses and gowns, as well as her more practical tunics and breeches, sat on the floor on one side of her bed. On the other side an armour stand stood guard, with a sheathed sword on an engraved display at the blackened armour's feet. She ignored it as she moved to the bed where a woman lay, the sheets hardly concealing her nudity, as moonlight poured in through the window above the desk. Gwenhwyfar gently pressed her fingers against the woman's lips, and felt the soft breath on her skin.

Her name was Katelyn, a peasant from the village below who had yet to find a husband, despite reaching her mid twenties. For a few years now, she had been coming up to offer her blood to Gwenhwyfar as part of the village's deal. Just as important to the vampire, she offered company, and after the first few visits both had fallen to the temptations of the other.

Gwenhwyfar bent down and placed a soft cool kiss on the woman's warm forehead, whilst gently brushing the skin of her cheek, and over her neck where the scars from many nights together showed as a faded pink. Two much newer holes were still an angry red, and Gwenhwyfar gently kissed each one, though Katelyn in her deep sleep might not feel them, for her lover had brought her so very close to death. Just as it was every time.

Gwenhwyfar stood and undid the fastenings of her dress, and pulled the garment over her head, before gently placing it in her chest. Naked, she moved to the window, and drew the heavy black curtains to block the sun when it rose in just a few hours, before moving back to her bed, and crawling beneath the sheets.

Pressing her body against Katelyn, a hand running down the other woman's side, Gwenhwyfar smiled and let her eyes flutter closed. There was a soft groan from the sleeping woman's mouth, and Gwenhwyfar let herself drift to sleep next to her. Before her dreams took her, the woman who was once a queen was happy.

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