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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